Yours Truly 2016 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA | Page 31

“Aw, HELL, no!” the angry man declared.
He must have seen the police outside.
“C’mere,” he growled. Shannon shrieked
as though he had her by the hair. They were
moving away from the front. Their footsteps
got louder as the two came closer. They
were three aisles away from me.
Shannon whimpered something, and I
decided to shimmy around the shelf into the
aisle, dragging my basket of single-serving
dinner options behind me. My expensive
handbag still dangled awkwardly from the
bent elbow of the hand that held my phone.
The couple stopped a few feet from where I
had just been. Shannon was pleading now,
all shaky and low. When the man responded,
his tone had changed completely. It sounded
sober and clear.
“But you don’t deserve to live,” he said.
Then a sharp pop, and the light swayed and
faded.
“Shannon.”
I sucked in a deep breath.
“Stay with me.” The voice of an older
woman came from directly above me.
Oh my god, this is not happening.
“Suction,” barked another voice.

The grocery store music was gone, and
there were all kinds of beeps and whirrs.
“We’re losing her!”
I tried to open my eyes and sit up, but
my muscles didn’t so much as twitch in
response to the message from my brain. My
lids seemed glued shut. I could feel wires and
tubes tethering me to monitors, probably
like the ones I had seen in movies.
“Get the crash cart,” someone said.
An operating room. I tried to cry out,
but my mouth was covered with something
plastic. I could feel the liquid rush of dope
still flowing through my limbs. I cursed my
need for it, but at the same time I knew it
would wear off soon and I wished I had more.
My face itched. Another side effect of the
meth.
No, I’m that pretty young gal crouched
behind the cereal!
The dream was over. Memories rushed at
me, sucked me down like a tar pit . . . mama’s
boyfriends, all hands and bad breath . . . the
women’s shelter where I lost my virginity on
my 14th birthday . . . that checker at Grocery
Outlet who wouldn’t take my food stamps .
. . I hated Rob and missed my babies. More
than anything, I tried to will myself back into
the dream, into the body of that girl with the
nice hair and fashionable clothes. None of
this is real, I tried to tell myself. It was no use.
I have a hair appointment in forty-five
minutes.

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