Freedom of Sketch

Paying the Price

I wake up to the sight of an unfamiliar bedroom steeped in blue shadows. When did I leave the basement? Two blurry figures stand silhouetted against the rectangle of sunlight edging in through the doorway. "Shiloh," hisses a panicked voice, "are you awake?"

I ignore the pounding pain in my head and nod. I move my legs to find that they are ensnared in a tangle of cold, sweaty sheets. "What time is it?" I ask.

"About one-thirty," replies the voice, which I recognize as Daniel's when he's recovering from a night of loud music, drinking games, and bad beer.

Something beeps. The sound is followed by a scratchy string of radio chatter. A second, deeper voice stirs the air in the bedroom. "10-4, I'm on location. Over."

My nerves crackle to life. I heave myself up on my elbows and squint, fearfully waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. The figure on the right is Daniel, pale with guilt, bloodshot eyes surrounded by plum hangover shadows. Next to him, horror of horrors, is a stern male police officer, eyes trained on me, hands resting importantly on his duty belt. "Hi, Shiloh," he barks, "I'm Officer Shaw. Did you have a fun time last night?"

Every word rings through my skull like a blow from a shovel. The man steps closer. I cringe as a beam of afternoon sunlight escapes from behind him and slams into my face. "Yeah," I mumble weakly, "I had a blast."

The cop chuckles. "Glad to hear it." He plays with the set of silver handcuffs at his hip, all while staring me down. "So tell me, where are you supposed to be right now?"

Anxiety traces a path down my spinal cord like the tip of a hot blade. Daniel avoids all eye contact, focusing instead on plucking at the tanned skin on his arms. I unwrap my legs from the linen. "I don't know," I say to my dirty, bitten fingernails.

"You don't know?" gasps Officer Shaw in pretend disbelief.

I retreat into the warm, musty hug of my borrowed bathrobe and sheepishly shake my head. Daniel stops picking his skin and instead stands with his arms held stiffly at his sides.

Officer Shaw clears his throat. "I'll give you a hint: take a look at those pretty bracelets you're wearing."

I glance at my wrist and see that I was too stupid and too elated at my freedom to remember to remove my hospital wristbands. I glare at my name, birth date, and other data from my imprisonment. I mentally kiss the green band good-bye. "Oh," I squeak. I droop into a sorry, resigned lump.

"You're supposed to be in the hospital right now, aren't you?" the cop remarks. His tone is less sarcastic this time. I peer up at him and see that he's quite young, probably around Dr. Fox's age, but his face is hardened and his friendly brown eyes are eclipsed with the darkness and danger he's encountered on the job.

"Yeah," I say softly, "I guess I am supposed to be there."

"Fun's over," Daniel whispers under his breath.

"I've got great news!" the officer proclaims, scratching at his crown of close-cropped hair. "I'll give you a free ride over there. How about that?"

"Am I being arrested?"

"I don't know... do you need to be arrested?"

"No," I say immediately.

Officer Shaw parades me through the trashed house. It reeks of marijuana, the earthy odor still lingering in the sunlit air like a nightmare. Some of it has settled with the dust upon the mismatched furniture and unconscious bodies strewn across the floor in the den. Officer Shaw sniffs the air, his eyes narrowed. Heavy footsteps echo throughout the house as other police officers explore it, shaking kids awake, demanding to know about the drugs and underage drinking.