A/N: Hello, it's TurtlesMan here. This is a type of story that I don't write that often, but had to because of… reasons. Anyway, it's here whether you want it or not. Enjoy!
The Tragedy of Jonathan Cena
Ever since I lived on 97 Orchard Street, I've felt nothing but anxiousness and, for some odd reason, the feeling of being cramped. Being an immigrant immigrating here in the United States in 1915, I was moved into a special neighborhood. I, along with other European immigrants coming from Austria and Russia, were put into small tenements. I barely saw anyone with a different skin color other than white, so I guessed that that was a good thing. However, rumors of the United States from my home country, Russia, were not what they seemed.
It was hard to find a job when I first arrived on 97 Orchard Street, seeing as how everyone else living there seemed to take the job before I could. Every night of job-searching that went unsuccessful found me sleeping in the awfully small room in my tenement. But, I could barely call it sleep because I just stared out the window on the other side of my room, seeing many immigrant families from other windows suffering from unemployment like me. I saw many families struggle from lack of food, disease from nearby factories, and even the occasional family violence from their limited money problems.
Weeks later, I would eventually find a job as a factory worker doing manual labor in a factory near the tenement I was currently residing in. I considered myself to be lucky, since I was just 16 and that many other immigrants did not have the chance to get a labor job. However, I was not able to understand the English language well, as I was not able to learn much of it from Russia. After a long walk to the factory, I was stopped by two men, who I had assumed asked for my name. Practicing for this, I simply said,
"My name is Jonathan Cena.".
The days in the factory were, in my own opinion, the worst days I have ever lived in this supposed "better life". The smoke emanating from the top of the factory gave the few laborers here sickness, including me. The hardness of all the jobs our superiors gave left us all dirtied at the end of the day. I walked to my tenement from the six hour shift in the factory every day, sometimes with the occasional overtime with no extra pay. If I walked in the dark, immigrants in the street would bump into me, as if they couldn't see me.
Life on 97 Orchard Street just became worse, with most of the reason impacting on my small, young body. The manual labor with little to no payment in the factory was starting to wear me out. Every time I rose at five o'clock in the morning, I felt nauseous and turned as green as the hat I brought with me from my Russian home. Eventually, I couldn't keep up anymore, and had to quit my labor with the small amount of money I earned. Now, I lay here, sick in my bed, unable to get a doctor to care for my sickness in the foreign land I thought was the "Promised Land".
A/N: So there's my story that I was made to write. I have no idea why this even was a thing I had to do, but whatever. See you later!