purpose (book two)

red and blue

iii.

red and blue

When the knock erupts from the apartment door, Darren has only been gone for just under a half-hour. I have not moved from my position on the sagging, stained couch, but I cannot remember how many lines I did after he left. I'm high enough that the knock at the door sounds like a gunshot.

There's been more than one knock – this I'm sure of, since it has now become a heavy pounding against the doorframe. To me, each round of knocks sounds like a pepper spray of bullets. In my cocaine-induced state, I jump at the sound and nearly slide off the worn cushions onto the dirt-encrusted floor. My arms are over my head, as though to shield myself from imaginary bullets, when I realize it's just the sound of knuckles against a hard doorframe.

"Gimme a minute, damn!" I call out angrily, blindly scrambling to stand. My ears are ringing from the noise and my head feels on the verge of splitting open. "Jesus-fuck."

It's only when I'm halfway to the door that I realize my shirt is missing. And so I stand there blankly for a minute, in nothing but a short skirt and black bra, the walls spinning around me. It takes me too long to understand how to fix this, and the knocking rises in urgency. Get to the bedroom. Right.

Whoever it is shouts something through the door in a deep voice, but I can't make out the words. I stumble to the right into the bedroom, tripping over scratched high heels and forgotten beer bottles. The knocking matches the pounding behind my skull, and I want to scream in frustration. My hands move in slow motion before my eyes, tearing through filthy sheets and indiscernible items.

I finally grasp the old tank-top, a dark grey Nirvana shirt that smells of vodka. When I tug it loose from beneath a pillow that reeks of smoke, a condom slips through my fingers and I reel backwards in disgust with the shirt in my hands. Of course Darren couldn't be bothered to clean up after himself. "Fucking prick."

On the stumbling journey back to the living room-kitchen, I clip my shoulder against the bedroom doorframe and swear loudly. The room is still spinning around me, and when I finally make it to the front door, I practically fall against it.

When I rip open the door, the skull-rattling knocks finally cease. I'm letting out a scathing complaint before I even get the door open, snapping hotly, "What the fuck do you want, dickhead?"

The black uniforms and flashing gold badges don't register straight away.

"Excuse me? This is Miami PD. We received a noise complaint for apartment 204."

I stare, gaping with my mouth halfway open and eyes squinted against the sunlight. There are two officers before me, looming and larger-than-life because of the cramped, rickety outdoor porch entrance. Slowly, I realize it was a mistake to have thrown open the door so widely. There's still coke on the coffee table just inside.

"That can't've been for me," I say, my words sliding together like they're on ice. "I'm alone. I wasn't making noise."

"We received the complaint twenty minutes ago. A neighbor said it sounded like an altercation between you and a man. Know anything about that?"

"Dunno what you're talking about. Yeah, someone was here a little while ago but we weren't fighting," I retort. "And we sure as hell weren't being loud. Which neighbor called?"

The first officer shifts his weight onto his other side, shaking his head. "That's not important. The complaint was definitely for this apartment."

He's older and pudgy, though his partner behind him is closer to my age. I lean to the side to look around the first one, seeing the blurred edges of the second officer but still recognizing his toned, chocolate arms and buzz-cut. I lean against the doorframe, since the world has spun once again and I can't stand upright.

"Want to tell us what's going on here?"

It's the older officer. I don't take my eyes off the second, younger one. "Nothing's going on," I reply innocently. "I don't know why you're bothering me. I was just taking a nap."

"Really," the first officer states, clearly not as a question. "Mind if we come in for a bit?"

"No," I refuse, too defensively and quickly. I stand up straighter. They can't know I can scarcely see straight, let alone keep myself standing much longer. "I mean, not right now. Place is a mess."

"I can see that. You feeling okay?"

It is in this instant I notice their eyes are avoiding looking anywhere but upwards. I glance down and see nothing but the black skirt and bra. In this state of mind, I never actually put on the tank-top when I went to the bedroom.

My thought process works more quickly than it has in hours. "Is it a crime to get drunk in my own home?" The words are slurred, and not on purpose. I move to shut the door. "Not a good time. I haven't done anything wrong. Goodbye."

The first officer jams his foot into the doorway before I can react. He pushes the door inwards and I uselessly stumble backwards. "Sorry. We got probable cause."

Both of them push past me into the apartment, and my voice raises as I snap, "What the fuck – this is my home. I wanna see a warrant. Wait – "

The older officer holds me back beside the door as the younger one heads straight for the coffee table. Maybe if I'd been sober, I would have realized they could see the bag of cocaine behind me the entire time.

My vision dips and blurs as I watch the younger officer smell the bag, and I'm overcome with a wave of nausea. The pudgy one turns me around, holding my shoulders as I stumble and nearly fall. "You're under arrest for drug possession. Let's go."

I am still trying to protest angrily as he pulls both my hands behind my back, and even in my state, I feel the pain in my shoulders when handcuffs are tightened around my wrists. Behind me, the second officer tosses a threadbare blanket to the first, and the old one drapes it around me to cover my bra. The blanket smells of Darren's cologne and cigarettes, and my head spins.

"You can't take me yet!" I try, my voice loud and on the verge of a shriek. "I'm gonna be sick."

"Yeah, yeah," the older officer smirks. The younger one laughs behind us, before speaking some sort of code into the radio on his shoulder. "Like I never heard that one before."

My legs are too out of control to do anything but allow the officer to lead me through the doorway and to the stairs. The sunlight is blinding and the Florida heat makes the high unbearable, and I can scarcely keep my eyes open. He holds my arm tight as we start down the stairs toward the parking lot below.

"Fucking let go. I know how to walk," I seethe, though my ankles knock together and knees nearly buckle with each step. "Lemme go back in for a sec. I left the stove on." I don't own a stove.

"My partner will shut it off for ya." I can't see his face, but I know the pudgy officer is still grinning. He knows I'm lying. We reach the squad car with its red and blue lights, parked haphazardly beside the staircase, and as he steps around me to open the back door, my head spins violently.

I turn just as he opens the car door, bend over his polished black shoes, and puke.