The primary issue with studying an illness you've never actually had is that you can only write about it objectively. She was quite confident she'd read every book on addiction that her schools library had, she'd spent time with those both currently in addiction and those who have recovered from it. But somewhere deep within her she understood the issue she'd find in the field; it's hard to look at someone who is attempting to help you out with the knowledge that they truly have no idea what it's like to live with such an affliction. Books and human studies can only get you so far, but you'll never know what it's like to be the victim until you are one.
This was likely the reason she was pursuing a PHD when she already had more than enough qualification to get just about any job in the field she wanted. She was waiting for that moment when it clicked, when that part of her mind started working and she could understand the plight and desperation associated with such a crippling illness.
Of course, she had her little tricks to "help" her understand. One was the black flask she had sitting entirely in the open on the table in front of her, surrounded by three different books she'd already ruined with hand written notes that were trying to make the connection between the psychological, physiological, and first hand accounts as though some literary triangulation could explain something that had left the world clueless for thousands of years. Every time she thought she made even the most minuscule connection, she took a sip of her over priced whiskey and hoped the newly obtained scholastic knowledge and the ancient mind numbing remedy would merge into some sort of understanding. In truth, she was lost. She would never admit it to herself, but somewhere deep down she knew she was working on a problem that simply would never be solved.
As she began to write another note on the book that had been written by a man still in the throws of his addiction there was a tap on her shoulder which startled her just enough for her pen to slip, and leave a nasty little line across the page. Her teeth immediately dug into her lower lip as she dropped the pen and looked over her shoulder. She knew who'd be there, the librarians had learned a long time ago that it wasn't worth the trouble of interfering with her for the multitude of rules she tended to break on a nightly basis.
"Cassandra, outside please." The salt and pepper haired Professors face showed a queer mixture of pity and demanding, a look she'd become familiar with and had learned to despise. He was a teacher of advanced mathematics,and perhaps one of the most brilliant men that Cassandra had ever met. Despite taking his class only once, she had found a connection with him. It was one many at the school knew, so he had more or less became her babysitter in times such as this.
As she began to collect her books she felt his hand lay upon her wrist, and now her teeth dug deeper into her lip until she could taste blood. She did not like being touched unless it was on her terms, and this certainly was not.
"Leave the books, they do not belong to you." His voice was stern, nearly fatherly, because he knew if he showed even the slightest sign of weakness he would be entirely ignored. But she reluctantly obeyed and slid her chair back, collecting her bag and of course her flask. She followed the man out the side doors where they knew they would not be interrupted, and she came to lean against a wall as he stood a few feet away from her. A light snow was falling, just enough to sit in his hair and almost cause it to twinkle. She would happily fuck this man if it weren't for the fact she knew she'd loose all respect for him the moment she did.
There was a moment of silence as he waited for her to speak. This was a constant between the two, for if Cassandra spoke first it meant that she was first of all sober, and second willing to listen. Instead he broke the silence.
"It's almost three in the morning, you've been in there for eight hours, and from what they've told me you are on your third flask. Not to mention, you've ruined another three books."
Cassandra quickly cut him off. "I'll replace them, besides no one else gets a damned thing out of them. Maybe I should leave them as is, people might see solutions instead of words."
The professor laughed and shook his head. "Perhaps that may be true, but it doesn't change the fact you're breaking two separate rules which could individually find you in the deans office, and to top it off it's becoming a more and more common occurrence with you. I understand that you are as committed to your studies as anyone I've ever met, and it's the reason why we...look the other way, more often than not, but there is going to come a point when an example has to be made. I cannot protect you for much longer, and the librarians no longer find your antics as cute or quirky. They're simply growing tired of your behavior, and quite frankly, I'm growing tired of having to wake up in the middle of the night at least twice a week to come and slap you on the wrist like some sort of child. If you wish to study the way you do, then do it at home where no one will be bothered. I'm not doing this for much longer, Cassandra, it's time you grow up and stop acting like a spoiled teenager. The next time I get a call to come save you, I will redirect them to the campus police. Do we have an understanding?"
By this point, that slight taste of blood had formed into a free flow as it took everything she could not to let tears stream down her face. It wasn't that she was upset...instead, she was angry. Seething even. This man was the one who was supposed to understand her, who was supposed to defend her and allow her to get away with murder. His sudden change in attitude made her want to lash out in a drastic way, but she knew that doing so would not only get her expelled, but would likely get her thrown in jail. So instead of acting out in violence, she threw a low blow.
She spit out the blood that had built up in her mouth, barely missing the mans shoes. Next, she opened up her half empty flask and tossed it to the Professor. Taken off guard, he failed to catch it, and instead it crashed into his chest leaving the whiskey to splash out and wet his shirt. She then gave a wicked smile, knowing full well how terrible what she'd just done was.
"Take a drink, I don't think sobriety is doing good things for you." With that last act she turned and walked away, heading towards her apartment a few blocks away. She knew damned well that the Professor wouldn't take her up on her offer, but she also knew the pain her action would cause him. That thought made the anger go away, and made her way home with a delightful smile and a nice warm feeling that was only amplified by the whisky.
