It’s getting dark by the time I leave Walmart. I again struggled to decide between medicines (why are they so expensive and why do so many do the same thing but also not), and then moved the struggle bus to the canned aisle for soups I’d hate least. I only have the tips I made today on me: $14.28 (I hope Ger gets whatever is on the register for me). The total ends up being $12.01, and have to focus on breathing through my mouth to hold of the nausea. 

Walking to my car, I regret not leaving my jacket in the backseat as the wind threatens to topple me. 

As I see my beat-up Honda, my phone goes off. I accidentally press accept when a man’s voice rings behind me. 

“Drop the phone and give me all your money.”

“I don’t have any money,” I confess as I slide the phone down my thigh to soften the descent. 

“Stop lying, bitch!” I feel the chill of a muzzle against my head. I guess there were two guys because I felt another set of hands roughly cuff my wrist as a hand pushed me to my knees. I don’t know who pats me down; one of them snatches my wallet from my inner jacket pocket.

“I-I don’t. I d-d-didn’t m-make much t-ta-today,” I cry, and the man digs the metal into my scalp to the point of drawing blood. 

“What the fuck,” the second guy groans, clearly seeing the only two dollars left in there. “I thought you said she made bank!”

What?

“Bro, shut up,” the man with a gun complains, and the deep register from earlier fades a little to something more recognizable. “Take the cards!”

“Junior?”

The two guys gasp, and I can’t help but turn around. He’s wearing a stocking cap like a dummy, but I know that stupid razor-cut brow having buck-toothed, pimple fuck-face ass anywhere. 

“Let me g-”

I don’t even get the words out before he pistol whips me—I thought they only do this in movies— and his friend kicks me once for good measure. 

I can’t help but throw up on the pavement as they let me go. 

“You tell Ma, and I will fuck you up.”

He has the audacity to slap and spit on me before running off with his friend like the bastard he is. 

Fuck, mama. I’m going to the damn police! Mama would probably corroborate his story anyhow, so maybe if I show up at the station right now, they can swab something. 

God, this day sucks! My head is throbbing, and I want to pass out so bad. In a fit of rage, I can’t hold back from crying next to my vomit. 

Less than a foot away, I hear Angel whisper.

“Keisha, are they gone?”

The phone! It’s just outside my arm's reach, but I don’t feel like moving. 

“Y-yes,” I sob. 

“Where are you?”

“The Walmart,” I try to say between hiccup breaths.

“Okay, help is on the way, Keisha. Did he hit you?”

I whimper out another yes. 

“Then you need to stay awake, princess.”

***

“I don’t wanna. I’m tired. I’m tired of everything.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that! Everything’s going to be fine soon.”

“It won’t.”

I don't have health insurance anymore because my mom kicked me off. If they take me to the hospital, it’ll wipe out all my savings, and then I’ll be stuck with Mama and Junior. 

“Keisha, just hold on for a little while longer,” he tries to say soothingly, but I can hear the fear in his voice. 

I don’t care, though. Feeling the urge to retch again, I turn my face to the sky. Death by vomit. It’s not glamorous, but it’ll be better than nothing. Cause that’s what I have going for myself: nothing. 

I feel the bile rise, and sure enough, it comes. I didn’t realize how much it’d burn my airways, gagging on my bile, but even if I wanted to get on my side, the head wound was making me too dizzy to be in control.

***

I close my eyes, trying to accept my fate, when footsteps come up to me.

“I guess this makes it easier for me.”

And that’s the last thing I remember before losing consciousness.