Before The Present

Where to start , the beginning is usually the best place, but so many things get lost in between the beginning and the present. So let’s start with a night that changed my life forever.

The night that changed everything didn’t begin with fireworks or drama—it began in silence. I was sitting in a chair, hard and unyielding, half-dressed and drifting in and out of consciousness. My body couldn’t decide what it wanted—sweat clung to my skin, yet I shivered so hard it felt like the cold had seeped straight into my bones. My stomach churned, sour and unsettled, as if something inside me had spoiled.

The lights above burned into my eyes. I tried to look around, but the brightness made it impossible to keep them open for long. There were no cameras, no windows—just a sealed-off room that felt cut off from the rest of the world. The longer I sat there, the more my insides twisted, until it felt like I was unraveling from within. Then the detective walked in.

I didn’t let him get a word out. Everything spilled from me at once: “Desirae is trying to set me up. I gave you her name, her Facebook, her address, even why she’d do it. Why am I still here? I want to go home. At least give me something to cover up—it’s freezing. Let me call someone to come get me.”

He stayed calm, almost detached. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. When you were pulled over, officers found two pounds of marijuana—in your car, in your bag, in your possession. That’s illegal. And given your position, ma’am, I’m sure you know what this could mean for your career.”

Before I could answer, an officer poked her head inside. “Sir, we just received a phone call. You might want to take this.”He looked at me once, then left the room.

I froze. Time warped. Had it been an hour? Forty-five minutes? The arrest happened just past midnight, but they’d taken my phone, my watch—any anchor to reality. All I knew was that the detective knew who I was, which meant they’d already been digging.

The silence thickened. Minutes dragged, and the only way to measure them was by counting the tiles on the ceiling. Over and over. Until the numbers blurred.

When the detective came back, he fired the same questions like a metronome, one after another.

“Where are you coming from?”“Who were you with?”“Whose car were you in?”“How did the substance get in your vehicle?”“Who is Desirae?”“How do you know her?”“How long have you known her?”“Are you under the influence?”“Why would she set you up?”“What’s her number?”“Who can confirm your story?”

My answers were short, blunt—each one another brick in the wall of disbelief.

“I was hanging out with my ex.”“My ex and his family.”“Desirae’s car, then mine.”“I don’t know. Maybe Desirae.”“She’s my ex-sister.”“About a year.”“I feel dizzy.”“Out of spite.”“I’ve given it to you four times.”“Everyone who was there.”

He left. Time—if it could still be called that—stretched. When he returned, the questions came back the same, but his tone had sharpened.

“What do you mean ‘set you up out of spite’?”“We’ve called that number multiple times; it’s out of service. Who else was there? We can’t find the people you claimed were there—not even your so-called ex. This all sounds like an elaborate lie.”

Something inside finally gave. Tears tracked down my face, hot and sudden. “I know I sound crazy,” I managed, voice breaking. “This was supposed to be the last time I hung out with them. I told them goodbye today—I realized they were the kind of people I didn’t want around anymore.”

The room held that confession and then held its breath.

That’s enough.

The words cracked through the air as my lawyer barged in. “Ciara, say nothing more. Why didn’t you call me? What is my client doing here—are you charging her?” His voice was sharp, commanding, slicing through the haze that threatened to swallow me whole.

I was fading again, slipping in and out, but his fury cut through. Somewhere in the blur, I caught fragments—“her rights… unlawful… we’re leaving.”

The weight of his jacket settled over my shoulders, warm against my trembling body. Then his hands lifted me from the chair. Only then did I notice—the seat was foldable, and I was cuffed to it like some afterthought. “Uncuff her. Now,” he demanded.

Tears spilled, unstoppable, silent. My chest shook, but no sound escaped.

The officer’s voice was ice. “Until this investigation is over, she will remain. She’s being charged with possession of a controlled substance.”

The words hung in the room, heavy as iron.