Ambivalence [p.h.] - EDITING

You would think, when the door to the dorms burst open and the lights and deafening shouts polluted the calm of the room, my survival instincts would kick in. But no, I merely grumbled and hugged my pillow tighter.

If I die, I die.

"Everybody up!" Someone (by the sounds of it, probably Eric) drummed a metal rod that got louder and louder until —

BANG!

I yelped and sprung up, pulling the sheets up to my neck. Indeed, it was Eric causing the ruckus; even though I was still having trouble focusing my eyes, he was hard to mistake for anyone else. After all, there was nobody else it could have been. Four was too reserved.

This, whatever it was, must have been why he was acting weird.

"You have five minuted to get dressed and meet us by the tracks," Eric hollered, now from the other side of the room. "We're going on another field trip."

There's no rest for the wicked.

In the midst of recovering from the weird timeless feeling I always got after taking a nap (and tonight was a glorified nap at best), I snatched a shirt and some pants out of my hamper, hoping only three things:
1. they were clean.
2. they were mine.
3. they were comfortable.

Lucky for me, everyone else was largely in the same boat — and we were helping each other make it out on time. I was grateful to Will for pointing out that my missing boot was under my bed since there was no way I would have found it otherwise, and Myra, whose guts I disliked (to be put lightly), found it in her to help Christina braid her hair. If there was one thing I was grateful for about initiation, it was that no matter how much we hated each other sometimes, there was solidarity between us in the craziness of it all. It was weird, but it was nice.

When we some miracle made it to the rendezvous point in time, however, the camaraderie all but disappeared as we gravitated back towards our usual groups.

"You look refreshed."

"Shut it, Peter. You're not looking so great yourself."

Peter feigned a gasp as he clawed at his chest. "I'm hurt, Jax. It was like a paintball," Peter paused, shooting some finger guns at me with a cheeky wink, "to my heart."

"I don't get it."

Peter stood up straight. "Voilà!"

"I didn't know you spoke Fre—"

"I don't! Look at the boxes, would you? Now the joke isn't funny."

I squinted in the direction of Peter's characteristically melodramatic gesture. Sure enough, in the faint blue glow of a nearby lamppost sat boxes at least half my size with "PAINTBALLS" spelled out in thick black scrawl. And next to them, lo and behold, were tables and cartons of guns. I'd never played paintball before myself, but it sounded fun. I guess.

"Okay, yes, I get it now, but the joke was never funny."

"You're just jealous."

Eric's wolflike howl interrupted what was going to be an elite rebuttal. "Everyone grab a gun!"

Peter and I exchanged glances before stampeding towards the supplies. I tried gun after gun, but to my dismay they were all either much too big or much too small. From over my shoulder, Peter waved his gun and three cartridges of ammo. Smug little bastard.

I hurdled over all the other hands and arms on the same mission as me until finally — finally — I came across one that somehow spoke to me (or, in other less sleep-deprived-crazed words, was lightweight and the right size).