Page 16 of Kidnapped By the Mafia

10

EMILY

Six weeks have passed, and nothing in my life has improved. If anything, things have only gotten worse. My savings are long gone, and despite pounding the pavement every day, I’m still jobless.

The anxiety gnaws at me, a constant, simmering worry that I can’t escape. Every rejection, every failed interview, feels like another brick being added to the weight pressing down on my chest.

I’ve spent most of my time trudging through the rougher parts of New York City, searching for work in neighborhoods like East Harlem and the Lower East Side—places where the buildings are just as worn down as the people living in them.

The vibrancy that once defined these areas has faded, leaving behind a landscape of cracked sidewalks, crumbling bricks, and faded murals. The paint is peeling, the colors dull and lifeless, much like the hope that’s slowly seeping out of me.

Today, I’m on my way to yet another job interview. This one is another call center, a last-ditch effort to find something, anything, that will pay the bills.

The office is located in a nondescript building on the edge of Chinatown, a place that’s as unremarkable as it is uninviting.

The streets here are crowded, bustling with vendors selling knockoff designer goods, their tables lined with cheap purses, watches, and sunglasses.

I watch eagerly in case mom’s necklace appears but of course it doesn’t. It was probably tossed in the trash when the thief realized how little it was worth.

The scent of street food—fried dumplings, roasted chestnuts, and greasy noodles—wafts through the air, mingling with the exhaust fumes from the constant stream of traffic.

I weave through the crowd, my nerves jangling with a mix of anxiety and something else I can’t quite place.

There’s a heaviness in my stomach, a queasy feeling that’s been lingering for days, and no matter how much I try to ignore it, it’s becoming harder to push aside. Just as I’m about to cross the street, a sudden wave of nausea hits me hard.

Panic surges through me, and I desperately scan my surroundings for somewhere, anywhere, I can go. My eyes land on a grimy public restroom tucked away behind a cluster of vendors. I rush toward it, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps as I push through the door.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent light overhead casting eerie shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. The air is thick with the smell of disinfectant, barely masking the underlying scent of something rotten.

I barely make it to the doorless cubicle before I’m doubled over, retching violently. The acidic taste burns my throat, and I grip the edge of the bowl, trying to steady myself as my body trembles with the effort.

When it’s finally over, I splash cold water from the one working sink on my face, my hands shaking as I try to pull myself together.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I whisper to my reflection in the cracked mirror. My face is pale, almost ghostly, with dark circles under my eyes.

I look like I haven’t slept in days—probably because I haven’t. Between the constant stress and this inexplicable illness, I’m running on fumes.

But I can’t afford to be sick right now. I can’t afford anything. I have to get through this interview, no matter how terrible I feel. I take a deep breath, force a weak smile onto my face, and step out of the bathroom, determined to push through the nausea.

The call center is just as bleak as the outside of the building suggested. It’s a drab, windowless office space with rows of cubicles packed tightly together, each one occupied by someone who looks just as worn out and defeated as I feel.

The walls are a dull, lifeless gray, the kind that seems to sap the energy out of the room. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.

I’m led to a small, stuffy office by a woman who looks like she’s been working here far too long. She’s in her forties, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and deep lines are etched into her face, the result of years of stress and fatigue.

She doesn’t bother with small talk, instead launching straight into the demands of the job—selling dietary supplements over the phone, working long hours with little notice, and dealing with irate customers who aren’t shy about their complaints.

As she talks, the nausea starts creeping back, a slow, relentless wave that I try desperately to fight down. I nod along to what she’s saying, but my focus is splintering, my vision blurring at the edges.

I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my hands trembling in my lap. Just hold on a little longer, I tell myself. Just get through this.

But it’s no use. The nausea swells, overtaking me completely, and I know I’m going to be sick again.

“Excuse me,” I manage to gasp, standing up so quickly that the room tilts dangerously. I barely hear the woman’s surprised exclamation as I bolt from the office, rushing toward the nearest bathroom.

This place is even worse than the last, with chipped tiles and a flickering light that makes the whole room feel like it’s spinning. I collapse to my knees in front of the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left, my body trembling violently. Tears sting my eyes, a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and fear.

When I finally drag myself to my feet, I’m pale and shaky, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. I splash water on my face again, hoping it will somehow revive me, but all it does is make me feel colder, more miserable.

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