Cracked by Barbra Leslie

exactly, would I have gotten crack and smoked it, fuckbrain?” I said. There’s nothing more frustrating for an addict than to be actually telling the truth for a change, and not to be believed. “Darren.”
    He looked at me for a minute. “Okay.”
    I looked around the room. There was a window, but there was no way I wouldn’t have noticed someone come in that way. And short of crawling out of the toilet…
    “Oh fuck,” I said. “The shower.”
    The large Jacuzzi tub/shower combo had a dark maroon shower curtain pulled back. I thought maybe I had registered the curtain being closed when I walked in, but who could remember? I had a lump the size of Delaware on my head.
    “I don’t feel so good,” I said.
    “Me either,” Darren said. “What is going on here, Danny?”
    “No,” I said. “I mean, I really don’t feel so good. I’m going to heave.” I had my hand on my stomach.
    “I’m not leaving you alone again,” he said.
    “There’s no one here now, unless they’re in a drainpipe. They must have gone out the window. Now stand outside the door and plug your ears.” Darren had a sensitive gag reflex. If he heard or saw puking, it would start him off. He had to be very careful going to movies.
    One look at me obviously told him that I meant business, and he did what I said.
    As soon as he was out of the room, I climbed to my feet slowly. My purse was on the floor behind the door, half spilled onto the ground. More evidence, as far as I was concerned, that someone had conked me on the head and taken a flyer out the window – it was on the second floor, but even I could manage a jump from this height. I made sure the window was locked, and as quickly as I could with a pain in my head that was starting to gain momentum by the minute, I chucked the plastic Ginger/Danielle wallet into my bag.
    Then I proceeded to throw up for real. I didn’t have to fake it for Darren’s benefit. I thought I was losing the lining of my stomach. I rinsed out my mouth and splashed water on my face. Darren was knocking on the door.
    “Danny? You okay?”
    When I opened the door, Detectives Miller and French were standing next to Darren.
    “EMTs are on their way, Miss Cleary,” Detective Miller said, all business now. “Tell us what happened.” Detective French motioned for me to come out of the bathroom. As soon as I did, another cop, or investigator or whatever, appeared from behind her, a tall Asian guy, and as I looked behind me, I saw that he was photographing the room. Just like on CSI.
    “I don’t need an EMT, and I don’t have health insurance down here,” I said. For some reason, I was too embarrassed to tell him about my financial status. Not that he didn’t probably already know. Tell him I’m a crack addict? No problem. About to go bankrupt? Shameful.
    “I’ll pay for it,” Darren said, at the same time as Miller was telling me that arrangements would be made.
    “Like a funeral,” I said. “Arrangements.” I felt sick again. There was going to be a funeral, at some point. We were going to have to bury Ginger. What did she want done? Cremation? I couldn’t remember if we had ever talked about it.
    Then everything became even more chaotic, as two EMTs arrived on the scene. They sat me on a chair in the hallway and forced me to do a few follow-the-finger kind of tests – preliminary neurological tests, they said – and poked at my head. It hurt.
    “That hurts,” I said. We were in my bedroom now, and second techie was in the bathroom now, dusting for fingerprints or something.
    “This is definitely a recent trauma,” the female paramedic told Miller. “The skin is newly broken back there. Not much, she’s not bleeding much, and head injuries bleed like a mother— I mean, head injuries tend to bleed profusely. But it’s definitely new, and we’re going to have to take her in and check for concussion or other injuries. But I think she’s fine.” The male EMT was bustling around, taking