Page 115 of Taste of Addiction

“Campus police have been useless. They even refused to submit a statement to the state or city police departments.”

“I wish I never went to the frat party that changed my life.”

“I am now in rehab and attempted suicide twice since I woke up and found a guy over me after I passed out in my dorm room.”

“Not knowing what happened to me is the hardest…”

“I was a virgin when I was raped on campus. I now have no hope for humanity.”

“I am four months pregnant after being hospitalized after a dorm party. I have no recollection of how this happened. Now I am finishing up my semester and maybe will complete the rest of my degree at another time.”

“Having a voice that is not heard is worse than suffering in silence.”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I skim through these comments. I rub at my temples and accept the glass of water that Malcolm hands to me, taking a big sip. I copy and paste a few of the comments into a blank document and then lie back on the cushions to rest my eyes.

“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” he asks politely.

“No, thank you so much. I think I just need to take a break from the screen.”

“The others and I will be just out of the doors in the foyer if you need anything. We are scheduled with you today until the boss picks you up.”

“Okay, thank you.”

I must have dozed off for about a half hour, and when I wake, it is now approaching lunch time. I slip back down to the floor and open up the channel to read through more of the comments and—

Where is my post?

I search the entire page for my original list of questions. Nothing. It has vanished. I look at the admin page and shoot all three people who are working under alias names a private message—asking why that particular post was deleted. When sending private messages, my real name appears, but I leave out the fact that I started the post. I guess this is one way to verify members’ authenticity and keep outsiders from posing as students who are not even attending the university. I understand that there would be a need for a checks and balances type of system.

I get a response back from an admin within a minute with a canned message.

“Any post that defames our university is outlawed from this page. Please check the rules and featured posts before submitting any controversial material again.”

Every feminist hair on my body stands on end. To me, this sounds like women are being silenced, and it raises more red flags than ever. I open up my email and at the top of the list see that Dr. Williams is giving me the date at which I am to meet with him for my final paper. And it is Monday.

I groan as I look at my materials scattered about. I have nothing concrete. Even after months of trying, I have nothing. I feel deflated and defeated. While I still want to help protect agency girls from being drugged, there is a bigger umbrella issue here that I cannot uncover in two days’ time.

I have failed.

I sense it.

I know it.

I just need Dr. Williams to confirm it.

Instead of writing about anything of meaning, I grab my laptop and start writing about the downsides of being a female investigative journalist in an industry that is dominated by men. I bare my soul on paper and talk about my struggles of writing this final paper for a class. How one paper is determining my grade for a repeated semester of struggles, sweat, and sabotage.

It may come across as whining, but at least it is therapeutically good for my soul. The closure alone will be medicine for the wounds. Maybe to some I have given up. In a way, I have. There’s no easy route to success when the laws of the universe are ganging up against me. Even Dr. Williams has pushed me into changing my topic. So here it is… My topic change.

After I have bled my words onto the page, I upload them into the journalism document, save it, and go off in search of a printer. I am not taking any chances this go-around with my work getting lost. Even if I predict it not being good enough, I at least want the opportunity to share my thoughts with my professor in charge of my future.

I make my way out to the foyer and find the men at their post, right where Malcolm said they would be.

“Hey,” I say, peeking around the door. “Is there a printer here? I need to print a few pages.”

“Mr. Hoffman has one in his office. I can open it up for you,” Owen says.

“Okay.”

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