Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: PROCRASTINATE (08/04/16)
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TITLE: I'm Sorry | Previous Challenge Entry
By Sherry Brock
08/10/16 -
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The smell of urine, vomit, and drug induced smoke leave no doubt in his fogged brain that he is, once again, lying on the cement floor of his favorite flop house. His Mom's face flashes across the back of his eye lids like a blast of cold water inside his head. “Broke...my promise...again,” he mouths, remembering the rehab center appointment he'd blown off.
Canon tries to focus, but his thoughts are sucked back into the darkness. Just as he feels consciousness slipping, he whispers, “I'm...sorry...”
**********
Linda Haven's plane hits the ground smoothly, and she shifts in her seat to take in the Miami view. Are you here Canon? Are you OK? Are you even alive? You can't keep running from this.
She moves quickly through the airport, secures a cab, and hands her hotel address to the smiling driver, who responds with, “Welcome to Miami.”
“Thank you.” Linda quickly scans his young face, matching his features against the licensed ID posted on the sun visor above his head. He's young...looks nice...maybe he can help me. “Do you know much about Liberty City? I'm looking for my son and I have a tip he might be there.”
“Oh no, lady, I don't think you want to go there. That is one bad place if you be by yourself.”
Linda appreciates the concern, but she could already be too late. She must find Canon, no matter the cost.
“I was told he might be in a flop house in Liberty City. I need to find him so I can take him home, even if I have to drag him out myself.” Her gut told her to keep talking. “I'm willing to pay for information. No questions asked. Do you know someone?”
“I might. How much you got?” His eyes remain on the road ahead; hands firmly on the wheel.
“Five hundred” she replies.
The cabby pulls up to the curb of the Quality Inn and turns to face her. “Your fare is twenty-two ten.”
Her pleading eyes meet his as she hands him a fifty. “Keep the change.” She holds the bill a little too long, allowing the resolve in her eyes to ask the real question between them.
“Be on this curb 11:00 am tomorrow morning...alone,” he says, pocketing the change.
Linda nods in agreement and steps out into the bright Miami sun. “You're a God-send. I only pray I'm not too late...”
“Just be here, lady.” The tone is stern, but he tips his hat before driving away.
********
At 11:25 am the cabby pulls up, and rolls down a window. “Get in.”
A girl, who looks to be, maybe, fifteen, waits in the back seat. Is this some type of joke? Linda begins to pull the door closed behind her, but suddenly turns to retreat, fearing she's been had.
“Wait,” the girl says. “Tell me about your son.”
Linda hands the girl a picture and a handwritten note detailing the information she's gathered. The girl looks it over and suddenly brightens.
“Dante”, she says looking at the cabby. “He's probably at Dante's place.” She makes a call.
Linda, five hundred dollars poorer, watches the cab drive away. Inside the dilapidated building she steps over bodies, syringes, and pipes, while holding her sleeve over her nose. It does little to lessen the stench. Carefully and methodically she searches, calling his name.
“Hey lady, what you doin' in here?” someone says from behind her.
“I'm here for Canon,” She keeps her breath steady and her stance firm. “I don't want any trouble-just my son.”
The man, remembering the call, gives her the once over and points to her left. Linda balls her hands into fists to resist the urge to scratch his eyes out. Instead she turns and enters the room.
Moving quickly she scans the floor, and then she sees that mop of hair. The plea, “Canon,” comes in one long exasperated gasp. He doesn't move. She moves in closer. “No...please God...”
She drops to his side and leans in just as he exhales, “I'm...sorry.”
Note: this is loosely based on the experience of a friend. Names have been changed of course.
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