By M'Shai S. Dash

The moment he closed the bathroom door, the guilt washed over me and I gathered my clothing as quickly as I could. I was still disoriented from all the alcohol I’d consumed at the legislative conference we’d both attended. Sighing heavily, I double-checked my bejeweled clutch for my credit cards and black makeup compacts (as both things are of nearly equal importance to my daily life, and I wasn’t sure if the contents had fallen on the floor when I’d accidentally kicked it off of his king-sized bed during sex precisely—and sadly—just six minutes before). Once I heard the toilet flush and water running I picked up the pace. I tiptoed down the hallway of (Charles’? Simon’s?) modest one-bedroom apartment, glancing briefly at his address on a piece of mail that lay on a table by his door before stepping out into the coolness of the late September evening. Down the dark corridor and out into the artificial, fluorescent light of his apartment building’s second floor landing I went, light on my feet as I could possibly be. I slipped on the sequined peep-toe pumps I’d been holding only when I’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

“What you’ve described to me, what I’ve observed from our time together, and what I believe in my professional opinion, is that you have PTSD.”

On the night of November 12th, 2014, Tanisha Anderson was detained by police officers after agreeing to undergo a psych evaluation. While handcuffed, the situation took a turn for the worse as Anderson began to become uncomfortable, resist, and kick at policemen. Eventually, she stopped struggling and was pronounced dead at 12:30am on November 13th.