Tripping

Colors and patterns swirl, pulsing in time to the song that is only discernible as a beat and melody. I think I recognize it. It must be a song I know. It slips in my ears and off the back of my brain before I can catch it, though, ever elusive. I give up trying, allowing myself to just bask in the sound, to enjoy the images my brain is conjuring up to match it.

Eventually the song ends, and I claw my way out of my hallucinations. I'm sitting on the floor of a bathroom. Next to me, my roommate is hunched over the toilet. My head is resting against the wall, almost as though gravity is pulling it down there. With an effort I lift it up and sit up straight. Then I sit forward and place a hand on my friend's back.

"How ya doin?" A neutral groan answers me. "You ready to get up?" This time the groan is negative. I rub her back and lean my head back against the wall, losing myself in the next song.

I lose track of how many times the pattern repeats. At some point a guy comes into the bathroom, reminding me that we are not in our own bathroom. "Is she okay?" I nod. "Do you want help getting her back to her room?"

I check with my roommate, then look back up at the guy. "Not yet. Can we stay here a bit more?"

"I'll check." I'm reminded that we aren't in his room either. Where are we? Oh, right. We came up here to smoke with one of the seniors. But my roommate hasn't smoked much before, and whatever he had was particularly strong.

I slip again, briefly. The guy returns with a glass, which he fills at the sink before handing to me. Silent permission that we can stay a little longer at least. And he'll stay, too, back in the room where he continues to smoke. Some people deal with it better than others.

The music takes me again.

Time loses all meaning as I drift between the bathroom and the hallucinations. At some point I surface, and my roommate is ready to make the trek back to our room. I help her stand up and scoop up the now empty glass with us. We exit back through the senior's room. Our other friend is still on his couch, but he stands when we come in.

"Thanks." I return the glass to the top of a speaker, the closest flat surface. Our host waves his acknowledgement as the three of us stumble out of his room and into the relatively clear air. We descend the stairs to our own room slowly. Sudden movements are the enemy here. At least breathing comes easier.

Our room is blessedly close, one of the perks of living in the dorms. I help my roommate into bed and put a trash can within her reach. Then I thank my friend for helping. I'm just about to crawl into bed myself when I remember that I still have laundry in the washing machine. I definitely can't leave it for the morning.

I shouldn't even be doing laundry tonight. Winter break starts tomorrow, and I've got a flight in the morning. I should be all packed. But sometime during tonight's revelry, I got dragged into a shower fully clothed. The episode involved being literally dragged across the ground, otherwise I might have been content to throw the clothes in the dryer and be done with it. But the dirt and grime demanded actual soap, especially since I was planning to wear those pants the next day.

Summoning up every ounce of sobriety I can muster I make my way to the laundry room. The light here is somehow more artificial than anywhere else in the dorm. It must be a trick of laundry rooms. The machines bend light waves or polarize it or something. My drug-addled brain doesn't help matters.

While I'm changing the clothes over, the senior comes in. Guess it's a popular time for laundry.

"You're friend okay?" he asks me

"She'll be fine," I assure him. He nods in response and I head out to the courtyard.

All I need to do now is stay awake for the next 45 minutes. Then I can collect my clothes and finally collapse into my bed. The flight tomorrow will be hell, but at least it's the only thing I'll have to do. In the meantime I grab a soda from the vending machine. I'm not feeling any more sober than I was earlier, lights are still dancing and the ground isn't quite solid or still, but I'm strangely proud of myself for holding myself together as well as I have tonight.