“Help me! Somebody fucking help me!”
Kevin, my suite mate, apparently needs some help.
It’s 2 a.m. and I’m passed out, reeling from our night of dizzying debauchery. I begrudgingly roll out of bed and stumble toward the common room.
The floor is stained with blood. The couches are soaked in blood. A streak of blood on the ceiling tracks Kevin’s painful path from bedroom to bathroom, where he now cries in agony over the sink. Marc, another suite mate, is standing beside him.
“Yo, dude, Kev’s broken his finger and it’s really, really bad,” he says. “The ambulance is on its’ way.”
An hour ago, I was bathing in a six-pack of Green Apple Smirnoff Ice.
Now, I’m hungover at the after-party from hell.
I tip-toe to Kevin’s room, navigating barefoot around the pool of blood. Brendan, his roommate, is still in the room, pale-faced, comforting his girlfriend.
“Andrew, if that shitfaced jagaloon hadn’t ripped his finger off, I’d have beaten the shit out of him,” he says.
“Wait, what just happened?”
“Me and Jen were sleeping, and he comes in here in a drunken rage, telling us to wake up. And then he kicks the garbage pail across the room, tries to run out, and jams his finger into the fucking door.”
I return to the common room. Kevin’s still in woeful pain. The ceiling, those couches, his finger, they’ll never look the same. Hell, the whole damn suite is tainted.