PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF HEAVY CONTENT AHEAD -- LIST OF CONTENT WARNINGS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CHAPTER

[Image Caption: Samir and Iskander speaking on the phone.]

Hours pass, and I never come even close to nodding off. It's not that I'm not tired—I am—it's that I can't fucking stop replaying last weekend in my head. At this point, I'm basically making things up as I go. Filling in the blanks and watching myself get annihilated.

I left Corinne and the others. I went to get another drink. Someone drugged me—which must have been why I felt halfway in my grave the next day. I guess he took me to my room, where I fell down. Then he took my clothes off. Then he dragged me into bed. It sounds so fucking unceremonious when I lay it out like that. Maybe it sounds that way because I was never given a chance to protest, to say no, to tell him to fuck off and stop touching me. God, how many people saw him walking me to my room? They probably thought he was helping me.

I feel like it should have hurt, but I don't recall any pain. It's just the bruises that hurt… and the knowledge of what happened. That hurts, too.

My phone starts to ring, but I don't answer. I don't want to talk to anyone. I want people to stop trying to contact me.

Soon, the ringing stops, but about ten minutes later it starts again. Seriously, why? Why won't anyone leave me the fuck alone?

I kick my covers off my body and grab my phone off the nightstand. I check the caller ID and it reads "Iskander."

My big brother. 

I hit accept and hold the phone to my ear, angrily asking, "What?"

"Samir," I hear his voice come through the line. "How are you?"

"Good," I tell him, trying to sound collected. "Sorry, you caught me at a bad time."

"That's fine," Iskander says. "Your friend Corinne sent me a message saying you were acting strangely. Is everything alright?"

Of course Corinne is trying to involve my family.

"She's just upset because I'm mad at her," I explain. "It's nothing more than that."

"Why are you mad at her?"

"Because I'm sick and she won't leave me alone."

"You're sick?" he pries and then I realize that that was probably the wrong thing to say. "With what? Do you need me to come and get you? I can take you to our clinician. Ours is probably better than the on campus doctor."

"No," I say. "It's nothing serious. I'll be fine. I just need to sleep it off for a bit."

"Do you want me to drop by?"

"No," I say again.

"Are you sure? I can bring medicine. If you spend too much time in bed, then you'll neglect your schoolwork."

"It's fine, Iskander."

"All right. Feel better."

"Thanks," I say again before hanging up the phone.

He probably won't call back. He seemed satisfied enough with the answers I was giving him.

***

On Sunday I force myself to go to the library in an attempt to feign normalcy. It takes me two hours to get ready because halfway through getting dressed I feel a weight on my chest so crushing that I have to sit down immediately. I don't move for a while. I think if I do I might vomit.

When I finally make it out of my room and across campus it's late in the afternoon. I set up my books and computer at one of the desks near the entrance to the library. I want everyone who comes in and out to see that I'm here.

I try to get through my schoolwork, but concentrating is difficult. Every time someone passes me, I can't resist the impulse to look up and see if I can identify them. Brown hair. That's what Nick said. So many people have brown hair, though. I can't just be wary and scared of every brown haired guy. Nick's best friend has brown hair for fuck's sake and I see that asshole all the time.

I stare down at my books and then up at the computer screen. I reread over everything I've written and it sounds like total shit, but for some reason I just don't give a damn. If I were in the right state of mind, I'm sure I would, but right now I just want to finish my work so I can go back to my room. There are too many people around and I'm getting uncomfortable.

I write for a while longer and then I give in. I can't take it anymore so I retreat to my room. I'll finish the rest tomorrow.

On Monday, I roll out of bed late. I ditch my sweatpants for a pair of jeans, but I keep the sweatshirt I slept in on. I grab my shit and head to class, taking my time. I don't want to arrive before Nick. If I do, he'll aim straight for me when he enters the classroom. I get there with seconds to spare and take my seat. I hear Nick garbling to Koda about something pointless. The professor is writing some shit on the board. When he finishes, he turns around and clears his throat. The classroom quiets and the lesson begins.

I open my notebook and try to take notes, but I keep zoning out and thinking about how much I don't want to be here.

I feel like everyone is staring at me. 

What if that guy is in the class?

He wouldn't be, it's an intro course.

