The Book of Imagines: The Mindless Volume

15 | Arizona and Skittles (Roc Royal)

If you can't tell by the already self-evident title, this is an imagine inspired by the story of Trayvon Martin. In no way, shape, or form is this a creation of mockery of Martin and Zimmerman's story. This imagine has nothing to do with my opinion on the jurisdiction of Zimmerman's trial, nor does it have any of my thoughts on the entire situation itself. Again, the plot of this imagine is wholly inspired by the actions taken within the night of Martin's death, and not stitched together with real descriptions, my thoughts on Zimmerman's verdict, etc.

Do not assume; listen to the news and not the media! 

R.I.P. Trayvon Martin, as well as to all the [unheard] unjustified stories out there. 

*

Broken hearts and last goodbyes,

restless nights but lullabies

help to make this pain go away . . .

The abrupt sound of your ringtone caused you to arise from your slumber, slowly prying your eyes open to reveal yet the same darkened room you fell asleep to. In confusion to why someone would call you at this certain time (considering that you rarely received any phone calls), you reached under your cotton pillow for your alarming Android. 

The shining brightness of your cellphone frightened you, but your brown orbs quickly adjusted. Below the time of 6:49 p.m. was the name Chresanto August, which were written in bold Arial letters. Accept or Decline? 

Your phone continued vibrating, as if it were anxious for you to answer such an emergent call. While groaning, you pressed the 'Accept' button and brought the device to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Baby!" Chresanto exclaimed, sounding enthusiastic to hear your voice. It was grogy (considering the fact he just woke you up), but he still adored the sound. 

You giggled lightly. Being and conversing with your boyfriend always seemed to ease your mind, in spite of how angry you were a few mere seconds ago. "Hey, boo!"

"You sound dazed," he said with a soft chuckle.

"I am," you admitted, "you just woke me up."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Y/N, it's only 6:50 p.m. Why the hell are you tired?"

You attempted to respond to your questioning boyfriend, but you didn't know how to. In fact, you didn't know why you were so exhausted. Pondering the situation made you angry -- what the hell happened last night?

Then it hit you. Last night you went with a bunch of Chresanto's friends to snort crack, smoke weed, and pop ecstasy at the back alley. It was your first time, so having the amount of dosage in your system didn't do you right. But hell, the high was worth the drowsiness, especially when you got the shit for free.

"We were high as fuck last night, remember?" you questioned your already confused boyfriend. It was as if he had forgotten the mere event. 

After a short pause, he released a laugh. He found it adorable that your petite body couldn't handle a 'few' pops. "Oh, yeah!" He chuckled, slowly recollecting the night. "Fuck, I still need to thank Prince and Ray for the free drugs."

After semi-moments of silence, he continued, "But anyway, that's not why I called. I wanted to ask if you wanted to come down with me to the store."