Trash

By
I was at a party with my mind in the gutter. Knowing that tonight would be the night of my life I made it worth while. There was kickin’ music and some crazy dancin’. Everything was perfect until I’m on the floor. After I get my bearings I ump up and anticipate action. I see who the culprit was. Bree. Who invited her to the party anyways? Embarrassed and enraged I walk up to that piece of white trash and yank the life outta her hair. The neon pink weave tumbles to the floor making a nappy pile at her feet.


“AWW HECK NAW! You done did it now Morgan Jones!” screeched Bree.


“Get away from me you walking STD before you spread it to me!” I replied with a smile on my face.


Turns out Bree hit me in the first place because of Bryan. Bryan; her stupid stoner ex-boyfriend. She used to harass me non-stop back in June. I thought she was over it; apparently I was wrong. The back and forth arguing was bearable until she hit me the second time. Shocked, I fell backwards and hit my head on a very expensive-looking vase. Blood and me do not mix well together. The combination of fury and a slight concusion was not a good combination for me. My whole body went numb. My brain was no longer in control; I was taken over by emotion. I blacked out.

…….


Drowsy, I tug at my arm; something is stuck inside and won’t come out. I can feel the liquid pulsating through my veins. As my vision begins to clear I can see the I.V. Confusion takes over. I begin to scream like a mad man for help. Instead of a nurse running to the rescue, a cop slowly makes his way towards me.


“Ms. Jones do you know where you are?” asks the cop.


“Uh... it appears that I am in a hospital bed, officer.”


He didn’t think my humor was funny. The nice officer lady explained that this was no laughing matter and that I was in “deep doodoo”. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this man! Here I am, injured, hooked up to an I.V. and he was giving me the third degree!


“HOW AM I IN TROUBLE? She beat me up! I mean look at the situation here sir! I’m gettin’ “interrogated” in my hospital bed and where is Bree?” I snap.

“Ms. Jones,” he calmly replied. “Bree is in the morgue.”

….

“MORGAN WAKE UP!” my mother screams.

The room is dark. The walls, a dingy grey color. The only things in this room are a toilet and a pathetic excuse of a bed. I am placed into the room, my wrists are freed. I am told that I’m in government custody and I’m being tried for the murder of Brittany Sorth. I am advised to hire a “darn good lawyer” and to watch out for myself in the showers.


I fall on the bunk and close my eyes knowing life is over.





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