‘Entertaining a Shadow’- BOOK PREVIEW

Psych Thriller by Khalilah Yasmin
A tale of serendipity & misfortune; chiseled by a mind fuck that you won’t see coming.

 

Entertaining A Shadow

Written By Khalilah-Yasmin

©COPYRIGHT 2017

ENTERTAINING A SHADOW FACEBOOK PAGE

CHAPTER: 8 BALL

I can hear the loud buzz of the helicopters above searching for my body. If you’re reading this, I have died. I’m writing this from the grave or wherever they decided to place my ashes. I imagine that I was cremated. I sure hope so at least. I had plans for my ashes. All plans seemed to manifest, … eventually.

There I was standing in handcuffs as a helicopter flew overhead with a spotlight on myself and an eclectic group of others. The night was dark and chilly. The only thing I could hear was my inner monologue with God and my heartbeat as it pound through my entire being.  My flesh was vibrating violently. I watched the tear induced snot from the girl next to me blow in the wind at the same rhythm as the palm trees ahead of me. I knew it was time to wake the fuck up. NOW.

“Dear God, I know you’re watching right now,” I stated inside of my head as an array of voices bounced around in the background. “If you get me out of this situation, I promise to use the gift you gave me and tell my story. Also not to touch another drug again. Please help me,” my inner monologued conversation with God was concluded.

Earlier:

I knew the moment I arrived at this BBQ that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was on the phone with my best friend before I went in, trying to talk myself out of going. But I was kind of a loner. They had food. I brought food. I like food. It was a win win.

I wanted to be nice to my drug dealer whom had been a reliable source in Las Vegas following an event when I decided to use drugs to numb my thoughts.

“FRONT DOOR,” the automated voice on the door alarm system stated each time a guest entered the home of my dealer. The air was painted with the best marijuana Las Vegas had to offer. I had other plans that night so didn’t want to lose focus by participating in Mary Jane’s allure. The computed door alarm foreshadowed a voice that would join us later that evening.

I stared at the long table of the lavish home adorned with a smorgasbord of every drug imagined. There was a rainbow assortment laid out upon the table as if they were chips, salsa, and ribs. Like a psychedelic drug infused barbecue. Everything was up for grabs. This already made me nervous. That and that damned voice of the front door alarm. I was having the same conversation with myself on repeat, “Zosia, what are you doing here? GO.”

Obviously I did not listen.

“Zosh, take a hit. You might as well. You’re still here,” Joey stated passing me the professionally rolled joint. I thought about it for a moment and decided to live a little. Living was something I had to fit in when I could…  So I did.

Women were walking around the house wearing everything from swimsuits to red bottom Loubitins in their fancy Vegas dresses. Some of them nude. Me?  I was wearing something comfortable and purple. Little did I know ‘Purple’ would be part of my description later. I followed someone’s Pomeranian puppy into the living room. ‘Mean Girls’ was on and a group of men were watching it.

“You don’t party much do you,” a dark skinned Black male stated whom had been quiet most of the evening. “Not really. How can you tell,” I asked placing a pillow in my lap to hold onto because I was that fucking stoned. “You just don’t strike me as the type to do anything reckless,” he responded with a stoic face as others laughed in the kitchen engaged in their own conversations.

“So you’re calling me a square,” I said, squeezing the pillow as more guests entered the lavish home. “No, I’m not calling you a square at all. I just can tell,” the gentleman said as he sat in a chair separated from the crowd. “What about you?  Why aren’t you smoking or drinking… or anything for that matter,” I asked inquisitively as I observed the mental state of everyone except HIM.

“I have a drug test next week. I probably shouldn’t even be here. Just like you,” he said as he turned his head back into the television.

“I don’t like the feeling of marijuana. I can’t drive to my next location like this,” I stated to myself as I daydreamed about the 8 ball in the front seat of my car. I felt like it had the potential to bring me back level. So I sat and stiffened my body up, preparing to leave so that I could bury my head into my lap and sniff the dusty white goodness. That’s when I heard it. The voice that shook the high all the way out of me.

“THIS IS THE LAS VEGAS SWAT TEAM. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

How can I describe how I felt in that moment other than fucked?  Though I was not guilty of distributing anything and had just purchased the largest amount of cocaine I have ever had in my possession, I was innocent right?  I was a good girl. I used to be a square.  Frank Ocean sang about ‘Nova-cane’ and how numb it made him feel on the night I decided to do the same. I wanted to numb my memories and my disappointments.

It helped, temporarily.

I was the first one out of the house. On the outside I appeared calm. On the inside, I was screaming like a little bitch. “PURPLE SHIRT. HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK,” a SWAT TEAM member stated as I walked slowing in his direction. They were wearing all black and I was blinded with the lights above me and in front of me. I could imagine the frantic chaos in the house behind me as I walked towards my destiny. I imagined Joey running from his backyard into the barren desert.  Neighbors were watching from their doors with shock that I could see on their faces in the darkness.

The swat team member placed hand cuffs on me as other girls came running out of the house in tears. I met eyes with one of them and saw the despair in her face. Her despair seemed to ask why I was so calm. I had to be calm. That’s all I knew.

We were then placed standing facing the SWAT truck and I saw Joey come out of the house, in the corners of my eye. I began to wonder if he knew this drug raid was going to happen and had purposely invited all of his customers to his home. While I began to get angry, I showed no emotion. I was angry with myself. I didn’t trust my intuition when I had been on the phone with my best friend Jane earlier that day. Jane had no idea that cocaine was my best friend in her absence. Jane had never tried anything of the sort and thought very highly of me. She also had a notion that cocaine made people angry and mean. I used to try to tell her that wasn’t true. I wanted to tell her that those people she knew in the past that did cocaine and were horrible, were just horrible.

But by telling her that, I would also have to reveal how I knew this for fact. I would have to tell her that I recently read during my Psychology class, that Sigmund Freud explored cocaine and found it had magical effects. I would have to tell her that during my studies, I decided to do my own research and found that this methamphetamine helped me focus and finish my school work while also numbing the things in my past that hurt me. When would I get to tell her how much I loved her?  I was in handcuffs.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” one of the girls sobbed as a SWAT officer advised her to stop talking. I was the only Black person there so if my face was filled with the blood of emotion, no one would know. Her face however was scarlet red on the dark desert night. She was showing what I was feeling on the inside. DESPERATION.

They placed us on the sidewalk, side by side and asked for our car keys. My heart stopped. I had an 8 ball of cocaine in the front seat of my car that modeling had afforded me. I was petrified but I refused to tell a lie. That’s my motto. Always has been. What is meant to be is going to either happen or it is not.

I handed over my keys and imagined the worst possible scenarios. I saw jail. I saw being forced into being someone’s personal sex slave in jail. I saw my dreams shattering before me. I saw my face on the news and them ironically using one of my best modeling photos where I’m smiling innocently. Who would my one phone call be?  I needed three phone calls. Maybe four.

They never found the 8 Ball in the front seat of my car that night. And if they did, they didn’t care. They brought me my keys and told me I was free to go. God allowed me to tell my story… and so I shall.

monster

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