My knickers and the rest of the feverish body is doused in tequila, I have lost the sense to differentiate between an apple and an orange, and some girl with neon green hair has gone down on me. Typical Friday night, huh?

I have been staring at the ceiling from the kitchen counter top and counting the number of shot glasses lying next to me, but for some reason I lose the count after five. When my balled out eyes glance around, I see a large number of people scattered all over, not a speck of white space in vicinity. I wonder if I left the front door open again, or if they live here already?

Realising the insanity of my untamed thoughts, I get a hold over my drowsiness and stumble my way across the jam packed living room. I barely make it through the perspiring crowd, subjecting myself to a bunch of curses– ones that I didn't even knew existed until tonight. I end up halting at their bedroom instead, and almost believe that they will come out any second now. Dad, with a laugh threatening to break apart his stern look, and Mom, glaring at him and then at me, ultimately grounding us both. Sometimes it doesn't even feel like they are gone, and I have to remind myself of it by latching this room and all the memories until the next time I stumble upon it.

By the time I locate my room I lose out on the energy to even stand up straight, and bend down to attempt a hand at the shiny door knob. "Do these things need a key?" I mumble under my alcohol scented breath– my mind travelling back to an hour ago, when I helped myself with half a dozen glasses of whiskey. So, to cut short I've been rendered useless for the night and my breath reeks of a combination of homeless and hungover.

I almost give up on the knob, when the door flings open on its own to reveal a pair of tan brown boots. It strikes me a little later that the boots belong to a person, and I look up like a lost pup with a name tag, which reads as Rufus or a similar crappy name.

A whimper leaves my mouth as I come face to face with a set of wide eyes, gazing at mine with an equal intensity. They flicker below my face once and make me realise that I'm not wearing a shirt. As far as I remember, it was last hanging on a lean frame that required something more than clear vodka to keep from burning down to a skeleton with lavender lips.

It might be the alcohol talking, but I feel her eyes analysing me with a sparking curiosity, instead of just staring back at me. Not only that, but there is something different about her in all entirety. She has a black winter coat on in the breezy weather of July, coupled with a matching pair of navy boyfriend jeans, drooping at the hem yet clinging to her hips. Her hair is falling down to the belt of her coat, sprawled out like a stream of cocoa. Her pale lips are pursed together....

"The proximity between us is too close, and if you are waiting for me to faze out... well, that just won't happen." She whispers, visibly shaky, putting a halt to my impromptu poetry.

I'm not even able to react to it until she blinks at me several times and furrows her plump face. "Sorry ma'am, I thought this was my room," my feet struggle getting off the floor, contemplating if it's as cold that I can't spend the night out here.

"Wait, this is your room," she shouts in a haste and slaps her forehead, the realisation striking her and me both, I try to slide across, but she doesn't budge , leaving us both trapped in an awkward situation for who knows how many minutes. Mean while, I notice a pungent citrus fragrance in the air, which feels out of place in the pub my house has been converted into.

"Can you move, maybe?" I suggest, and she darts her eyes to her feet before rushing to step aside. She looks so utterly mortified, as if standing in my way is no less than a punishable offence. I've got a lot to say, but all I really do is chuckle at her and stroll inside, ignoring my hazy vision and how it crashes like a Formula 1 race car's brakes pulled out.

My throbbing head collides with the hardwood floor and I barely get a chance to black out for a pitched scream turns me vigilant to my surroundings– more alert than I have admittedly been in the past twelve hours. I don't have to doubt my intuition as I watch her cover her mouth with her palms. "What happened?" I groggily ask whilst dealing with the pounding pain in my skull.

She removes her hand off her pale lips that now appear like a half dead rose, anticipating a last bloom before its inevitable end. What am I saying? I expect her to say something, but her response comes as a surprise in the form of the tears trickling down her deadpanned face. The silence with which she deals with it makes me look twice to confirm the authenticity of the mist in her eyes. "I didn't mean to yell at you," I explain, quick to pull myself up or at least that's what I get from my partially functioning brain and aching leg muscles. She sniffles woefully, but wipes the tears at the same time, and I heave a sigh of relief as no fresh ones form in her eyes.

