Entry for coffee calamity 2- won first place
|This short story graphically portrays the use/ abuse of a controlled substance. Adult supervision recommended.
My hands are shaking as I triple-check the curtains. No one can see in. I check the duct tape sealing the windows and doors. Then I walk as calmly as I can into the pantry, locking that door behind me.
Inside I pull the string to turn on the light. I can hear the electric kettle bubbling away. The water is to a boil. It's just a hair too hot. I unplug it and set the egg timer for the time it takes to cool to the right temperature.
I rub the skin of my palms together to dampen my growing craving. They are practically shaking. My hands spin the tumbler on the safe and I practically rip open the door.
Once upon a time, I kept my jewelry and cash inside the safe. Now I use it to hide my coffee and paraphernalia. I pull the french press out, caressing it and checking for damage. It is irreplaceable. I open the tightly sealed mason jar holding my stash and deeply inhale the earthy fragrance of the beans.
I measure out precisely the right amount of grounds, placing them in the device. Then I take the electric kettle and pour in the right amount of boiling water. I count off the brew time in my head as my hands crawl over each other in anticipation.
Time was up and I used the plunger. Then I pull my chipped and stained world's best boss mug from the safe. It too is a reminder of the time before. It too is now considered illegal paraphernalia. I pour the strong brew into the cup. My hands wrap around the mug embracing it as though the contents were my life's blood.
I raise the mug to my lips. Only the fact that it was too hot to drink kept me from gulping it down. I wait smelling the steamy aroma. It was almost like before. I hazard a sip and the bitter brew kisses
my tongue with memories of times now gone.
I hear a pounding on my front door and nearly drop my mug. The amplified voice of a cop made its muffled way through the walls into my sanctuary,
"This is a raid!"
I gulp down what may very well be my last cup, and I lock away my stash. After spilling a bottle of amonia on the pantry floor, I come out just in time for them to beat my door in.
The house fills with men wrapped in DEA jackets. One flashes a warrant at me before bustling me out of my home. They handcuff me and shove me in a cruiser. They would find my stash in the pantry. I would get time for that, but I doubt they will check my compost pile. I doubt they would find the twenty kilos I hid there for the cartel.
The cartel would pay for my lawyer. I would be out by Thursday.
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