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“B-but t-that's a t-two h-hour r-ride," he'd made the excuse, making himself smaller in his chair and hoping his mother would eventually tire of watching his pitiful self and would finally leave him alone so he could die of embarrassment.
"I know, baby boy," she pursed her lips. "I just worry about you all the time."
“I-I c-come h-home m-most wee-kends," he tried to explain.
And he did. Two or three weekends a month he was home. Was it so bad that he wanted some time to himself?
"Oh, Raf, what am I going to do with you?" Cosima lamented, taking him in her arms for a tight hug.
They talked a little more, or Cosima talkedmoreas she tried to convince him to come home. When she realized it was in vain, she finally relented and left him at his dorm with the promise he wouldn't get himself into trouble again.
He happily agreed. He didn't think he'd want a repeat of the other night either, even though all the events were sort of a blur. He remembered the party, he even remembered the fight, but it was like he was a spectator in his own body.
The worst was the nausea he couldn't shake even after a hot shower and a warm meal, his head throbbing, his whole body aching from where he'd been hit.
He was lucky he'd only gotten a few bruises to his face, because if his mother had seen his torso and the many discolorations that marred it, she would haveneverallowed him to remain. Raf knew how his mother's brain worked, and if she got it in her head that her son was in danger, then there was no convincing her otherwise.
He tended to his injuries himself, taking some painkillers and finally laying down in bed to get some rest, not realizing as he slept the dayandnight away.
* * *
When he next awoke,it was already Sunday, and his mood hadn't improved. On the contrary, with the alcohol completely flushed out of his system, he felt even more alienated from everyone around him.
All he could think of was that he was a farce. And he didn't know anymore hownotto be one.
He spent the day finishing his assignments for the following week and decided to forgo going online. For some reason, he felt his inadequacy to the depth of his soul, the way he was doomed to live a life that wasn't his own—that wouldneverbe his own.
It wasn't even self-loathing that governed him, though he'd experienced plenty of that in the past. Now it was a simple loathing of the present and of the status quo. It was a dislike of himself and the person he showed to the world but more than anything it was a hopelessness that led to minor bouts of depression that he could barely shake himself out of.
And at that moment, he felt another one coming.
The last time he'd felt like that, Raf had stayed locked inside his room for an entire summer, his routine alternating between sleeping and his computer. He'd go through periods of not eating and almost starving himself, and then he'd switch to the other extreme, eating too much and unable to stop himself.
Now, he could feel himself plummeting again, and Friday night had only served to show him what he was missing, the friends and connection he could make but would forever be out of reach.
Yet he still had one more surprise waiting for him as he went to his classes the following Monday. People were giving him odd glances, furtively laughing at him, their eyes crinkling with unknown amusement.
He noticed, but he didn't know it was directed at him.
Squaring his shoulders, he kept his head down as he took a seat, opening his notebook and scribbling down the date.
"Did you see? I think it's him."
"It's definitely him," someone from another row laughed.
He blinked in confusion, especially as more people joined in, secretly watching something on their phones and turning to Raf to laugh about it.
It continued to his next class too, until he finally saw Steve, who decided to tell Raf the scoop.
"Here, isn't this crazy?" Steve asked with a laugh, clicking play on a video that showcased Raf's drunk ass making a fool of himself at the frat party. He didn't remember that part of the evening, but from the looks of it, some people had dared him to do silly things like dancing on the bar or waiting with his mouth open for an entire bucket of jungle juice to be shoved down his throat.
He felt ill just looking at the videos. But there was more.
Someone had filmed him getting into a fight after the party and had shared the video to the entire campus. The only issue was that no one was calling him a hero or saying he had done a great thing by trying to save a woman from being attacked.
Everyone was calling him lame, a pervert and a creep. As the story went,hehad been the one to harass the girl and the other guys had only tried to put a stop to it.
He was being painted in the worst light, andeveryonebought it. Suddenly,hewas the lowlife, not the men who'd orchestrated the entire scene, and who had conveniently disappeared at this time.