But it's possible if he's taking it to fulfill a general education requirement.

Probably not. Why would anyone take this class for fun?

I continue to argue with myself while our professor tries to teach us things that will likely be on the midterm. I can't seem to fucking think straight.

Finally, class comes to an end. Homework is passed back, and I almost don't want to turn mine over when it gets placed face down on my desk.

Finally, I build up the courage and look.

D.

I've never gotten a D in my entire fucking life.

Scribbled next to the grade is a little note that says "Come to my office hours!" with a little smiley face. At least my professor is trying to be nice about it. Jesus Christ. I want to die.

I leave class quickly, heading for the bathroom. I feel nauseated. I shove the papers into my bag and debate whether or not I should go to Karl's office today or tomorrow. 

Well, I suppose I should get it over with…I don't want my brother to find out I got a D. He'd tell my parents, and I would never hear the end of it. They'd never let me forget.

I sit in the stall on the far left and try to calm down. Honestly, I'm not even surprised by the grade. I half expected it, but I'm still upset.

I don't know how long I'm sitting here, but when I no longer feel like puking, I stand up and decide to head to the top floor of the building where all the offices are. I walk until I reach a door with a sign that reads Dr. Karl Brown.

I sigh, knocking on the door.

"Come in!" I hear.

So, I do.

Karl looks a little surprised to see me so soon. I don't know why I would waste time coming to talk to him—it's not like I have anything else going on.

"Zhouri," he greets me. “Am I saying that right?”

Close enough.

I nod and sit down across from him. 

"What kind of name is that?"

"Lebanese."

"Very cool!" 

Maybe he's trying to put me at ease, but it isn't really working. I pull out my homework and set it down on his desk.

"Alright, let's get down to it," he says decidedly, taking the hint. "The surprising thing about this is that it was perfect up until the end," he begins, picking it up and flipping through the pages, "But in your conclusion you just sort of gave up. It's very unlike you.”

I sigh. "I got sick and once I needed to ask for the extension I just didn't feel well enough to focus."

Karl nods his head and then says, "Well, you know you could have asked for a longer extension."

"I wanted to get it over with," I admit. "I didn't want to keep asking for more time. I felt bad enough asking for one extension."

"Things get in the way," Karl respond simply. "That's life. You shouldn't feel bad asking for a little longer – especially if it will bring out your best work. This… was far from your best work." A pause. "Do you want me to give you a chance to fix it?" 

"No. I don't know…"

Karl nods again, setting the papers back down on his desk. "You have more work coming up. Do you think you’ll be okay to tackle it?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm better now."

Maybe I should take it back and rework it—but I don't want to keep focusing on that. I need to let that week of my life go and move forward.

"Alright." Karl finally says, "If it's just that you were sick this time around, then I'm confident that you'll do well enough on the next project for this one not to affect your final grade too drastically."

That's a relief. My parents always want to see my reports at the end of the semester. I would feel so embarrassed handing them anything with less than an A on it, especially from an intro-level course.

"Thank you for the option," I tell Karl, "But I think I'd rather let this one go and just give you my best work the next time around."

"I understand," he says simply and I can tell he thinks I should still redo it, but I don't want to. "Are you sure there is nothing else going on?" he pries. "University can be overwhelming."

"I was just sick," I say, trying not to sound annoyed. "Everything else is fine. I will do better next time."

Karl nods and then says, "All right. Take care."

"Thanks," I murmur, taking my homework and leaving.

God, that was humiliating.

I head to my dorm room since I have time before my next course. Once inside, I lock the door and review my homework. There are a lot of red marks. It makes me feel bad about myself. I need to try harder next time. I can't get lazy. Then everyone will start asking me what's wrong. I don't want any more professors prying into my life.

I put the papers away before I start getting too in my own head about what I could have changed. I have other assignments to work on, and my focus needs to be on them.

I should be thankful I didn't miss much last week because catching up would have been impossible without going to the math resource center. I have that class as part of my Tuesday/Thursday schedule, and I made it there both days.

I can't let myself fall behind. In high school I could have gotten away with this but university is different. It's not usually particularly difficult for me but that's only because I'm so good at managing my time and don't let myself get overwhelmed.

Pulling out the textbook and sitting down at my desk, I try to get a jump start on the rest of the week.