"Before everyone leaves, for your semester project..."
All at once, every student stops packing up their supplies from class and turns their eyes towards our professor.
Now my interest is piqued. This assignment has been talked about by every student who has ever taken this professor. It is known as the "Writers' Mass Murder Project", and apparently, it lives up to its name.
"...you will have to write a fictitious novel, at least 100 pages long. A great addition to your portfolio, for those of you graduating this spring."
My heart drops.
All of my worst fears just came to life with his one sentence. Out of every assignment he could have given us, why must it be writing a novel? I know that students who are writing-majors are supposed to love writing and creating a new world, but what if you have nothing to write about? Ever since I came to this university, I have tried to write about my experiences, start a blog, edit my previous works. All with no avail. I just don't have anything to write about. Now, I know why this is the "Writers' Mass Murder Project". I haven't even started yet and I already want to switch my major with two semesters left until I get my degree.
Breaking out of my agony induced trance, I grab my bag off the floor, swing it over my shoulders, and scurry out of the classroom that suddenly feels too suffocating to breathe.
Walking through the exit of the building, the cool breeze of the wind hits my face. My cheeks get rosier, my scarf presses against my neck, and my hair flies wildly around my face, but amidst the chaos of my appearance, I take a deep breath and let the coolness in my lungs calm me. I know this project will be the hardest thing I've had to do throughout my whole college experience, but I know I can do this. All I need is a little inspiration.
With that thought in mind, I make my way to "Dinner Eats" aka the upscale cafeteria that serves almost everything you could think of from sandwiches to steak, seafood, pasta, and more. Instead of staying in my thoughts, I realize my existence, close my eyes, and focus on everything around me.
The wind has picked up a little, the leaves are dancing in the wind as some of them gracefully fall to the ground. The temperature has dropped a few degrees.
Jeez, it's freezing.
I shove my hands in my coat pocket to protect them as I watch many other students do the same. The moon's glow lights up certain areas, giving them a hazy glow against the darkness of the night. No stars are to be seen, but city lights make up their disappointing absence. Students are walking down the paths, rushing to get into any building to shield them from the chilly night. Some of them are walking with friends, others are lost in their music, and some are complaining about their frozen facetime call. Just beyond the university's towering buildings, cars honk at each other, and a car peels out of a driveway. I walk past a building cast in a shadow, too dark to see through, and my speed increases. I hate the dark.
I feel small. There is so much going on around me, that I am a small space compared to a great big world that is only getting bigger and much more crowded.
My focus breaks as I walk up to the door to get into "Dinner Eats," but as my hand reaches to grab the door, it is shoved against my chest and I lose my balance, tripping onto my behind and hitting a chair next to the door. I wince as I try to stand up, the guy who hit me with the door long gone. Jerk.
Getting to my feet, my back aches, and my wrists are sore from the impact.
Of all my time here, that was my only hit and run. Unbelievable. At least have the courtesy to apologize. Jeez.
Reaching for the door handle again, I rip my arm back when it swings open, narrowly missing me this time.
"Seriously?!" I exclaim in frustration.
Tossing a "sorry" over his shoulder, the guy who just opened the door screams "Damon!" out into the dark night.
So, Damon is the hit and run jerk. Of course, it was some guy. He probably thinks the world of himself.
Walking away from the crime scene, I go to the door to the right of it and pull the handle. Luckily, I am spared from any more people storming outside in a hurry. The blast of heat is the first thing I feel, and I sigh in relief. I enjoy the cold, but since I am someone who is always cold, feeling the heat spread around my body is one of the best feelings in the world. Once my body is temperate, I notice the scent of the dinner my stomach is crying out for. Looking around, my brows furrow when I don't see the usual line of students waiting to get their meal and chow down. Instead, the whole place is like a ghost town which is so abnormal considering it's 7:00 in the evening. The packed line of students should be wrapping around the wall. Shrugging my shoulders and accepting my luck, I walk around and look at all the options: lo mein with pork, steak and potatoes, roast beef sandwich with provolone, and ravioli with alfredo sauce.
My mouth starts to water, and my stomach growls out in protest as I stand and decide what I want to eat. With another growl commanding me, I walk towards the station that has aluminum foil-wrapped sandwiches that are all stacked neatly against one another in a uniform line. Picking one of the back ones, my hand burns from the heat radiating off of the tin foil. Quickly grabbing a cup and filling it with water, I pay for my food and thank the cashier.
Braving the cold once again, I step out of the cafeteria and head for my car at the end of the parking lot. With brisk steps, I unlock the doors and blast the heat in no time. Placing my dinner in the passenger seat and buckling it in, I reverse out of the spot and turn to get back onto main traffic.
Turning on the radio, "If the World Was Ending" by JP Saxe and Julia Michaels blasts throughout my 2008 black Toyota Corolla. I turn the heat to full-blast, roll the window down, and belt out the lyrics of the song. It's in these moments that I feel free. Nothing is weighing on my mind because nothing else exists except for the music and me.
As the song ends and another begins, I lower the dial and roll up my window. The apartment building, right off campus but a quarter of the price, is booming with its own music thanks to my fellow college students.
With a defeated sigh, I open my car door. The volume increases tenfold. I sluggishly walk around the car to grab my sandwich and drink before walking through the main doors and into the stairwell that does nothing to mute the music.
Three flights of stairs and a wet hand later, I open the door to the third floor and step out, thankful that the music isn't so loud anymore. The building may be vibrating, but at least I can finally think through the muted sound. Opening my door, I step into my one-bedroom apartment, set my food down on the table, and walk into the kitchen to wash my hands. After a fast wash, I pull out a chair, open my book, and prop it against the holder with some headphones in my ears.
Being a shy person means that dinners are typically eaten alone, and it is up to the individual to create a distraction from loneliness, hence the music and book. Undoing the foil, steam rushes into the air and I don't hesitate to take a bite. Provolone melting in my mouth, and hearty bread crunching as I take my primitive like chomp. My perfect type of sandwich. Of course, the roast beef is tender and comes apart as I devour the sandwich one mouthful at a time, but without the crunchy bread and gooey cheese, all sandwiches are the same in my opinion. In a few more bites the sandwich is devoured, the water cup is empty, one chapter is read and three songs have passed. I consider that a successful dinner.
On my way to my bathroom for a relaxing shower, I throw out the wrapper and cup, and grab my clothes from my bedroom: comfy sweatpants, a long sleeve shirt and knee-high socks. The perfect attire for bed.
Turning on the shower, steam immediately encases the bathroom and the temperature goes up five degrees to match the water raining down from the showerhead. Taking off my clothes, I step under the water and moan at the sensation. The best way to end the day is by taking a hot shower to melt all the stressors of the day away, including that horrid novel I still have no inspiration for.
Twenty minutes later, I step out of the shower and get ready for bed. Grabbing my book from the table, I turn on the bedside lamp before climbing under my warm covers, setting the music on low, and reading myself to sleep like I do every other night.