rated T for swearing and alcohol
"Oh, you should've been there – it was really fun, I enjoyed it a lot!" a woman in her mid twenties gushed to her friend on her phone, talking animatedly on the bus. On the row of seats of adjacent to her, a bushy-haired student scowled through sleep-deprived eyes.
Fun? The word almost sounded foreign to her. When was the last time – she clutched her tote bag closer to her chest – she had any of this elusive concept, this… this… fun?
Probably the day before her Information Technology Law exam, which she had consequently failed. Her mind immediately raced to the noticeboard hanging up in the faculty with their results pinned up – her student number and the insidious mark paired up with it. 34 per cent. She had even pushed up a ruler against the noticeboard just to make sure the 34 belonged to her number, and the 68 above it was actually not the testament to her genius.
How could life wield such untoward cruelty against her like this?
This frustrated law student's name was Burgundy, a third year in her university whose life was in as much as control as her rebellious lilac hair.
The bus eventually came to her stop, and she walked off of it without a "thank you" to the driver. It just wasn't that kind of day for her.
It was a short walk in the chilly November air to her apartment, which she rented out along with another third year student, named Georgia. They had met each other in the Food and Drink Society – which Burgundy would attend just to have her alcoholism seen as "cosmopolitan" and not an actual issue – and clicked. She had never met anyone else with as a large an appetite as Georgia; it almost challenged her drinking capacities.
By this time of the year, the leaves had descended from the branches in their droves, and lay feeble and skeletal on the ground. She turned the key into the front door of the apartment complex, leading onto a reception which beckoned itself onto a small courtyard.
She reached her block, which was on the eastern side of the courtyard. Pushing her key in through the door, she noticed the apparent lack of noise. Georgia wasn't home. This didn't surprise her that much. Georgia was involved in – of all things – a caving society, which had training sessions every Tuesday and Thursday.
The tote bag immediately was met with the faint wallpaper as she flung it off of her shoulder. She supposed she should actually start those assignments that were slowly creeping up on her like a stalker, but the motivation… was sorely lacking. Instead, she pulled out a processed meal of lasanga, and threw it into the microwave for four minutes.
Now, as the recently elected chairperson of the Food and Drink society (or, a fancier way to write "mildly alcoholic" on her resume), Burgundy usually would make some sort of stab at eating healthier, more photograph-worthy food. However, the great wall of lasagne would just have to suffice for the thirty-four percenter.
As she rummaged through the cutlery drawers, she once again lamented the banes of continuous assessment. This was because Burgundy's chosen study style was cramming; it worked for her the past two academic years, and she saw no point in craning over books every day in the library when cramming would afford her the result she wanted.
Unfortunately, the problem with continuous assessment is that some assignments and mid-term tests nipped her in the behind before she even had the chance to resort to the all-nighters.
She scooped the lump of lasagne out of the container and onto a plate. See? Now it's cuisine.
Instead of giving the heavy book she had taken out of the library a withering glance – she instead sat in front of the small television that Georgia and herself – after much swearing and a few frustrated taps of the monitor – had hooked up to her laptop, so she could watch Netflix.
As the episode of a tantalising television show she was addicted to (Burgundy never particularly liked the words "reality television" but that was its definition) drew to a close, her mind brought up the suggestion of actually bringing herself to studying, the timer on the screen began to count down to the seconds for the next episode to begin, and she was helpless to stop it.
About two hours later, the apartment door opened, and Georgia appeared in the entrance of the sitting room, frowning at the sludge splayed out on the couch, holding a plate of lasagne.
"How long have you… been like this?" were the words that came of her mouth.
"Uhh," Burgundy said, gesticulating wildly as she tried to look more sophisticated, "Uhh – maybe an hour… or two, who's counting…"
Georgia raised an eyebrow disdainfully. "I don't know – maybe your degree?"
Third year was the year that the assessment began to count for the final result in their degree. Needless to say, it was quite urgent to actually succeed now.
"You've – you've got a point there…" Burgundy mumbled, cupping her sauce-stained chin. "But, honestly, Georgia, a girl needs to have some fun you know? I mean, com'on, look at you, you go out every week…"
"As do you," she retorted coolly. "But at least I," she pointed to herself, "bother studying beforehand."
There's just too much attention and praise given to ambitious people, Burgundy mused to herself, and not enough for those who are… hypothetically ambitious. Like, come on?
"Well, don't worry, it starts to- morrow. I have an appointment with a professor," she replied, "you remember that exam that I… kind of failed? Well, yeah, everyone who failed had to go in book an appointment. Some sort of social torture, you know? So – I'm sure she'll give me a right kick up the ass and then, I'll get motivated."
"She doesn't need to give you a kick up the ass," Georgia told her as she made her way to close the door, "you need to give yourself a kick up the ass."
She left, and Burgundy stared at the closed door for a moment.
Honestly, how was she expected to find the effort to do that?
The Professor's office was located in the technology building, which was in a side of her university that she never ventured to, having the vast majority of her lectures in the west of the college grounds. She passed a line of majestic sycamore trees who hung bare in the winter. On this part of the university, were the sports pitches and she walked by the women's rugby team training, the ball soaring in the periwinkle air.
Her college was actually quite beautiful when she wasn't nursing a hangover.
She entered the building, which was, how else could she say it – quite modern, fitting for the faculty. They seemed to use plant life to complement the minimalist architecture, to intertwine the natural and the unnatural. She checked the writing scrawled on her palm, for the room number. It was on the second floor.
The second floor was rather silent for this time of the day, she noticed, which happened to be eleven a.m. She passed a line of office doors with names and consultation times attached to them, eventually coming to a part of the corridor which was lined with glass windows on the left. She glanced in them for a moment.
Behind these windows, was a well-lit, spacious room, filled with all sorts of mechanical gadgets and machines that would make a geek's head spin. In the centre of this mechanical jungle was a seven foot tall robot with humanoid features, and a wig of clover-green hair. It struck her as kind of bizarre, even a little silly that this stoic piece of technology had a party store wig on top of its head.
However, this was the moment that transformed her life, and that wasn't her natural flair for drama speaking.
The robot… waved at her.
At first, she just supposed this was this robot did. Wave at people mechanically, that was its function. Some sort of friendly robot that greeted people or whatever.
However, when the robot smiled (or adjusted its facial plates to form some akin to one), spoke the words "hello there", and began to move towards her that she decided whatever its damn role was, she definitely wasn't going to be the guinea pig to find out.
Now, only children sprint away in fright. She, a twenty-one year old, was a fully fledged adult woman. Therefore, she marched very quickly on her heels away from the robot, praying it wasn't following her.
She began to whisper in reams under her breath. "I swear – if I come out of this shit alive, and that robot doesn't fucking kill me, I'm going to start eating healthier, I'll actually do some work, and get a first in my degree! I'm promising this so… fate – god – I don't freaking know – just let me live please!"
She managed to find the office of her professor and, not glancing back down the corridor, shut the door behind her.
thanks for reading; somewhat experimental style, I know. updates on the weekends (possibly not every weekend, but)