Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
TRECEE JONES
The house was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear my mama snoring through the thin walls.
She didn’t even speak when she saw me, aside from me telling her I needed something to help me sleep.
She reached inside her purse and tossed me a pill bottle without a label, then her drunk ass walked past me, rolled her eyes, and went to her room.
My little brother was asleep, passed out cold on the couch, coughing in his sleep.
The air felt thick, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, tracing the popcorn texture, counting stains and cracks.
My phone screen lit up my face in the darkness.
I’d been scrolling past Instagram for the past hour, torturing myself.
The bottle of Casamigos was half-empty. I found it in my mama’s stash.
I took another swig, not even bothering with a cup.
The burn felt good going down. At least I could feel something other than the hollow ache in my chest.
I clicked on Romelo’s profile. His story popped up—another video of Synthia. My heart sank. She wasn’t posing, just… serene. Calm. Pretty. My thumb hovered over his name, wanting to call, text, beg. But my pride wouldn’t let me.
Then I clicked on Synthia’s profile. A green circle glared at me, as if everything was falling into my lap.
I wondered if she was petty enough not to remove me from her close friends or bold enough to post there knowing I could see it.
Either way, the damage was done. My vision blurred from liquor or tears—I couldn’t tell. I exited the app and began to text her.
You really think you won huh?
Send.
Fat hoe!
Send.
You stole my nigga. I hope you choke on a piece of bacon, you fat, sloppy, deep-freeze-back, bottle-of-bleach-shaped ass hoe!
Send.
I swear to God! Ima beat the fuck outta you when I see you hoe. OMS. OMM
Send.
I knew you wanted my life hoe. I knew you envied me. Ole-poe-ass bitch.
Send.
My hands were shaking. I took another swig of liquor, letting it numb everything—my feelings, my heart, my soul.
The tears were falling now, hot and fast, dripping onto my phone screen.
I tried to be quiet, biting down on my lip so hard I tasted blood.
Then I pressed my hand to my mouth to muffle my wails, so I wouldn’t wake Monterrius.
With my free hand, I scrolled through my camera roll. There we were—me and Romelo—at his birthday party last year, at the car, at the mall. We looked happy. There was a glow in his eyes. I was torn. I can bounce back from a lot of things, but I can’t bounce back from this.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Act like my life is fine without him?
Erase the low-down, good-dick motherfucker from my memory bank and throw away everything?
I’m supposed to live a normal life? I’ve done some fucked-up shit in my life, but I haven’t done anything to deserve this. This had to be a scheme—set up by Todd.
Removing my hand from my mouth, I clutched my chest. The room felt like it was closing in on me.
The walls, the darkness, the silence—it was all too much.
I needed to be close to him. I needed to touch him, be in his space.
So I stumbled away from the couch, my head spinning from the liquor, and grabbed my purse off the couch.
I could come back later for my suitcase. For now, fuck it.
As quietly as I could, I clutched my phone and scrolled to locate the Uber app. I had to close one eye to type in Romelo’s address. He was twenty minutes away. I set the bottle on the floor and left. My mama’s house didn’t feel like home anymore.
The night air hit my face, cold and sharp.
I sat on the curb, back hunched, watching for headlights.
It didn’t take long for the Uber to pull up.
Thank God she was a woman. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable in this state if it had been a guy.
It took a minute for me to get a grip on the handle, and when I did, I slid into the back seat slowly, then slammed the door.
Whatever the driver was babbling about, I tuned her out. My mind was elsewhere, gazing out the window at the blurry streetlights that were moving too fast. I didn’t notice we’d pulled up to his house until the driver tapped my knee to snap me out of my daze.
I still had my key. I still knew the code.
My fingers fumbled with the lock, and then I was inside.
His scent hit me immediately—his Dior cologne, heavy in the air, mixed with his natural smell.
It made me cry harder, my whole body shaking, but I managed to make my way to the bedroom, using the walls to steady myself.
I collapsed on the bed and buried my face in his pillow, inhaling deeply, soaking my tears into the fabric. Then I lifted my head. My eyes were my worst enemy. When they landed on our pictures, I wanted to snatch them out of their frames. I snapped like a madwoman.
