Name; Course: Definition

The bar is full, teeming with noise and laughter. People shout across tables, and grin as another round is bought. It's the first week - "Freshers' Week", and packed with fresh experiences. New friends-to-be in a new home-to-be. The beginning of the best three years of my life. A rebirth, if you will. The smell of smoke is acrid, sticking to the back of my tongue. Medic, this Fresher's getting lung cancer! Glasses clink on tables. The second years smile on indulgently.
"Everyone's homesick at first". Am I? Is that what this sensation is? Lungs contract. Stomach clenches in a vague, disconcerted movement. Home. Sick.

We're here to Make Friends and Have Fun. Alcohol dances through a hundred bloodstreams - we're talkative, confident. If you're lucky you might even remember it in the morning. The smoke is a constant backdrop, curling in the air like an ethereal predator, as dozens of fiery sticks are clenched between teeth. It gets in my hair, clothes, eyes... My throat. I'm hoarse, and the group expands, bombarding me with names that I'll never remember. So this is getting to know each other. Name; course: definition. Tick the boxes. Smile.
Internally I'm outraged. We're barely exchanging a sentence! Let's actually talk about something! Naturally I say nothing, knowing I'm alone in my estrangement. They are all happy here, content with the list of people they can reel off in their emails home. Popular, and successful.
Every conversation is the same. I'm from HomeTown. Where's that? Near City. Oh, you're a RegionalArea... How novel, and exciting.
Lacking stimulation, my attention turns to my surroundings. Typical pub, with sinsiter low lighting and the heating up a fraction too high. Dark, wooden tables sit like coffins surrounded by red gore seats. The grain is sticky from a spilled drink, evidence of someone's over-enthusiasm. History etched on the surface, tacky, sweet, making my hand recoil. Empty cups perch before us, and our livers are praying. Someone lights up beside me. I inhale and choke.

I get up and go to the bar for another drink. Muse to myself - is this where the fun comes in? Will the spirit's room-swaying mood-enhancing sting make this a good night to remember? Will you vomit on the tiles and proudly display your hangover come the splitting rays of morning light?
Tense with claustrophobia, furtively my hands grasp at my backpack - awkward, too big for a night out. Fingers find with relief the zips still shut, paranoid that strangers will find the treasure within. My life in a bag, and I can't trust this place.
A hundred distractions threaten. Reassure myself that this is voluntary, that I can choose to leave - though I risk social exclusion, losing my wonderful opportunity to make brilliant new friends. Cathy does economics. John does music. Sorry, didn't catch your name -?
Motion in the crowd, and the beckoning, hypnotic lights of the dance floor illuminate us. Seeking relief I follow. At least here I won't have to pretend to make conversation that no one can even listen to. Ask for a repetition twice - the third time just nod and smile. All that's required in response is an affirmation.
The music throbs sweetly, primal beats travelling through twisting bodies, pulsing in our chests, and we surrender to its familiarity. I close my eyes against the rush of lights and pretend I'm elsewhere. More smoke creeps up on me. My eyes sting.
I'm dancing self-consciously (she's taking up too much room with that backpack)(or am I paranoid?) but I know solace is nearby. Mentally I clutch at the pen and paper within, estranged with a last resort. Someone knocks into me and apologises. Time is counted in songs.
It's late and finally I make my excuses. All the unfamiliar faces flood and overload my mind, and I'm even further apart from them. My ears are ringing and the world is muffled, like a cloud of silence descending upon me. I cover my ears and my heart pounds in irrational fear. I smell my hair and clothes for the stench, the evidence of fags and booze. Clear. Pleasant surprise. I didn't drink much... maybe that's where I'm going wrong?

I yean for conversation, for words that mean something. Similarities. Shared jokes, laughter, discovery... Sensations that are all void from this experience. Instead my lungs burn for fresh air and I feel pressured. Must meet our people quota for the day.
My room is cool and quiet, a sanctuary. My anti-social pastimes surround me and I luxuriate in the solitude for a while. Books are waiting to be read. Tired eyes close.
It's here I feel welcome.

***

Author's thoughts: Okay, you guys know well enough that I'm enjoying myself now for me to put this up... Besides, I was one of the few who actually did it and so we won't be using it in the course. Let me know what you think! Remember, when we critique we say three things we like and three things that could be improved... Oh no wait, that's just for us CW geeks...