Remember Me Not

TWENTY-NINE - AFTER

"Oh, shit," one voice says, after a pause. "That was her?"

"You wouldn't think it, right? She's obviously drunk out of her mind. She didn't even seem to notice all the guys ogling her when she was dancing in that skirt—all of them looking at her like she was a piece of meat. Thank God her friends seemed to be keeping them at bay, because I don't think she'd be able to do it herself."

"It's sad," the other girl agrees. "She must be going through some real shit. But you'd think she'd be more careful—after everything that happened with that Josh guy."

"I know. I didn't know him personally, but I know a lot of people that did. They all thought he had a heart of gold. Wouldn't in a million years have guessed he'd ever do something like that. But, I don't know... do you not think his girlfriend would've had more of a clue?"

"What do you mean? You think he did something to her, too?"

Another pause. I'm now frozen behind the door, my hands dangling in the sink, not daring to move a muscle. "Nobody knows, do they?" comes the answer. "But if you ask me... there must have been warning signs. Something like that doesn't just come out of the blue."

That's it—I can't listen anymore. I'm hit by a wave of sudden, brutal nausea, but all I want to do is get out of the bathroom and as far away as possible. I can't do this. I thought I didn't care, but I do. I can't stay here and hear people talking about me like a subject of speculation, the poor little victim with no voice. Like the flip of a switch, the alcohol in my system has turned from a warm buzz to pure poison. Good drunk has suddenly turned to very, very bad drunk. And from there, there's no going back.

I throw open the door before I can think twice. It puts me face to face with the two girls who've been talking about me, the reveal sharp and abrupt, giving neither side anywhere to hide. There's momentary relief in the fact I don't recognize either of them—they're just nameless faces from somewhere across campus—but it's the equivalent of a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. I'm mortified; they're horrified.

I push past them and dash down the hallway.

Tears are brimming, the nausea is worsening, and to top it all off the room has started spinning, too. It's getting harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other: all it takes is one wrong move for me to stumble, falling to my knees with a crash. Several people look in my direction, and I can hear voices asking if I'm okay, but I don't want any of their concern. If they recognize me, they'll only be thinking what those two girls said aloud—and I'll be able to see it in their eyes.

It doesn't matter what I say or how I act. I'm a victim.

But my behavior tonight has also marked me out as something else. Careless. Irresponsible. Asking for something else to happen.

The frat house is an impossible labyrinth, and I'm getting more and more worked up the longer I stay inside. My breathing comes thick and fast, the nausea almost at boiling point; if I don't get outside sharpish, I'll spill my guts all over their expensive carpet. And that's probably the only thing that could make this night worse.

Eventually, though, I set eyes on the front door and manage to burst outside. I make it just clear of the crowd before my stomach clenches, and then I'm doubled over and vomiting into one of the front yard bushes.

By the time my insides stop writhing, I'm crying. The floodgates open and I can't stop, even though people are staring and I know it makes me look pathetic. There's a hand on my arm as yet another person tries to ask me if I'm okay, but I shake them off and start walking, stumbling, sobbing.

I need to be alone.

But at the same time, I can't bear the thought—I need someone, anyone, who stands a chance of making this better.