Grabbing the frame from the nightstand, I hurled it across the room. Glass shattered against the wall. I grabbed another one, screaming, riddled with so much hurt and pain, letting it crash at my feet. Glancing down, I realized it was the pill bottle my mama had given me.
“You left me!” I screamed at him, even though he wasn’t there. “You left me for that fucking bitch!”
The room began to spin. My eyes were swollen, my throat raw, trying to piece back my broken heart. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, echoing in my ears. My vision blurred, my head pounding. I dropped to the floor, not caring that I was stepping on broken glass.
Life has to be worth something. When you’re with a man, you’re supposed to make sacrifices for the both of you.
Romelo is my good thing, and the thought of him being with another made my stomach drop.
How can I go on? How can I erase him? How long will it hurt?
Liquor didn’t erase the pain—it only drowned me in it.
But I didn’t want to keep drowning. Without Romelo, I didn’t have a purpose.
I grabbed the pill bottle and swallowed a few without water, feeling a heightened sense of relaxation. I took more until I started to feel hazy, floating on a cloud, gazing through the stars.
Picking up a piece of glass, I held it against my wrist and glided it over my skin.
I was too numb to react to the blood pouring out, but I dug deeper until I felt a sting, closed my eyes, and faded back into the darkness—where the aching pain became nonexistent and the thought of Romelo was permanently erased.
Screaming.
Somebody was fucking screaming.
The sound was muffled, like I was underwater. Everything felt heavy again and I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do shit but lay there while the world spun around me.
“Trecee please, wake up!”
That was Romelo’s mama. What was she doing here?
I tried to open my mouth to tell her that I was okay, but nothing escaped. My tongue felt thick and swollen and my body wouldn’t respond to what my brain was telling it to do.
Then every went black again.
Sirens.
The sound pierced through the fog in my head. I was moving—being moved, bumped around.
“Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am?”
A man’s voice—deep, urgent, full of tension.
I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I couldn’t see. Then something squeezed my arm tight for a millisecond before releasing.
“Push another round of Narcan.”
“How many pills did she take?”
Another voice—softer, calmer.
“His mom found a prescription bottle without a label. I’m certain it was opioids. It’s so easy to get that nowadays.”
Opioids? Wait. What the fuck?
I wanted to tell them they were wrong. Why the fuck would my mama give me opioids? When she handed me the pills, she didn’t say a word about what they were. All I said was that I needed something to help me sleep.
Everything was too much. Everything hurt so bad. My head throbbed relentlessly.
The voices merged into a low hum I couldn’t decipher. Things kept fading in and out. Dizziness clawed at me. It hurt to open my eyes. The sounds got quieter. Then everything went dark.
My eyes fluttered open, squinting against the bright light. A tall figure loomed over me, pink lips moving, but I couldn’t hear him—my ears were ringing, relentless. Thank God my head didn’t pound anymore, but it was one thing after another. Then I heard beeping—steady, rhythmic—next to my head.
I tried to rub my eyes, then realized my hands were cuffed to the bed.
Metal clinked against metal.
Panic shot through me. I yanked at the cuffs, the cold steel biting into my wrists. This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.
“Get me the fuck outta here!” I screamed, thrashing.
“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down.”
The man in scrubs stood beside me. Kind green eyes, fresh haircut, a perfectly lined goatee.
“Why—” My voice came out raspy, broken. “Why am I—”
“Ms. Jones, this is standard protocol.” He brought a small penlight into view but didn’t shine it in my eyes. “Look at me. Can you follow the light with your eyes?”
I winced, trying to turn away.
“Good. Pupils are reactive.” He clicked the light off and tucked it away. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Trecee,” I croaked. “Trecee Jones.”
“Good. Who’s the president?”
“Sadly…Donald Trump,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
He tittered. “Do you know where you are?”
I didn’t need to look around to know, but for the sake of sanity, I answered. “Hospital.”
He nodded. “That’s right. You’re at Methodist University. I’m Dr. Channin Rogers. Do you know what happened?”
I tried to think, but it was hazy. I remembered the house. Drinking. Crying. Pills…
“I don’t…um…I don’t remember,” I admitted, throat tight.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I muttered.