I run my hands through my hair to try and locate the wound, and she chokes out another sob, as if on cue. "I apologised, didn't I?" I try to reason with her inexplicably running tears.

"Your hand... blood is spilling," she murmurs between routines of sniffling and sobbing.

I only realise it when my hair feels stickier than usual, and I find that the cannula has shifted from its place. On further thought, I didn't need the first clue at all. Grossed out by all the blood, I hesitate to take hold of the needle flashing out of my swollen skin.

"Don't do that!" she orders, commanding in the midst of tending to her reddened nose. I almost flinch at the three sixty turn in her personality . "Do you have a first-aid kit?" She asks, I'm sure in all seriousness, but the patches of pink on her tear stained face make it difficult to acknowledge the weight of it. I think there's freckles too.

"I suppose I have a bandaid. Maybe." I try to remember the last time I'd bought something from a medical store, leaving aside the staple Xanax and condoms. She doesn't wait for my recollection and rushes out to grab an ice tray from the cold storage. I guess it belongs to the part time bartender Kelly, who has been thrice arrested and hospitalised for driving on an overdose of contaminated beer.

She paces on the tile s with the tray numbing her already pale hands, contemplating on something as the blood drips off my palm. "Can you hold your hand out?" She requests with such intent, I lay them both out like a prisoner taking the brunt for his love.

She frowns at the action, but lets it go and pulls out a floral embroidered handkerchief from her jeans. Her lips quickly mumble something, which I gather as church prayer from all the times I've attended funerals. Her tiny fingers clasp my palm and drop the tissue on the bulged out cannula, sighing as the blood gathers on its thin fabric, staining it.

She takes another couple deep breaths, while I am a little too jovial to worry about the little operation she's got going over my wrist. Though, I do yell out a few inadvertent cusses as the pain of the week old bandaid ripping off, in turn rips through my rickety body. I figure she wouldn't receive it well, but instead she rubs her cold fingers over the inflated area and urges me to not look at it. I almost laugh at the mere concern, yet follow the instructions as if my life depended on each doubtful word out of her mouth.

The blood spouts out a little, and makes her head jerk back while I assess its colour. It appears to be splaying just a tinge of brown apart from the common red that's all over the place, unbound. Sadly enough, it makes me feel special.

Pulling the handkerchief out, she grasps on the perspiring ice cube and caresses my wounded skin until her fingers begins to tremble. The cold surface of the ice feels soothing and burns in flashes at the very same time. Once the cube is reduced to dripping water, she discards it within the handkerchief itself. "Are you a doctor?" I ask since nothing else seemed a conversation starter good enough for the situation. I hope she recognises that this is just my drunk stupor, and not a general lack of of brain cells.

"No," she simply states and dumps the handkerchief in the bin by the corner. "It shouldn't bleed anymore, but don't try to scratch the wound or anything of that sort." The instructions, meek and clear, somewhat make it past the tarp of haze over by eyes.

I smile at the contrast, the sharpness of her  words and the mellow tone she prefers to use, "Thanks a lot. Also, I'm sorry that you had to see this."

She doesn't say anything, just purses her lips before turning around to leave. I almost call her out until she herself halts in her tracks. "My father is a doctor," she declares and rushes out before I can reply or react to it.

I keep staring at the door, trying to figure if she disappeared after a poof I didn't hear or care for. Aware that it's the alcohol talking, I shrug it off and let myself loose on the mattress; my eyes flickering themselves shut as I feel the little energy left in me, dissipate wholly. The hospital said this could happen, that it's normal occurrence once the drips are off.

I take it as a win for the dead in my eyes, the wastefulness, probably doesn't begin to compare to every other patient's normal.

A groan escapes my scratchy throat, but just not loud enough for me to walk out and grab water. I almost feel the room turning along its axis as silence tunes out all the noise out I n Archie's bar and social services. If this was sometime back, Emma and I would have been break dancing in a hep, new club in Manhattan, until one of us calls it a loss and clings onto the other for support. But nothing's felt the same since the incident in the university's basement... where I found Emma bound to a chair and Mia standing on the side,

I almost believed she did it until that night, when Emma mentioned something I'd forgotten. The hit-list incident.

