slay

by Andrea Marcusa

Tonight, I’ll shine. New makeup looks so fine. Last weekend before holiday break. No more studying! Big party in Silver Birch dorm across quad. Finally, can let loose! Kick off flats. Thick, sweet, creamy eggnog. Haven’t eaten all day, want my stomach flat when I see Mom. No first-year fifteen for me! Potato chips and soft chocolate chip cookies. So salty and sweet. Yum! Winter lights twinkle. Phone buzzes. Just my Debbie Downer roomie, Janet. Ignore. Ignore. Thought besties Julie and Chloe were here. They’d love the lights glowing in hall like stars and smiles. And cute guys! Happy Holidays!

I’m pumped. Electric. Last weekend before holiday break. Semester done! Love dancing under twinkling lights. Tinsel. Thirsty from nibbles. More custardy eggnog. Toasting with plastic cups. “Slay!" My fav song, Shut Up and Dance! looping loud. Bass pounds my soles. Feet flirt, hips swing. Red painted toes. Finals wrecked me. But now? Shining! Another cup. It’s so sweet and smooth.

I'm lit. I’m chill. Unstoppable. Where’d I shove my shoes? Who cares when I’m flying on party vibes. Shut Up and Dance! sounds again and I’m rockin’ til I drop. Text from Julie. “C & I at movie. TTYL?” Cute guy with giant smile grabs ladle and tops off my cup. Nog to the rim. Blitz-nog mustache! Bass pounding, twinkling lights. Sudden flicker. Suddenly dark. Music Halts. Disappointed groans.  Soon pounding bass floods back. Lights re-ignite.

Someone shouts, “Best party ever!” Knock back more creamy sweetness. No thoughts just vibes!

Whirling ‘til I drop with giant smile guy under twinkling lights. More cookies. Shoes? Did I wear a coat?

Outside, feet disappear in snow. Ice between my red-painted toes. Roomie buzzes. “Gone 4 nite w Rob.” Yay! Freedom! My dorm spins golden at far end of quad. Behind me, footsteps crack and crunch ice on stone walkway. I don’t bother looking. Too busy flying toward my warm bed and singing, “Deck the Halls!”

“Wait up beautiful!” His giant smile glints, as he catches up. My bare feet slip-slide on ice. He grabs my waist. Steadies me. Numb head to toe! Two girls pass and low-key loud say, “Wow! Cute guy!” Strong arms lift me up dorm front door stairs. Lol!

“You’re as light as snow.”

 Haha. Snowlight!  Snowbright!

“Where’s your room? I’ll carry you there.”

Roomie gone. My head says sleep. Gut warns no. You don’t know him. His grasp tightens moving down hallway. At my door, my feet hit ground. Fumble. Key fob. Then buzz.  Thanks, I say and let door shut behind me and flop on my comfy bed. I close my eyes. Ugh. My bed spins. Eggnog sours back of throat. Woozy. Soft pillow.

Slobbery flesh suddenly crushes my mouth. Cigarette tongue, whiskey and greasy pepperoni breath. He didn’t leave? Why are you here? So heavy. Get off me! Leave!

I’m flattened by his weight and the sweat of his shirt. Stuck. My Bed keeps spinning. Eyes blurr. Eggnog curdling. Vomit rising.

Toes frozen. Shoving hands off. Can hardly breathe. Who is he? Phone buzzes. Where is it? Buzzing, buzzing. Pepperoni and cigarette tongue, pressing lips into teeth. Hurts. Hand between legs. Squeeze them together. This can’t happen. Strong hands pry them apart. Harsh lights on ceiling burn. No! Stomach heaves.

I’m pinned. A first-year. Flat stomach. Eggnog under harsh lights. Frozen feet. Shut up and Dance! Cold hands. My skinny jeans? Unbuttoning. Palms push, pushing away. Get off me! So heavy. Stop! Cigarette, whiskey, pepperoni breath. Keep your mouth closed tight. Grip teeth. Can’t turn. Can’t move. Why won’t he stop?  “Stop. I’m sick!” Sour vomit. Trapped. Please stop! Spin, spin, spinning. Stop! Ow! Squeeze eyes tighter. Stop. Please. Nooo.

 I crumple inward, crushed against my quilt.

Then he’s off me. I breathe. Footsteps, belt buckling. Door shuts. I hold my breath. I listen, afraid to move. Hear elevator door open, then close. I breathe again. Open eyes. Scan room. He’s gone. I crawl from bed, rush to bathroom. Cold tiles on naked knees. Toilet flushes and my vomit in the bowl splashes back shocking my face. Strange and sticky between my thighs. Don’t touch. Just shower. Wash hair. Wash stomach. Don’t think. Wash everything. Why wouldn’t he stop? Rinse. Scrub. Rinse again. Scrub some more. Scrub ‘til it burns.

Don’t cry.

Photo of Andrea Marcusa

BIO: Andrea Marcusa's writings have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Moon City Review, Milk Candy Review, Citron Review, and others. She’s received recognition in a range of competitions, including Smokelong, Best Microfiction, Cleaver, Raleigh Review,and Southampton Review and is the author of the chapbook What We Now Live With (Bottlecap Press.) She's a member of the faculty at The Writer's Studio in New York City. For more information, visit: andreamarcusa.com or see her on Blue Sky: @andreamarcusa.bsky.social