[18+ ONGOING]
Josephine Devereaux has spent her entire life wishing she liked change & spontaneity. But when she gets accepted into Southern Chicago U's forensics program, change suddenly isn't so scary. Fast forward two years- she's a junior at the...
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"So, how was your night?"
I peer up through my lashes at a smirking Blanca, who's failing miserably at trying to mask her smile.
"Good," I deadpan.
"How so?"
"How so what?" I play dumb.
"How was it good?"
"I don't remember, Blancs," I goad.
"Damn. Dick so good he fucked the hippocampus out of you."
My neck snaps up at the retort, unable to reply with a level-headed answer. I let out a hearty laugh, only to remember that I'm in a library.
I glance at my surroundings, my actions earning a couple of glares from studious onlookers.
Blanca laughs quietly under her breath, as I focus my attention back to her.
"We didn't fuck, Blancs. I don't give it up that easy," I joke, hoping to divert attention from the topic at hand so that I don't have to analyze or recant the events of last night, at least not in a way that isn't solely for sexual gratification.
Oops. No shame.
"Ah. So other things, then." She says.
"Yeah." I reply, hoping she picks up on my eagerness to not elaborate.
She turns her focus back to the loaded textbook on the desk, no longer prodding.
I let out a breath of air I didn't even know I was holding.
"You can elaborate on why you're reluctant to tell me about it once you figure it out yourself. And I don't mean just because you don't "kiss and tell". I mean in an emotionally intellectual way." She adds, not shifting her focus from the small black print plastered on the page.
I gape at her, but shut my mouth upon further understanding, realizing that it shouldn't surprise me that she figured me out that quickly.
I've always been that way. The type to thoroughly enjoy intellectualizing my feelings only to realize that it'll never be as effective as actually feeling said feelings. I act like I'm above my feelings, as if being incredibly self-aware of my flaws will make them less detrimental to my life. My thought process has never proven valid, but it's also never wavered. I suppose it aligns poetically with Einstein's definition of insanity. I'm okay with being insane though, according to Einsteinien standards, if it keeps myself stable.
There's something satisfying about accepting my paradoxical behavior. About accepting that it's healthy to be aware of my emotions while doing everything humanly possible to avoid confronting them.
I stare back down at my book, my eyes skimming through this week's notes.
The pages are filled to the brim with my scrawled-out notes, the occasional words highlighted— adipocere, gas chromatograph, lividity, ouchterlony test. Pictures of deceased organs plastered on glossy pages grab my attention.
