“What the—what are you doing here?”

A pillow slams into the back of your head, pulling you from your pleasant dreams. You groggily open your eyes and are assailed with more pillow pummels.

“Get out of my bed you creep! How did you even get in here? Oh my God did you see me ?”

You try to sit up in bed but a pillow smacks you in the face. Twin rivulets of blood immediately spout from your nostrils as you cover your head.

“Get out! Get OUT! You’re bleeding on my Egyptian five thousand thread cotton sheets!”

You frantically pinch your nose and tumble out of bed onto the hard floor, gushing blood everywhere. Opening one eye, you are shocked to see that Krystal is indeed , with only a bed sheet covering her body. The whole situation would be funny if you didn’t feel like you’d bleed out soon.

“Hey, I—I can explain if you just give me a chance to!” you screech as Krystal jumps off her bed with her sheet and advances towards you with her pillow raised.

“Explain what? There doesn’t need to be an explanation! You came in here and tried to have with me while I out. I’m going to call campus security right now and—”

“STOP! LET ME TALK!” you shout, your voice cracking with effort.

That stopped her for a second. It would have to be enough.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re assuming that I took advantage of you, but last night I brought you back because you were too drunk and I made you some grilled cheeses and put you to sleep. And for the record, you asked me to put on your PJs for you and cuddle and I swear that’s all we did. I don’t know where your clothes are,” you speak as quickly as you can before she starts attacking you again.

“How can I believe you?” she sneers, holding the sheet more tightly around her body.

“You keep your PJs in that drawer, you have my red handkerchief in your jeans pocket, and can you please not hit me anymore?” you plead thickly through the blood.

Her face softens a touch as she lowers the pillow.

“The bathroom is to your right. Go clean up and then strip my bed.”

You freeze, in the process of getting up, blood pounding in your ears.

“Excuse me? Strip your bed? You hit me in the first place! I’m not your freaking slave!” you argue.

She looks aghast.

“But it’s your blood! How can I touch that? Ugh, never mind I’m going to call housekeeping.”

You watch her as she picks up a phone mounted on the wall and dials a number.

“Spoiled brat,” you mutter as you head to her restroom.

“I heard that!” she shouts as the door closes behind you.

You smirk and run the water, cleaning your face. The bathroom is spotlessly clean. Neat rows of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash, pumice stones, bath bombs, essential oils, and more line the twelve shelves recessed in the walls. The shower has a rain ceiling and the sunken marble bathtub has gold faucets. Fluffy white towels hang on silver racks and monogrammed bathrobes peek out from the closet. You take a glance in the closet and discover that it’s three times the size of your dorm room, every inch of space absolutely filled with designer bags and luxury brands. The richness of the bathroom disgusts you and it is with a certain vehemence that you twist the sink faucet shut and march back into the room.

Krystal has on a white shirt now and has her back turned towards you, examining something in her hands. You survey her sheets, trying t