Music spilled out into the air; a mixture of Creedence Clearwater and rock-n-roll mingled with jazz mingled with loud, electronic bass.Bright, neon lights and old-fashioned gas lamps pushed back against the darkness of the night.The flow of people moving up and down the street, in and out of the bars and clubs and shops, was nearly as endless as the flow of alcohol. Laughter and gleeful squeals and hundreds of conversations abounded. The never-ending party that is Bourbon Street was in full swing.Everything about New Orleans is just different; the sights, the sounds, the people, even the very air. It’s as if you’ve left behind the real world, and everything ordinary and mundane, and stepped right into your wildest fantasies. The atmosphere is intoxicating, it’s addicting. At times, it’s almost too much.Almost.But not that night. That night, I soaked it all in, loving every minute of it. In fact, the only thing tha

I awoke to darkness sometime later. I sat bolt upright, disoriented and confused; my heart racing and my breathing heavy.And dammit, my head was killing me.It took a few minutes to realize that I was back at Michael’s apartment; this was his bedroom. I was laying on top of his comforter, a throw blanket wound around my legs. I kicked it off, as I sat up and swung my feet to the floor. The movement only intensified the pain in my head, and I stumbled through the dark towards his bathroom.The light was blinding when I hit the switch, and for a moment I wanted to gouge my eyes out; but I figured counting to ten and slowly cracking them open was the better option. I squinted as I searched the counter around Michael’s sink, finally spying what I was looking for. I popped the top off the tiny bottle of aspirin and downed two of them with some water from the tap.I leaned heavily against the wall next to me, as I willed my head to stop hurting. I

A week went by, during which all of our parents couldn’t get enough of letting each of us know how angry they were that none of us had thought to pick up a phone after my attack. They were right – they deserved to know that their kids had been involved in something so traumatic. Even if we all were of the mind that we had done them a favor by not worrying them needlessly, when there was nothing they could have done.But, you know…parents.I called my boss and told her what happened and that I would not be coming in for my shifts that week – I worked as a cashier at a convenience store and interacting with the public, as I let my bruised body and mind heal, was not at the top of my list of priorities.I heard from the detectives in New Orleans, confirming that they had ruled my case self-defense and considered my part finished. I figured that was pretty fast for an investigation to wrap up, but I didn’t question it; just grateful it