I was a little late to join in with the rest of the freshmen, but the first thing that I saw clipped on the university notice board on my entrance, was a piece of paper with a list of names scribbled onto it– all belonging to sophomore students. It was only sometime after that I could recognise the writing as that of Emma and Mia's. Turns out, they were running this little scandal where they picked  a senior out every week and ran pranks on them to see who out of the two could tick off more names off the list.

The only consequences of their antics were a ballet dancer breaking her foot, and a soup kitchen volunteer getting her hair caught in the clogged sink. They almost got away with it until the last one's turn came around and things got out of control. "There was this girl in the art's department. Captain of the girls soccer team, someone who wouldn't have fallen for a prank so easily. A challenge that Mia took upon herself and went on to planning an elaborate scare fest down in the university basement itself, but she... she forgot about one little detail. She didn't know the girl was claustrophobic."

Emma narrated it out for me until I put the rest of the pieces together myself. I saw the paramedics rush to the gates, and a body being carried on the stretcher. Emma claims she never saw the girl again in the college or heard anything about her but somehow knows she turned out fine. But she, or even I, for that matter, can't say if the girl didn't ever feel like turning around and doing the same to her pranksters. Trapping them in the basement and knocking them unconscious.

We didn't talk about it for long, but I could feel a barrier, a distance forming between us since then. And I was proven right when we ended it for good after the episode in Daniel's. Maybe it was the way she smiled and rejoiced, watching Mia break down in front of a crowd over the bet. Or the fact that I knew how it wasn't just a simple bet for me anymore.

Such thoughts often keep me awake at night, until I take the matter in my own hands. If sleep plays hard to get, I pull open the drawer on my left, grabbing hold of a tiny blue pill stacked beside my daily dose and a red plastic cup half filled with my tried and tested antidote.

To think, it's nearly ironic how she kept me awake until the bars literally banished us off, challenging me to that one more shot on the counter top, and now I have to go looking out for cheap vodka just to erase it all and let the world dim to black.

***

Morning comes sooner than I would have liked, the night leaving behind a mess in my head, my living room and an addition of garbage bags to my grocery shopping list. Cleaning up, both me and the apartment, takes a while and I nearly trash my rough notes in the process of it. I'd be lying if I say I haven't had the time to complete the chorus, when all I really do these days is get hammered and level up my avatar on The Clash of Titans.

Songwriting's been my escape from the demons sneaking every now and then, either when I miss my parents too much, or some shit goes down between Emma, Mia and yours truly. The earlier ones are just practice, but I think I can bet my money on this one... if I ever complete it, that is. It's been so long since this note is sitting intact on my desk, I don't even remember how and where the inspiration for the lyrics struck to me.

It all goes back to that summer of 95... hmmm... when you and I, we were caught in our prime...
"Was it a mistake, just a flash in bay, or was it all things more than we say... yeah, yeah...
did it mean something to you, did it struck as something true... could we really be together again...."

I still don't remember, but it doesn't stop giving me literal jitters every time I read through the lines. I just wish I could share the feeling with someone, anyone. Although, I think I can confidently say I've lost everyone by my side. Some because I was too dicey, and some because I couldn't commit. "It's either her or me. Pick one, Archie."

Emma's words ring all night long in my ears. Worse, the sounds accompany images of Mia and I, of the turns our friendship has taken in the two years that I've known her. She always said she's danger, and that I should be cautious. I used to chuckle and nod, but looks like I always had a mind to play with fire. Irrespective of whether or not I came out alive.

I don't really feel like it, but because I've got some assignments to take care of, I take a hike and drive to Arlington. Unlike my usual stop at the cafeteria to meet Emma and share a jumbo strawberry milkshake, I head straight for the University notice board to check my timetable for the day.

"Psychology," I scoff, reading out the fine print and dreading the class already. Thankfully, when I enter the class, all seats are taken except for the gloomy, corner most one. I slump back on the chair, prepared to take a quick nap as the teacher explains something about syndromes.

