You've Changed

Chapter 3

The lecture ended with the professor reminding us of our upcoming exam, then everyone began to pack up their laptops and file out. Putting my laptop in my bag, I got up and climbed the stairs of the lecture hall. Fridays were relatively easy because it was the only day I had only one class, which was a humanities Gen Ed to fulfill a requirement. Granted, it was my least favorite class, but it was relatively easy. I headed to the dining hall to meet my girlfriend, Stephanie. She was a fellow computer science major, and, god, she was brilliant. She rivaled me. If I was Peter Parker, she was MJ. The weather had a slight chill to it, but not bad enough that I had to wear more than my graphic tee and flannel. My apparel had barely developed from high school, but nobody care any longer. College was like that. Nobody care about what you wore or how you looked, and they only cared about what was going on inside your head. Smarts and charisma weighed out.

Steph was wearing one of my hoodies when I met her in the dining hall—it was baggy and the arms were far too long. Kissing her on the cheek, I thanked my lucky stars for what I had. She had already gotten me a plate, so I immediately took to complaining about humanities class and rambling about the research I was doing with one of my professors. Similarly, she talked about her work with one of the physics professors and how that was coming along. I liked that you could research outside of your major at Stanford, but I stuck to choosing computer science when looking for research opportunities.

Happy was an understatement. I was at my dream school, where I met a beautiful girl, and was on track was getting a ton of experience. People thought I was cool. Me. Life was incredible. He always has a funny way of disrupting that.

***

Despite being a bit taller and bigger than I had been in high school, I remained a lightweight. A few friends had drank before we hit the bars, but I knew better than to drink beforehand. One of them, Jacky, always made fun of me but it was all in good fun. I hadn't been genuinely made fun of since high school, which was over two years prior. Many students lived in the same apartment complex, so my friends and we only had to walk down a flight of stairs to pick up Steph and her friends. When she opened the door, a group of girls dressed in tight outfits greeted us. I didn't even look at them, just her. She was wearing a tight black dress that fit her body perfectly, and I was always in awe of her when she dressed up—even after the hundredth time. With a quick peck, we all headed out of the complex and towards the downtown area.

The small bar was packed with an ungodly amount of college students, specifically drunk ones. There was no room to sit at the bar, but I pushed through the crowd and got a beer for Steph and I. When I returned, half of the group had already taken to the pool table and the other half was arguing over who would play darts. Rather than participating, I drank at a table with Steph and we spoke about nothing important, probably just whatever was going on in the room. I loved talking about nothing with her. Whatever I had been saying, it made her smile. I remember her smiling and giggling at what ever I was saying through a crooked smile.

After I had finished my beer, I excused myself and headed towards the restroom in the back. When I entered, I didn't think anyone was in there and I traversed the stalls, peeking in to see which one was the least dirty. Pushing the door of the last stall, I saw it. A young man had collapsed on the floor, beside a needle and a small ziploc bag. Without thinking, I dove to the floor and tried shaking the man awake, then I flipped him over and that's when I saw it. The distinct scar. I don't remember screaming, but apparently it was so loud blood-curdling that numerous people immediately rushed in. I don't know who called 911, nor do I know what the loud voices that surrounded me were saying. My head was swirling and everything was quiet, yet so loud.

All I could do was examine him—take it all in. The arm that laid limp on the tile had a distinct puncture hole, which still had drug liquid and blood around the wound. Dirty blond hair covered his face, a bit long and scraggly like it hadn't been take care of recently. His eyes were closed, sunken in and the dark circles looked permanent. I just kept shouting his name, repeating it as if it would make a difference. It didn't. Eli was dead on the bathroom floor.