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The sirens are louder, but they will shut off when in the residential area.
The woman on the line speaks in Portuguese to them. Thirty seconds, and they’ll be driving down the pink-painted road.
Which brings another slew of worries.
My clothes, this place, the history. If I get a judgmental police officer, he’s going to drag me to jail and think I have something to do with all this. Not to mention, I’ve been forging checks out of Mama Rosa’s account to pay for bills. That’s a crime.
On these streets, it doesn’t matter the reason behind what or why people do, or how long they have been doing it for. The cops won’t think twice or care that I work here, that I think of her like a mother. They’d flick off my emotional meltdown and chomp down on the major details: Bad by association.
They may think the drugs are mine.
Fuck it.I release my hands from him and toss the cocaine into the store, crawl over and slam the door shut. Then lock it.
Within seconds, I wipe my hands off on my thighs, squirt some more hand sanitizer and return to applying pressure to the wound.
Behind me, the ambulance speeds down the road followed by the police, flashing blue lights circulating in the dusk. The siren is off now, considering the time, but my heart rate blares off its own alarm.
My vision blurs as I bounce my gaze between Styx, the Rosa Negra, and the pink asphalt, the blue light hitting the cracks in the paint and emitting a purple hue. At least the watered down cocaine isn’t visible, not that there’s much light to have an accurate assessment. The EMT’s feet get closer and closer, my heart rate speeds much faster than my brain can process.
There are two thousand grams of narcotics in my home. Narcotics I stole from— no, stored for— a man with a bullet hole in his chest. My hands are full of blood, my clothes probably have traces of cocaine, and I’m sure the guilt is written all over my face.
This is it.I’m going to get arrested. I’ll never make it out of this country, never go back home, never be a doctor. Never... maybe that’s what I should have been called instead ofNeve.
Never Enough.
“Neve?” I’m not sure if it’s the woman on the phone, the EMT in front of me gently taking my hand off Styx’s chest, or the police woman hunched down beside me, who speaks. The sounds of their voices mesh into the panic rushing through me.
I may puke all over these people. It’s highly probable that it happens before I bolt out of my brain.
I can’t risk passing out, though, so I bite down the inside of my cheek, more than likely drawing blood, and focus.
“Neve Cassidy?” The police woman holds my phone out to me and ends the call with the dispatcher. “You can let go now.”
“I-I’m.. I um…” Swallowing hard, I try and get a handle on this nervous stutter. The risk of getting arrested makes it nearly impossible, but I attempt anyway. “H-he-he.”
I drop my hands into my lap and rest on the back of my calves, relieving the pressure on my knees. My ankle still feels numb and I have no idea if I have to pee anymore.
Before I take a deep breath, I stare at the police officer. Being good at hiding my nerves and self-regulating my emotions would be beneficial, but alas, I suck on a good day. And today is a very bad, no good, shit day.
“Are you okay, Miss Cassidy?” the police officer coaxes me calmly.
Fuck no.I can’t run; I can barely speak between the rapid succession of my heart. The constriction in my chest is cutting off the oxygen supply to my brain, and I’m staring at my bloody hands like there should be a weapon in them. I may as well just hold my hands out and tell her to cuff me.
She places a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it snaps my eyes to hers. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Glad she thinks so.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Not eloquently.“I-I...”
Apparently, not verbally either, soinstead, I point to my ears and express myself through gestures.
An ear forI heard.
Two palms smacking together forgunshot.
Two fingers dicing through the air like scissors forrun.
