I warned them as soon as they cuffed me.
“I have epilepsy,” I said, my voice unsteady as they shoved me into the squad car. “My medication is in my bag. I need it.”
Officer Vargas, the one driving, glanced at me in the mirror and smirked. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before committing a crime.”
But I hadn’t committed a crime.
I was buying a bottle of water at a gas station when the clerk suddenly accused me of using counterfeit money. I tried to explain that I’d just gotten it from an ATM, but before I could say much more, he was already dialing 911. The cops arrived fast—and before I knew it, I was pinned against the counter.
Now I was in a freezing cold jail cell. My head throbbed, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My backpack—with my medication—was sitting just beyond the bars, on a desk I could see but couldn’t reach.
“Please,” I begged. “I need my Keppra. I’m going to seize.”
Vargas snorted. “Well look at that—she’s diagnosing herself now.”
Another officer, a stocky man with a mustache, shook his head. “They always fake it. Trying to get sympathy.”
Then everything changed.
A familiar, terrifying aura crept in—pressure in my skull, like something twisting inside my brain. I barely had a second to brace before my body locked up and I collapsed onto the concrete.
I think I heard them laugh.
Then, nothing.
When I came to, I was lying on my side. My mouth was dry, drool on my cheek, and pain radiated through every limb. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Vargas gave me a nudge with his boot. “Guess she wasn’t faking.”
I tried to respond, but my tongue felt like lead. I couldn’t lift my arms.
Then Mustache Guy crouched down beside me. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “The cameras didn’t catch any of it.”
Time passed—minutes, maybe hours. I lay curled on the cold floor, humiliated and hurting. What hurt more than my muscles was the knowledge that I’d begged for basic care. I’d warned them. And they laughed.
Eventually, a new officer arrived. Younger than the others. Her name tag read Delgado. There was something different in her expression—something like concern.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, eyeing the men by the desk.
“She had some kind of episode,” Mustache Guy said, shrugging. “Probably just faking.”
Delgado stepped closer to my cell. “Are you okay?” she asked gently.
I barely nodded. “M-my meds… they’re in my bag…”
She turned sharply. “Why hasn’t she received her medication?”
Vargas shrugged. “We can’t verify it’s legit. Could be trying to scam us.”
Delgado’s tone sharpened. “So instead of checking, you just let her seize on the floor? That’s not just careless—it’s dangerous.”
Without another word, she retrieved my backpack, found the pill bottle labeled Keppra, checked the prescription label, and handed it to me with a small paper cup of water.
“Here,” she said softly. “Take what you need.”
I swallowed the pills gratefully. It was a small act, but in that moment, it felt life-saving.
By morning, I was released. No charges. The ATM verified the bills were real, and the gas station footage cleared me completely. Still, the damage was done. I felt raw.
As I was leaving, Officer Delgado caught up with me.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” she said. “Not everyone follows protocol, and that’s not okay.”
Her sincerity caught me off guard. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “For believing me.”
“If you choose to file a complaint,” she added, “I’ll support you.”
I didn’t know if I had the strength, but deep down, I knew I had to. What happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone else.
Over the next few weeks, I worked with internal affairs to document everything. Delgado gave her statement. My medical records backed up my story. And soon, the story started spreading—first through local news, then across social media.
The response floored me. People shared their own stories—of neglect, abuse, indifference. And something powerful happened: momentum built.
Eventually, Vargas and “Mustache Guy”—Officer Grady—were suspended while the department investigated further. But the real twist came later.
Turns out, this wasn’t their first offense. Complaints surfaced from other victims. One said Vargas planted evidence. Another said Grady had denied them insulin, landing them in the ER.
The department was rocked. New training programs were introduced. Officer Delgado, for doing what should’ve been standard, became an example of integrity.
As for me—I turned pain into purpose. I started speaking out, volunteering with justice reform advocates, using my story to raise awareness.
What happened to me was traumatic—but it taught me the power of persistence, the importance of empathy, and the impact of speaking up even when it’s terrifying.
So if you’ve ever been mistreated, ignored, or silenced—know this: You are not alone. Your story matters. And change is possible, especially when we raise our voices together.
Please share this if it resonates with you. Let’s keep the conversation going—and keep fighting for a world where compassion isn’t the exception, but the rule.
Thank you for listening. ❤️