Disclaimer/Author Notes: I own nothing. This is just a general fic posted for speedrent, Mark-centered.
"Fuck you!" She screams. A slap in the face and a push to the floor. Domestice violence with the doors and windows open. Common-place, and even so, I don't know why I'm standing here. I don't know why I'm standing here filming a husband pushing his yelling wife, and it sickens me, almost.
I hold my trusty camera in hand, gently whirring as I'm documenting the daily events in this city. I stop and leave the troubled couple to their fight, and taking a slow breath of the sharp, snow-threatening air, I lean down to gently load the camera back onto my bike.
I see these things every day, and it's times like this, coupled with the review of footage later that I wonder:
Why is it that people flock to New York every day, year, and holiday? This city is disgusting, in every way and form. It's sort of a "seen one, seem 'em all" type of situation. This city is no different from the others, no matter how recognized and glamourized they are in the media.
Drug dealers on every corner, people getting robbed by silhouettes in the dark corners of alleys. Violence, murder, rape, homeless, filth. It's all here, all masked.
And so why do people still come?
It has always been commented that New York holds some sort of magic inside of it, deep in the underground, radiating out into the world and drawing you in. They say that the magic is what keeps everything and everyone here, but I've never seen it.
I guess people see what they want to see, and believe in the magic that's pulled over their eyes. They don't take in the decrepit state of the city, just the glossed-over propoganda they see on TV and in movies.
I try to make them see, though. My films, my work, it's all for them. It's all to make the beautiful static fade away into reality, not magic.
I want them all to see: Little small-town, cliche girls with stars in their eyes waiting for the day when their names are up in lights. Boys with swift hips and thick muscles looking for the right stage to dance on. I want them to see the reality.
I pedal faster through the traffic-locked streets, the wind rushing through my lungs and out again. I place a cautious hand on my camera, making sure not to let it fall. As I come upon my building, I slow and stop.
Up in the familiar loft, I gently set my camera onto the couch, its contents waiting to be edited. I pad over to the window, kicking off my shoes and wriggling my toes so I can feel them again. I swipe my arm over the frosted window and look downwards onto the street. Same old same old.
But this same old same old is my home, my whole world, my muse. I guess they're never wrong in saying that New York has its magic... it's just not so big and pretty like they think it is... Or at least, for us people who don't have as many Benjamins as they do.
I hate it.
I love it.
That's New York, baby.
But I'll never admit it.
