The bag slides off my shoulder and hits the floor. I lock the door and check the window. I’m on the third floor, which is not ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers. I clock the distance between the balcony and the ground and sigh. If it comes to that and I have to jump, I’ll jump.
In the year I’ve been here, I’ve memorized every inch of the campus; so much so that it’s become almost like a road map burned into my brain. I could walk every inch of this Godforsaken university blindfolded and still find my way back home.
I remind myself that I didn’t come here to get comfortable. I came to get a job done. And the sooner I finish, the earlier I can leave and get on with my life. Maybe then, I can have my closure and move on with a normal life-whatever the hell normal means. Maybe after I carry out this mission, the scales will be balanced and life will be kinder to me. Doubtful, but maybe. But I’m not holding my breath.
By nightfall, the university grounds are teeming with life. Music bleeds through the quad. Laughter spills too loud; it sounds too much like it’s false and forced. It’s the university’sAlumni Weekend—where men with too much money and power crawl back to the dorms under the guise of mentorship. Generous donors who pretend to be nostalgic as they spend a weekend mingling amongst the students. I’ve heard some students get a full scholarship ride after Alumni Weekend.
Everyone pretends it’s harmless. But I know the truth. I’ve heard the stories. Most of them get repressed; no-one wants to talk about what goes on behind uni doors. But most people know, without explicitly saying so.
Which is what brought me here this Alumni Weekend. The long weekend where many students take off for sun and sand, or go home to visit their folks. Luckily for me, it’s the reason I’m able too turn up here unnoticed and set up camp in a room left empty by students who decided not to stay. I’ve got the access card, and enough rage to fuel a nuclear war.Bring it on, baby.
I take the long way out of the building, using the stairwell with the busted camera on the second landing. I know that someone filed a complaint last semester, but the camera still isn’t fixed, which suits me just fine. In fact, it’s more than fine - it’s perfect. The less evidence I leave behind, the better.
Outside, the air is thick with cheap perfume and student entitlement. Groups of girls drift past, already buzzed, looking over their shoulders. I blend in with them, keeping my head down and my hood up. I’m just another body moving toward the noise.
Legacy House announces itself from half a block away. It’s a homage to men who don’t live here anymore. Men who never really left. I cringe and look away, disgusted. It’s curious how Alumni Weekend is open to both male and female alumni, but it’s only the males who ever attend. It reminds me of a hazing ceremony. I’ve never actually been to one of these things, and were it not for the necessity that I be here, I would not have stepped foot inside the halls of Legacy House.
Bass rattles the windows as I approach the house. Lights blaze from every floor. A banner hangs crooked across the balcony;
WELCOME HOME.
The door staff barely glance at me. In fact, they don’t really have any security protocols in place, which surprises me. I slip in behind a cluster of students, my heart steady, my pulse slow. Now would not be a good time for me to be nervous or have a panic attack.
Deep breath. Just breathe.
The house reeks of weed. Which doesn’t surprise me, even though it’s a banned substance on university grounds. And the fact that there are alumni here, older men behaving badly, not doing anything to deter such practise, tells me everything I need to know. The old guard is well and truly alive.
My eyes scan the room. Bodies spill into the next room, and down the hallway. It’s not crowded, but there’s a decent turnout.
Sliding into this damn mess was too damn easy. I tuck myself behind a knot of students who are already drunk, blending in like I belong to any one curious enough to wonder. No-one even looks at me. Either they’re too high or I’m too ugly, I surmise. Both prospects delight me tremendously.
I split from the students and walk deeper into the house, my hands in the pockets of my hoodie as I move through the line of bodies. My hair peeks out from the top of the hoodie and falls into my eyes. I push it back with one hand and offer a small smile to a guy as I pass by.
The house presses in close with the heave of sweaty, cologned bodies. I move with it, not against it. The kitchen is to the left. People stand at the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder. The staircase is clogged with unmoving bodies. There are too manypeople to recognise anyone clearly, but then I see him. Or rather, Ihearhim.
He’s standing in the kitchen with a female on either side of him, both hanging onto every word he says.
He’s older, but not much different. I’ve done enough research to know how he’s changed over time, how life has treated him. He’s in his early thirties now. The jacket fits too well. Broad shoulders. That same mouth is lazy, confident. He still has that same habit of touching people like the room bends to his will.
He’s laughing. The sound is hard. Sharp. Familiar. I don’t slow down. I don’t let panic embrace me. I keep my emotions buried deep as I step into the kitchen.
I grab a glass and approach the bar. I stand opposite him and start to pour. Vodka. Straight. He looks up and catches my eye. For a moment that’s suspended in time, it’s only me and him in the kitchen, all noise drowned out, nothing around us but the magnetic pull between us.
Does he recognise me?
His attention is drawn away when one of the girls by his side reaches up and pulls his chin in her direction, silently asking for his attention. The world moves around me, everyone too busy to notice a girl in a hood who didn’t bother to glamorize herself in order to sell her soul to the devil.
My hand is steady when I tuck it into my pocket. The vial fits between my fingers like it was made for this. The liquid has no colour, the bottle has no label. It’s untraceable, undetectable, and it sits comfortably in my hand.
I take a sip of the vodka, catch the man’s attention over the rim of my glass before he turns back to his companions.
I wait. For the perfect moment. Then I unscrew the lid of the vial and turn away, tipping the liquid in quickly. It vanishes the second it hits the glass, gone before the surface settles.
Done.
Without words. Without making a mess. The lack of thrill in the act has me confused, but I don’t miss the way my heart rate speeds up.
I look over my shoulder and see him watching me with some interest, just like I knew he would.
