Netta was in the fight of her life, for her life. Yet, she was accustomed to fighting in one form or another. She had been fighting all her life. Life had always been a constant struggle. Yet, some how, some way, Netta had always emerged the victor. She was a survivor in every sense of the word.
Try as she might to stay awake, her puffed up eyebrows were becoming extremely heavy. Closing them was too easy. Sleep was slowly overpowering her. Netta desperately needed a release from the pain and slipping into the darkness provided just that.
Once again she began experiencing flashbacks of her life and loved ones. Random images began to flash before her mind's eye. With vivid detail she began to see the most important people in her life, whom had shown her a lot of love at one time or another, people like Ms. Tina, Mimi, even her estranged deceased mother Renee.
These were people near and dear to her heart. People without whom she wouldn’t be the person she was today. Netta felt they helped shape her, the good and the bad experiences. So she was thankful to have had them in her life in one form or another.
Then there was her old neighborhood in Baltimore, which she cherished so much. It was a source of pride for her; she always seemed to puff out her chest when she told people she was from Murphy Homes. Yes, thee Murphy Homes, a bleak housing projects on Baltimore’s West Side. She loved the crime-ridden place to death, however, what Netta witnessed and experienced while she lived there had harden her. It prepared her for the cold world outside her project apartment door. So she'd always be forever grateful to have been raised there.
The immense pain snapped Netta right back into reality. She wasn’t back at any of her old haunts, surrounded by loved ones. She was alone in the back of an ambulance, struggling to make sense of it all.
Just then the ambulance came to a halt. Finally, it had reached its destination. The sudden stop had roused Netta out of her state. She could clearly hear a loud bleeping noise sounded as the ambulance reversed into the emergency room parking bay.
Suddenly, the doors were flung wide open and paramedics rushed Netta’s stretcher out of the ambulance. The emergency response workers looked on as they whisked Netta away. They both were thankful to have made it to the hospital with their patient still alive.
Quickly, Netta was thrust into a chaotic environment of the emergency room where a team of doctors, nurses and other medical professionals rushed to take possession of the severely injured patient. The ambulance driver had radioed ahead and requested that the trauma unit be on standby. Now the burden of saving this patient’s life rested squarely on their shoulders.
In haste they rushed Netta’s badly mangled body down the long, winding corridors and into the operating room. The sterile smell of the hospital invaded Netta’s nostrils as the nurses prepared her for surgery. By now she was wide awake, yet she was unable to move. She heard and saw all the preparation the trauma unit team was making for her surgery.
Lying on the operating table, she began to see the build up to this moment, the cause and effect that her decisions and actions had had on her life.
For a long time the street life had been her savior, now suddenly it had become her downfall. Netta’s actions had consequences and these were the consequences of her treacherous acts. The street life had cost her dearly.
Suddenly she was filled with deep regret, knowing that this entire situation was all of her own making. Her injuries might as well have been self-inflicted. All the wrongdoing pointed back to her. That thought alone made Netta begin to question herself. Why had she done some of the things she had done? Was money that important? Why had she even crossed Black? At the moment she had more questions than answers. So she forced herself to think about something else. Knowing she was at fault was too great of a burden for her to bear.
Her mind turned to thoughts of New York Tone, her new friend, and the future she’d thought she’d have with him. Netta thought about Tone for good reason, he was the last face that she saw before slipping in and out of consciousness. He also had discovered her body, so essentially, if she pulled through, he would be one of the many people responsible for saving her life. She’d be eternally thankful to him for that.
He was the last thing on her mind, not surgery, not life or death. Just New York Tone.
Netta’s oxygen mask was replaced by anesthesia as the nurses continued to prepare her for surgery. Now modern medicine and the grace of God would dictate the outcome of her surgery. From this point on, one way or another, Netta wouldn’t feel a thing. Her ill-fated life was now in God’s hands.
2
Wearing a black oversized hoodie pulled low over his head to conceal his facial features, Tone navigated New York City's Port Authority building in search of his bus boarding gate. His oversized apparel had done little to mask his muscular physique. Standing 6’2 with a low cut, Tone struck an imposing figure, the kind that commanded respect wherever he went. However, now was not the time to stand out. It was the time to blend in with the hundreds of other travelers and commuters. Traveling alone, he walked with a calm demeanor that contradicted his inner nervousness. Adrenaline ran through Tone’s veins as he strolled through the busy bus terminal, past dozens of travelers at various gates on their way to