He didn’t flinch. “Any pain? Scale of one to ten.”
I shifted against the thin mattress, every muscle screaming. “Throat…like razor blades. Stomach hurts. Head pounding…seven…eight, maybe.”
“Any nausea?”
“Everything’s fuzzy. In and out,” I admitted, closing my eyes against the fluorescent lights.
“That’s normal given what your body’s been through. Should clear as the meds work out of your system.” He set the tablet on his lap, leaned forward, and adjusted his sleeves. “Ms. Jones, I need to ask you some questions about last night. Can you walk me through it?”
My stomach twisted. “I don’t…don’t really remember much.”
“That’s okay. Just tell me what you do remember. Start from the beginning of the evening.”
I swallowed hard, throat burning. “I was at home…at the house.”
“Your house?”
“My boyfriend’s house.” The words tasted bitter.
“What time?”
“Evening…maybe yesterday was my birthday.”
“And what were you doing?”
“Drinking.” I looked away, focusing on the muted TV.
“How much?”
“A lot. Half the bottle? Maybe more…”
Dr. Rogers nodded, expression neutral. “And at some point you took pills. Do you remember that?”
My chest tightened. “No.” I lied, as if he didn’t already know.
“You know…if you struggle with addiction, there are places I can recommend—”
“Yesterday was my fuckin’ birthday. So it’s a crime to drink?” I snapped. “I’m not a junkie. Not an addict.”
“Do you remember how many pills?”
I tried to pull up the memory, fragmented like shattered glass. “No.”
“Are you suicidal?”
“No!” I spat, anger thick in my chest.
“You slit your wrists yesterday, Trecee.”
I went quiet, swallowing tears and shame. “You need to know…you aren’t alone. I can get you—”
“I don’t need help. Don’t judge me like I’m crazy.”
“I understand your frustration. I know you’re going through a lot.”
“You don’t know shit,” I hissed.
“Ever thought about harming yourself before?”
I slammed my head back against the thin pillow, tears streaming. My emotions were normal—I was pissed at him for acting like this was normal for me.
“Did you have a plan last night?”
“Get me the fuck out of here,” I grimaced.
“I need you to answer, Trecee.”
“No! I just wanted to sleep. I wasn’t trying to—” My voice broke. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I’ve never thought about it. I’m going through a lot right now—”
“You aren’t alone. That’s understandable.”
“Get me the fuck out of here!” I screamed. Dr. Rogers remained calm.
“Ever been diagnosed with depression? Anxiety? Any mental health conditions?”
“No!”
“Ever seen a therapist or psychiatrist?”
“No!” I yanked my wrists, pain shooting through me. “You’re not a fucking doctor! You don’t know what I’m going through!”
“That’s why we need to talk about your next steps.”
“What do you mean, next steps?” My heart raced.
He exhaled. “Given the overdose, alcohol, trauma, and lack of support—”
“He’s here,” I snapped.
“Who?” He glanced at the closed door, then back.
“He has to be here,” I wailed, tears pouring like a faucet. “He wouldn’t leave me…he wouldn’t.”
“Ms. Jones, I think it’s best you be transferred to a behavioral health facility for evaluation and treatment.”
“You think I’m crazy? You think I’m fuckin’ crazy!? You’re trying to take me to a psych ward!”
“Ms. Jones—”
“Trecee,” I said, agitated.
“Trecee,” he corrected. “We don’t have the proper care here. You suffered a near-death experience. While life may be hard and it was a mistake, this isn’t the end—it’s a starting point. You need help.”
“I’m not in a crisis. It was an accident.”
“Trecee, you overdosed on opioids with alcohol. You’re going through something traumatic. They won’t harm you. They’ll assess your mental health and develop a treatment plan. You won’t be able to hurt yourself.”
I scoffed. “I have the right to do what I want. You can’t make me.”
“Actually, under Tennessee law, we can. When someone is a danger to themselves, we can hold them up to seventy-two hours for evaluation. It’s called emergency detention.”
“I’m not a danger to myself!”
I felt trapped. The walls were closing in. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. No one did—not Romelo, not my mama. They should’ve let me die.