Page 61 of Vital Signs
My breath came in short, violent gasps. My lungs refused to fill. The store lights warped. My body locked rigid, then exploded into motion.
I didn't choose to fight. My body chose survival. Pure animal panic.
"STOP RESISTING!" An officer shouted as they forced me to the ground.
"I'M NOT RESISTING!" I screamed back, but my body thrashed against their holds. "He's waiting for me! You don't understand! He's sick! He needs—"
"Get his arms!" Another voice barked. A knee pressed into my back, crushing my chest against the floor. I couldn't breathe.
"Head down!" someone ordered while simultaneously yanking my head up by my hair.
"Knees to your chest!" another commanded while a boot kept my legs straight.
I couldn't follow their orders. I couldn't breathe under the weight pressing me down. I couldn't process anything but the restraints cutting into my wrists and the hand grinding my face into the cold tile floor.
My teeth found flesh and bit down. Copper filled my mouth. A fist slammed into my ribs. Pain exploded through my chest.
All I could think about was Hunter alone in the van, thinking I'd abandoned him.
The thought was worse than the fist.
My chest heaved against the floor, tears tracking sideways across my face.
Reality fractured around me. I floated above the scene, watching my body being manhandled. The store lights blurred into Roche's photography equipment. The officers' voices merged with their soft commands. Past and present collided until I couldn't tell where I was or who held me down.
"Please," I heard myself say, voice small and distant. "I need to tell someone where I am. He's waiting for me."
"You can make calls after processing," an officer said, already marching me toward the exit.
"You don't understand!" I sobbed as they dragged me through the automatic doors. "He's in withdrawal! If I don't get back, he'll think I left him! Please!"
But they didn't care. Just another junkie's boyfriend making excuses.
"Hunter!" I screamed toward the parking lot, even though he couldn't hear. "I'm coming back! I promise! Don't—"
A hand shoved my head down as they pushed me into the patrol car.
The rest of the words died in my throat.
When I came back to myself, I was already in the patrol car. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of my van across the parking lot. Inside, Hunter was waiting for someone who wouldn't return.
He'd think I'd left him. Just like everyone else. Just like he'd always expected.
And when the pain got bad enough—when he couldn't take it anymore—he'd use the phone I'd taken to go get high. All thatsuffering, all that progress, all that trust we'd built would be destroyed because I got arrested buying water.
Hold on, Hunter, I thought, staring out the window.Please hold on.
My phone sat coldin my trembling hand, the screen a blur of outgoing texts. Where are you? You said 20 min. Misha? Answer your phone. You promised. Please. The texts all showed "delivered" but not "read." My calls went straight to voicemail.
The van walls seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. Morning light leaked around the blackout curtains.
Thirty-two hours since my last hit. The pain was beyond description now, beyond language. My stomach contracted violently, but there was nothing left to throw up except thin strings of bile that burned my throat raw.
The muscle spasms worsened, my left leg bouncing uncontrollably against the bed. Sweat soaked through the sheets. My entire nervous system was revolting, screaming for chemicals I'd denied it.
Jimmy
Got that good shit today. Quality product, fair price. Hit me up.
