D. felt himself be carried, be rushed across dorm and floor and campus until he was ungracefully dropped onto something cool and that smelled familiar. The footsteps faded into odd, alcohol-inspired dreams, where he heard lighter and saw ping pong balls, and there was a girl pressed up to him and he thought she was cute and that he wouldn’t mind counting the stars dotted into her skin, wouldn’t mind it if she traced his scars in the dark — and then she suddenly turned, full fanged, red-eyed, lips plump and fat with the blood of innocent, and he was suddenly bound and there was a screaming —<i>was that his own screams he heard?</i>— and there were so many familiar faces, so many crushed petals and snapped stems and cruel smiles — he jerked up with a muffled cry, years of learning to have his nightmares in the silence of the night.<br/><br/>He was in his room.  How the hell did he get back in his room?<br/><br/>D. groaned, grasping his head. He was still drunk, and he was going to throw up — he leaned over the side of his bed and upchucked his stomach.<br/><br/>“Fuck.” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.  “<i>Fuck</i>.”<br/><br/>He pulled off his shirt and threw it on top of the vomit, thinking that everything had to go, everything had to get burned because there was no way he could wash off the scent of throw up and alcohol and terror.  He needed a shower, he thought, but he had a tough time making it to the bedroom door, knocking and banging into walls because he couldn’t walk upright, dragging his feet that felt as if someone had replaced his songs with heavy steel.<br/><br/>“Fuck!”  He had banged his hip against a shelf, but the bathroom was nearby. Right?  He was pretty sure it was. Or was this his roomate’s rolm?  Where the hell was he at this point?