The guys turn away from me and go back into the gym.
I start my trek to the dorm, not caring about the hard concrete against my bare feet or the cool air on my naked body.
32
PANDORA
It’s late enough that there aren’t a lot of people still out and about on campus. There’s a drunk girl staggering home, and two guys sipping beers, but if they notice me, they don’t say anything.
Maybe the guys took more pictures.
It’s late, and I don’t know how long it takes me to get back to the dorm. Once there, I tug at the door, only to remember that I need a key to get inside after hours.
I swipe my keycard against the lock. Nothing happens.
The drunk girl I’d seen stumbling ends up right in front of me, and she blinks several times at me like she’s trying to clear her vision.
Like she’s trying to see if I’m really naked or if she’sthatdrunk.
“You need a key,” she says helpfully.
“I know,” I answer. I swipe the card again, and this time the lock beeps. I open the door, swallowing a wince from the strain of moving my arm.
“You’re naked,” she comments slowly.
“I am,” I confirm. “Don’t tell anyone. I normally charge forshows.”
She laughs nervously, like even in her drunk state she can’t tell whether that’s funny or not.
Honestly, I’m not even sure.
By the time I get back to my room, I’m completely exhausted. I want to collapse into bed, but I am filthy and disgusting and I need to scrape my skin off first.
I go to the bathroom I share with Sam. The lights are harsh, and they give me a pallid glow.
I stare at the strange person in the mirror. Hair completely disheveled. Makeup smeared. Dirt and grime all over. Cum on her chest and stomach. Blood between her thighs.
And the words.
Reversed in the mirror, in barely legible handwriting or in large all caps. CRAZY, WHORE. Psycho, cunt, deranged, slut, various crude drawings of dicks and semen squirting.
If I had my phone, I’d take a picture.
Gotta commemorate their artistic endeavors.
Then again, they’ve already done that for me, haven’t they?
Maybe I should call the cops. I’ve got all the DNA evidence on me. I know who did it. This is classic assault. Nobody’s going to look at me and think I asked for this, that I simply regretted the sex.
Except the frat douches were right that I can’t go to the cops without my role in the fire coming to light.
I step into the shower and turn the water to scalding hot. Then I stand there, waiting for my body to reassemble itself, for the pain to leave, for something to make some fucking sense again.
Why would Blaze and Asch and River do this to me?
They were supposed to be perfect.
I grab the soap to wash off the grime. I scrub between my legs to remove the blood. The words fade, but they’re still visible, and I decide I don’t really care. I get my hair clean, I even condition it, and when I get out, I towel myself down completely.
