It burned. I remember that much. I remember the fire that slowly trickled down my throat, heating my entire body. I remember it well. My friend was hungry and left to find food. She invited me to come along, but I stayed in the crowded room, the smells of each person mixing to create a nearly noxious aroma. Then he showed up out of no where, now-obvious mischief in those gleaming green eyes. In his hand was a red Solo cup. When I inquired what was in the cup, he assured me it was Sprite. Relief washed over me as I realized I wasn't the only sober person at this party. After getting bumped and knocked into, he suggested we go sit on the couch. So we did. Well, I did. He just stood there, smiling down at me. He placed his cup on the wooden coffee table, confessing that he wasn't a Sprite fan. Then, just like that, as quickly as he came, he was gone. I relaxed a bit and let my guard down. Within seconds I was being pushed against the couch. Someone forced my mouth open and I saw the cup being grabbed from the table. Its contents were poured down my throat, and my whole body went numb. I couldn't fight back. Then everything went black.


***********************


As I sit in the quiet police station, the officer finishes writing down my story. The florescent lights reflect off the sweat on his balding head. I don't know how I got here. I don't remember ever being asked to be brought here. The officer looks up at me with tired blue eyes. He's been here for hours as I struggle to tell him what happened.


"Now," he practically yawns, "can you remember anything else May?"


"Yeah," I say while staring down at the blue tiled floor. Tears come to my eyes as I say, "It burned."