I almost doze off to an unknown land when a screeching sound echoes through the classroom.

"Fucking hell," I mumble loud enough for a row of fascists to shoot across a certain look. Graciously shutting their pie holes with the finger, I adjust my back on the grainy wall to get a better view of the circus upfront. My slacked state is quick to turn vigilant as I spot her beyond what our teacher prefers to call as the imaginary podium. Doctor girl.

She is nervously standing in the middle of the classroom, gripping a mike in her hand alike to how she was holding the handkerchief last night. Leaving aside the cast of golden across her face, her features are all too similar to when she was about to tear up at my silly antics. What's happening here?

As if to answer to my queries, the teacher steps forward to stand beside her. "I've always said psychology is better understood with practical examples than with the help of textbook material. And since we are taking up the topic of 'syndromes' today, I have a student from our senior batch who would like to share her personal experience with the rest of the class."

Doctor girl lowers her head down and fiddles with the mike, while the rest of the students stare at her with the same shrewdness as they do with the teacher. She still manages to step forward and push out a few words, which easily mix up with the wheezy sound of a breeze accompanying the rainfall. "Hello everyone. I–My name is..."

"It's okay, you don't need to reveal your identity," the saintly teacher assures her, because it is obviously a near impossible task to know of someone's name if they don't tell you upfront.

The girl doesn't even bother to nod in reply, well aware of how delusional that was. "I–I have been suffering from Asperger's syndrome since almost a year now. I mean, I always was a little introverted, but it never interfered with my life." A pause follows and nods to herself, as if preparing to haul ahead. "However, it did become problematic after a while. An incident, or rather a bunch of incidents left a pretty huge impression on me. A large part of that impact being that... that I was diagnosed with Asperger's."

Her eyes well up soon, and the whole class begins exchanging whispers among themselves once a few tears escape. I expect the teacher to do something about it, but she just hovers behind her like a ghost, not uttering a single word. "What's wrong with everyone here?" I shout, regardless of the fact that my eyes have 'drunk & sleepless' written all over the icy orbs. As expected, everyone's attention is directed  towards me, and even the ghostly teacher is staring me down furiously through her thick rimmed glasses.

"Go back to your seat, Archie," she warns, despite appearing somewhat scared of my unnerving gaze.

"Believe me, I'm least interested in creating a scene here," my statement earns a few cackles  from across the room, making her fume in anger.

"Can't you see how uncomfortable you are making her feel? I don't have a masters in psychology, but at least I have the basic sense of not coming with the brilliant idea of asking a person who's so afraid of being put in a spot, to come stand in front of a hundred students and open up to them about why they can't do so."

The whole class– well most it turns dead silent by the time I'm done. Even the teacher looks somewhat embarrassed as her eyes fall to the dusty floor in dire need of a wash. I'm convinced I did the right thing until Doctor girl drops the mic and sprints out of the class.

Fuck.

I follow her outside, ignoring the gazes coming my way as the audience grabs on tubs of popcorn and shifts to the edge of their seats. She runs all the way to the end of the corridor, her flinging ponytail about to flash out of sight.

I nearly lose hopes on catching up to her, when she comes to an abrupt stop and turns around, striding towards me. I subconsciously take a few steps back, looking at the bullet speed of her otherwise wobbly feet. They're moving in a calculated pace, almost like a footballer does when pushing past the defense team to make a goal. I assume she would halt at a distance, but instead decides to surprise me, towering over my already intimidated stature.

"What's wrong?" I ask, only for her jet black irises to glare at me with all the ferocity in the world.

"You didn't need to defend me." Her tone's all business this time around, showing bare minimum signs of any nervousness.

"I was just trying to help you," I explain, eyeing her fingers clench into a fist, giving birth to a knuckle breaking sound as they do so.

"Well, you only made it worse. I ran out of the class because you couldn't have possibly made it more obvious how I was not entirely happy with the situation."

The realisation dawns upon me as I nervously rub my neck, not even close to an idea about how to fix it. "I'm sorry," I resort to a simple apology for the lack of something worse. Plus, I don't think she'd appreciate the cigar in my jacket, and a used one at that.

