Dorm Room 210: Changes

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Author note: This chapter has been revised and edited. Updated in 2017

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Chapter 1:

Changes

The leather grey chair I'm seated in is the cage that prevents the rush of wanting to leave. The people around me are loud; their voices bounce off the cream-coated walls decorating the reception room. My ears ring. I'm a nervous wreck. Whatever had led me to believe I could do this really had a sense of false hope. Everywhere I turn there's someone looking back, giving me quick looks. They're probably thinking I'm a weirdo.

I reach for the front of my bag, feeling the crease of fabric where my medication sits. I calm down a bit and look at the walls, comfortable to know none will judge me. The photographs of past and present campus Heads look ready to fall. I scan the ones in line of my vision and one in particular stands out. The man's blue eyes hold me prisoner. His face looks brushed. With shiny black hair and flawless contrasting skin he's on the borderline of youth.

The golden plates of Prestwick West University on the receptions front desk remind me of orthodontists. They used to spook the hell out of me when Stacy took me. A horror concert, I called them once.

The clock above the reception brings me back to reality. Almost an hour since I arrived and more people have shown up. I barely move my legs in time before a guy walks into them.

Where are the Guides? The schedule says there should be five Guides escorting their group-number to their buildings. I'm in group two, Building B, the closest building to the reception and main entrance of Prestwick West.

Chaos rang loud around the reception today, but I guess nothing says 'top University' quite like the roar of students waiting to get a move on. The receptionist herself is doing her best.

Helen is a woman in her early seventies, and I met her on orientation week. Her brown hair fades to grey and her wrinkly skin fresh with makeup that makes her eyes wider and lips fuller.

Right now, a blond guy with the classic thin white singlet approaches Helen with a sour look on his face. She doesn't bat an eyelash when he asks her how long the Guides will be. He portrays the stereotypical image of a bad boy but with access to his dad's bank account. I narrow my eyes at him and then at my hands.

"Just go look 'round for a few minutes," Helen says as she picks up the phone beside her. The blond mutters something too low in the mumbling crowd and left with a bounce in his step.

I look to where the blond went. In a corner surrounded by bags, the blond gestures out his frustrations to two girls an boys. The girl with red hair touches his arm, her warm smile ceasing the blond's wild demonstrations. My mind goes to immediate conclusions: girlfriend. Just then, the girl with black hair snaps her eyes to mine. Guilt washes over me. I avoid her stare and turn the other way, the chair catching my slump. I'm doing it again, staring into other people's business. But instead of annoying others I'm annoying myself.

Bags in hand, I make my way to the bathroom, needing some time alone. I'm glad the bathroom is empty. The cool tile floor and walls calm the heat on my skin. The mirror before me points out the blush on my pale face and frizzy, blonde hair. I fix out a comb, dip it into the sink of running water and brush through the warm strands. Like the tiles, the water cools my scalp. Before I can register my actions I slip in a cubical, dig out my phone and clench it between my hands.

A memory of my therapist and I eating chocolate cake swirls inside the tornado building inside of me. Another one of Stacy and I having a paint fight in her mini studio, and one where we laughed over nothing. I think of anything to forget where I am, at least for a moment. Steady breaths, longer breaths. The hurricane hovers nearby the tornado but I keep breathing. I know it's nothing major, just a small attack, but it shakes me up and I still cry about it when it's over.

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