When You Finally Find A Good One

Saturday, 10:43 p.m.

He seems nice. He’s not like most guys I’ve met in college at these things. I like the way he talks to me, he gives me full attention like no one else is there. He makes sure I never have to ask for anything, and keeps filling my cup with liquid that stains my teeth like Kool-aid. I look like Dracula but with blonde hair, but for some reason, I don’t mind.

My friends are looking at me and giving me their unspoken approval. They think he’s hot and know I’m on the rebound, I guess I’ll let them win this time.

He asks me about my interests, if I have a boyfriend. I don’t, so I tell him that. I quickly change the subject. Class, let’s talk about class.

He pours me another drink.

Saturday, 11:29 p.m.

The music in here is really loud. We’re walking through the party towards the kitchen in the back of the house, my friends stay in the basement. The music is pounding against my skin, it’s so loud it feels like it’s pinching me. Someone grabs my ass, I smack the hand off and grab his instead. He pulls me in to the kitchen, hoists me up on the counter and kisses me tenderly on the forehead. I let him.

He pours me another drink.

Sunday, 12:14 a.m.

We’re upstairs now in a room plastered with posters of naked girls. Their boobs look like balloons; I start laughing uncontrollably and then I realize how drunk I am. The room is spinning. There are a few other people, a few guys smoking and one girl, laying on the bed. She’s babbling, but she’s not making any sense. My mouth opens to say something, but instead I take a sip.

He pours me another drink.

Sunday, 1:06 a.m.

It’s not as noisy downstairs anymore. Did my friends leave? Where are they? I try to text them but it’s not working, all the words are jumbled up letters. Oh well, I’m in good company.

He pours me another drink.

Sunday, 1:38 a.m.

We’re alone now in a room again, this time a different room. I’m fighting the urge to lay down in the bed and go to sleep. I’m really tired and I don’t know why. I wish my friends had stayed with me so I can walk back to my dorm with them.

He offers me his t-shirt to change in to. I take it, and stumble down the hallway to the bathroom. I see my face in the mirror, my makeup streaming down my face, my hair a mess and my eyes bloodshot.

For some reason, I laugh.

I walk back to the room and see him laying there in the bed. He calls me over.

Sunday, 2:26 a.m.

The rest of the house is quiet now. I feel myself falling asleep, but I’m fighting it so hard. He says, “Not yet, beautiful, not yet.”

My head falls back, I feel so dizzy when suddenly everything comes upstream. I puke all over the bed, covering the sheets with red, warm liquid. I continue to throw up on myself, covering my arms and legs in vomit.

I start to cry.

Sunday, 8:32 a.m.

I wake up in a panic, not knowing where I am or what happened. My body aches, my head throbbing so hard I call out in pain.

Just then, he walks in with a plate, covered in toast, bacon, and eggs. He sits down next to me, putting his trembling arms around my shoulders, pulling me close to him.

“Here, drink this,” he says, nodding to a pitcher of water.

He pours me another drink.