She seems to accept it as her fists break loose and her eyes mellow down to their usual curious nature. I throw a small smile her way, but it makes her back away instead of returning it. She fumbles for words before twisting one of her foot around and escaping the situation entirely. It's like there are two sides to her personality– and both somehow polar opposites in nature.

The same old teacher, struggling to keep her teal framed glasses perched on top,comes running in the corridor in her medic shoes and calls out for Doctor girl to stop, but to no avail. "Monica, wait," she shouts over the usual bustle of students while struggling to keep up with her abnormal pace.

"Monica, huh."

***

Guzzling the glucose in my tumbler down, I mull over my decision once more. I don't want to sacrifice it, but there isn't really much of a choice here. Before I can contemplate any further on the dilemma, the coach's whistle buzzes off in the locker room and makes us rush to the field. I cannot help but frown at the sudden burst of sunlight after the pleasant morning rain, as the heat pricks on the nape of my neck.

We stand in a line in front of the coach, who has our performance sheets clipped to the neon pink plastic board. I decide to use the opportunity to convey my decision, but the coach beats me to it. "I have an unfortunate news to deliver. And I must tell you that it is very disappointing for the authorities of Arlington and for me, someone who spends hours on hours, training you worthless brats.

My mind temporarily shifts off the dilemma at hand and wonders about what the coach is talking about. "What happened, Coach?" John Harris asks, looking more worried than he should be.

"We have found out through reliable sources that someone from the team has been using performance enhancers." He emphasises on the last two words, his eyes blazing like the streaks of the sun.

My anxiety goes off the charts as the news sinks in my still-not-sober body, and makes my intestine churn on its insides to cope with the shock. "And," the coach continues, "it's someone, I never expected this of," he particularly looks at me, giving a go to the sweat beads sticking to my neck until now. He definitely knows it.

"Sean Dallas," he shouts out, making my head jerk to my left, only to find an empty space. "The captain of Arlington Aardwolves has brought us this shame," the coach spits.

Everyone expresses shock with gasps and mouth gapes, but it couldn't be more unreal.

That's when I realise how Sean hasn't shown up for practice since a week, and what exactly was the reason behind the sudden spike in his laps during mid season. It seemed shady to me, but I was too pressed up under my own issues to delve into it. "We have confirmed it with authentic test reports, and removed Sean from the team. He is now forbidden to participate in any intercollegiate events or championships until two academic years," he states each word with clarity, warning the rest of us.

Meanwhile, I just enjoy the relief coming from the fact that it wasn't me. It doesn't last too long, though.

"Now that we are in the need for a new captain, I have taken the task of carefully assessing each one of yours performance records to round up to a few potential candidates. If I am to give any credibility to these sheets of papers, I think Schiller is the only player capable of leading the team at the moment," he looks at me yet again, but with pride dripping off his toothed grin.

"What?" I express my shock, which everyone gladly takes as surprise. They start cheering me and keep pushing me forward until I am facing the coach.

"I cannot think of anyone better to take this position. But remember, this is going to be a big responsibility, and unlike Sean, I know you won't disappoint me. In fact, if you really get your head into this, you can go pro, Schiller." He tries to instil hope and confidence in my shaken up mind. "And you better start preparing for all the attention," he laughs, while I fake one to cover the frown stretching on the inside.

After everyone telling me how big of a deal it is, and practising for an hour straight, I dump myself on the tough reedy grass. Taking the empty field as a cue to let out a groan, I finally break loose of the frustration gnawing at me.

I don't need to take a look at the reports stuffed inside my locker to verify that I am screwed.

Those drips weren't a consequence of me blatantly chugging half priced vodka bottles at a super mart, or my recently developed insomnia. It was the steroids that I've been taking since the past six months, gradually increasing my doses. My doctor has warned me of serious health repercussions if I continue so, and from the slight blood I may or may not have encountered when I threw up a few days back... I don't think he's messing around.

Clearly not left with a choice, I was fixated on asking some time off from the coach. Or so was my plan until Sean fucked up big time.