You silently sat at the desk in the hotel room, waiting for him to come back with your precious Baby. The thing you needed to get you through the day. Unknowingly your foot taps as you sit restless, waiting for it. You take a quick glance at your watch.
2:53. He said he'd be back by 2:45.
You look down at the razor blades waiting to cut it into the perfect lines your hands have such precision and speed at now. They're lying on a mirror facing up, shining your haggard reflection back at you.
So frail, so thin. "That can't be me," you think.
Oh, but it is. As you were "chasing the high", your body's defenses wore down, and you dropped 35 pounds in what seemed like an instant. Skin and bones would be a compliment for you.
A car door slams outside the door of the dirty motel. Slow, deliberate foot steps walk onto the sidewalk. The key slides into the door, and it swings open. He stands there, making sure you don't have anyone else in the room with you, making sure you aren't cheating on him with some gross dealer. Sex for drugs, it's an appealing idea. But right now you're content with the man in front of you. He pays for your high, he satisfies your needs, both physically and physically, and he isn't bad on the eyes.
His tall silhouette is outlined dramatically by the contrast of the bright sun against the lone lamp on the bedside table. His dark hair; the way his biceps bulge when he crosses his arms; his shirt is tight, profiling his muscular, toned chest; the way his thighs look in his jeans as he decides to shut the door and walk towards you.
He silently tosses a small bag of that pure, crystal white powder onto the desk.
"Do you love me?" he quietly whispered. "I brought you the bane of your existence."
You dropped out of high school in your junior year so you could devote time to the baby growing inside of your tiny body. You were the model student, the cheerleader, who had her entire life planned out from the moment your started middle school to your last breath. Too bad getting pregnant wasn't in that plan. Then the father of your baby decided he couldn't handle being a father, much less a daddy to a baby girl, at 17. Did he ask you to get an abortion? Of course not. Did he leave you? Why would he do that. No, instead he threw you down the stairs. Well his wish came true. Your baby girl was killed. You lapsed into a deep depression, which eventually led to your drug use. You met Dimitri in the drug scene in downtown Los Angeles. He offered you a place to stay one night. One turned two, then three, then weeks, months, and now you've been with him for almost a year.
He disappears every night for a few hours, with no explanation of where he goes. But he always comes back with the cocaine, so you ask no questions.
You quickly cut the drugs into the thin perfect lines, and look at him with the eyes that give you whatever you want. He pulls the dollar bill out of his pocket and hands it to you. You quickly snatch it and bend over the desk.
You inhale harshly and feel the rough powder attack your sinuses. Your blood rushes through your veins. Your heart race increases and you drop the blade, sighing blissfully.
You turn to Dimitri who sits on the edge of the bed, waiting. He knows what always comes from your adrenaline rush. You push him back onto the bed as you pull his shirt over his head.
-
The light filtering through the window shines into your eyes, slowly waking you up from the deep sleep you crashed into. You slide your hands across the sheets next to you, feeling for Dimitri's warm body.
He isn't there.
You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest. Your bags are gone, including your purse with your wallet, id, and the small baggy of cocaine you keep for when Dimitri can't score any. You jump up as fast as you can and try to pull your clothes on from the floor. You start digging through the desk drawers for the cell phone you stashed there two weeks ago. In your haste, something shining, golden in the sun, where your bags were the night before sparkles and glints in your eye. You reach down and pull it from where it sits partially hidden by the sheet. The golden building stares up at you. The badge is unmistakable. Four letters make you start to shake. Everything you've told him has been gathered research.
Gathered research, you quickly realize, to arrest you.
Anger. Anger is all you can feel. You turn around and take a painting off the wall, smashing it to pieces. You throw the lamp into the wall, you pick up the mirror from the desk and throw it. You throw the chair through the window, glass shards rain around you and out onto the sidewalk. You scream as loud as you can. You trusted him. You loved him. But it was all an act to him, a job. You see one of the razor blades on the floor. You pick it up, and slide it harshly over both of your wrists. The feeling of the blood seeping out of your wrists makes you smile, and you laugh without humor. You rub your wrists against every surface you can, leaving bloody smears on everything.
You pull your shoes on and run. You drop the blood stained badge, the drugs, the phone, and your instincts behind. Run. That's all you're thinking of. You have no idea where you're going, only that you run into deserted area and run until night fall where you drop from loss of blood and exhaustion. You fall into a slumber the likes of which you've never felt.
You do not resurface.
-
He sits in the diner, waiting for his back up. "It's time," he thinks. "I have to do it now."
He sees the men in the black uniforms he used to wear everyday walk into the diner. He drinks the remaining coffee out of the cup, drops a twenty, and gets up to meet them. He shakes their hands. He gets in his car and leads them to the hotel room where you should be sleeping your drugs off.
His car comes to an abrupt stop as he sees the door open and blowing in the wind. Bloody handprints stain it and the wall leading to the road from the old motel. He cautiously gets out of the car, and gets his gun out of the glove compartment.
"To protect me from the dealers, baby," he had said, when you found the gun. A lie. It was all a lie.
He slowly walks into the hotel room and sees the destruction your drug fueled rage left behind. Shining, red and gold, he sees what set you off.
His badge. It glimmers in the sunlight, covered in your blood. He can almost hear your hysterical, humorless laugh as you destroy the room. He lowers his gun and looks around, for any sign of where you may have run.
He walks back out into the hot sun. He gets in his car and drives the direction your bloody handprints are smearing on the wall. He drives for hours…until he sees a small, frail body, red and bloodstained on the edge of the road.