A Thirst for More - Chapter Four

October 10:

Another pretty normal day. Had lunch at the dining hall with Blair again. The pizza was really bad, but apparently that's normal here. At least the fruit seemed pretty fresh and the macaroni was good and cheesy. And they had those coconut macaroon things again, so big win there.

There's lots of stuff coming due soon. Prof. Barton says we have to come up with our own idea for a research paper by the end of next week, which is kind of scary. I mean, it's not like I've ever written anything like that before, so how the hell am I supposed to know how to do it?

Then there's Prof. García-Lopez's Python midterm. I have to write out code for who knows what kind of problems - all in 24 hours. Oh, and I can't forget the three-hour organic chemistry exam. Blair says a sophomore told her it's absolutely brutal. I've got lots of class notes and stuff, but I really don't know what to do if they start asking for formulas straight from the book. I've never been super good at memorizing stuff!

I'm trying, but it's really, really tough. I guess this is college now, not high school. I don't expect it to be easy, honestly. I guess I just thought I'd be able to, you know, keep up with assignments without staying up 'til midnight. Or sleeping bad every night too because I can't stop worrying.

Whatever. I'll make it through, I know it. Just have to focus on one thing at a time. Can't get distracted. Speaking of which... yeah, I'd better quit with this journal stupidity. Assignments won't do themselves.

I'm yawning even as I save and close my journal document. Damn, I'm tired - but I still have more shit to do. Maybe if I just wake up early tomorrow I can come up with some research paper ideas before breakfast...

I eye the full pitcher of water beside my bed and, sighing, reach for the glass. I'm getting more used to my water-gulping routine, enough to where I don't feel uncomfortable tanking it all down. Like I've said before, Mrs. Fenoli's obsession with water doesn't seem like a big enough thing to gripe about. Not a hill worth dying on, as they say.

But it does make for some uncomfortable nights, I have to admit. Honestly, it must be nearly a month now since I've actually slept through the entire night without waking up having to pee. And not just a little, either. It's not the kind where I can just ignore it and roll over and go back to sleep. No, this is when you wake up ready to burst and you end up stumbling down the stairs and you settle onto the toilet and feel what must be a quart just drain out of you while you blink and wince in the harsh bathroom light...

To make matters worse, the damned stairs are stupidly, deafeningly loud. And it's not just the occasional squeak. These ancient things creak and groan and pop with every step, no matter how lightly I try to tiptoe up and down. And every so often, one will let go with a deafening bang - which at 2 am sounds for all the world like a 12-gauge blasting into a flock of starlings.

Worse still, I know for a fact that Mrs. Fenoli must hear it. Her room is right underneath, and I'm mortified every time I hear, amid the night-quiet house, the change in her heavy breathing as the creaking stairs shake her awake. But what can I possibly do? I can't very well hold my pee until morning, and this old farmhouse has only the one bathroom. And so, despite my chagrin, I do my best to reassure myself that it's not really my fault. After all, it's all because she wants me to drink so much. If she really minds the noise, she can darn well reconsider how full she fills that pitcher of mine...

Right?

I'm still mulling everything over as I drain my glass and thumb absently through the suggestions handout for the research assignment. Something that interests me, the instructor said. A question I genuinely want to know the answer to. Something that struck me about what we've discussed in class, about how art influences society...

Fuck me. I'm just trying to show up and do what I'm told. Why do they have to make it so hard? Who wants to hear what I'm interested in, anyway - particularly when I don't even know myself?

But still I try to think of something. Let's see. Art. I've never been to an art museum, so it's not like I can use anything there. I remember the professor showing us pictures of some crusty-looking vases from Greece with horses and warriors on them. Those were kind of cool, I guess? Maybe something about, I dunno, comparing Starbucks cups with old clay drinking cups? But vases and cups aren't the same thing. Dang it. Maybe those Greeks or someone did have cups with painted shit on them? But how would I find out? And who would care, anyway? Ugh...

When I finally do fall asleep, my dreams are nothing pretty. I'm falling- jerking awake- falling again into that big lake by our old house. Oh, crap - there's a motorboat running at me full-tilt- They're shooting at me- Can't run- can only swim, dive- But even underwater the bullets still find me, pelting into my defenseless body-

I awaken with a heart-stopping jolt. Dammit - nightmares aside, I gotta pee again. Bad. I toss off the covers and sway to my feet, the wooden floor cold beneath my toes. Sleep-crusted eyes half-open, I start for the door, and from there toward the creaking stairs of creaky creakiness. Whatever. Squeak and moan all you want. I'm just about done caring at this point. Step, thud. Step, thud-

But then my foot finds nothing where I expect to feel a step, and before I know it the darkened world is spinning wildly, slamming into my shoulders and hips and legs with an explosion of sound and pain.

When I come to myself I find I'm flat on the floor at the base of the stairs. My ass and elbow are smarting, but it's nothing compared to the blazing fire of pain in my left ankle. And even as I hear Mrs. Fenoli's steps hurriedly approaching, her voice calling to me asking if I'm okay, an adrenaline- and disgust-fueled shiver ripples through me.

For, judging but the warming puddle beneath me, my swollen bladder has apparently decided that right about now would be a perfect time to let loose.