Sensory Defensiveness 01--Elian

The week started out like any other.

Elian got dressed, followed her roommate out to the mess hall, made vague noises when the roommate complained about her appearance—Elian could never seem to sleep much, and it showed—and picked at breakfast. Then she went back to the dorm to brush her teeth, grabbed her books, and went to her classes.

At around noon, she joined her Phys Ed class, attempted to dredge up just enough energy to keep up, then took a quick shower, went to lunch and picked at the food.

After lunch, more classes, picking at dinner, sometimes another shower, and homework.

And finally bed, where Elian attempted to smother herself with her own pillow rather than listen to her roommate with another "conquest."

And the next morning, the routine started all over again. Phys Ed was a little different; there was a big dance coming up, and attendance was mandatory, so they spent half the class practicing.

Attendance was mandatory, but there was no rule about participating. Elian was perfectly content to be a wallflower the entire night. She could not, however, escape participation during class, and once practice was over, she skipped lunch to return to her dorm and scrub herself off thoroughly.

The young man she'd been paired with hadn't done anything wrong, nothing filthy, nothing at all like her roommate liked at night. He'd just put his hands on her arms like their teacher had instructed.

But just the feel of him against her had been... abrasive? She shook her head. There was no word for how it had felt, but she was almost surprised she didn't have a rash.

Although if she scrubbed her arms any harder, she was bound to give herself a lot worse than that. Maybe worse than poison ivy.

That was it, it felt like poison ivy. Or some kind of allergic reaction. She laughed at the image that presented, but the laughter was forced and bitter as she tried to settle her nerves. Right. I'm allergic to being touched.

Her nerves refused to be settled. The man's gentle touch, with no motive but to follow Mr. Harper's instructions, had set her to shaking, and not in a good way. It had been all she could do to pull away from him without anyone noticing, to avoid being touched any more than was absolutely necessary.

Even so, she was sure the teacher had noticed. The man noticed everything. Nothing sinister there, not really. Mr. Harper was probably wondering if she was going to have a heart attack or something on his watch. Trying to decide how to avoid being blamed if she did.

Not that she could fault him for worrying, but she wished he would stop watching her so closely. Or, more accurately, she wished she would stop feeling like he was watching her.

She'd finally scrubbed away the feel of the other student, but she was still shaking by the time she reached her next class.

When she went to bed that night, her roommate was nowhere to be seen. Another party, probably. At least none of the student-run parties were required, otherwise Elian would've burnt out halfway through her first term.

She had almost dozed off when she felt someone breathing on her face.

She shrieked, jerked upright, and shoved at whatever had dared to get so close to her.

"Shit!" a male's voice exclaimed. The lights came on, and there stood one of her roommate's conquests, pinching his bleeding nose. "I was just trying to kiss you, you little prude!"

Elian shivered. Even through his pinched nose, or maybe because of it, he'd managed to make the word "prude" sound like an insult and a threat all at the same time. "You didn't even ask me," she snapped. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her eyes darted around the room. She couldn't decide what to do. Run? Scream? Hit him again?

He made her decision for her. He gave her a dirty look, then stomped out of the room, leaving her by herself again.

She couldn't stop shaking. What's wrong with me? It wasn't the kiss that bothered her, nor that he'd tried to give it without her permission. Okay, it had bothered her, just not quite enough to account for her reaction. It wasn't even how he'd touched her... it was that he'd touched her at all. It scared her, and she had no idea why.

Sleep was a long time in coming.

The next morning, she resolved to forget that the night had ever happened. Managing that was mostly easy. She didn't share any morning classes with any of her roommate's conquests, and the roommate didn't have anything to say besides the usual complaints about Elian's appearance. There was absolutely no reason for her to run into the young man, or to be reminded of what he'd tried to do.

Except someone was determined that she should remember.

"Keith tells me you rejected his advances last night," her literature teacher said after the students had all filed in.

She ducked her head, her face flaming. She'd forgotten that Keith—the young man from last night—had this teacher right before her. "I didn't submit a complaint about him," she mumbled. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

The man tsked. "When are you going to learn? You can't keep playing up this 'new kid' act. Keith hasn't even been here for half as long as you, and he already knows how to get by."

"Can we just stop talking about this?" Elian protested. "It's got nothing to do with literature—"

"Doesn't it?" the teacher interrupted. "Remind me, what have we been reading?"

Elian's face burned even hotter. "The Memoirs of... of Casanova."

"Right," the teacher replied. "Who's known for what, exactly?"

If he was waiting for a response, he didn't get one. Finally, the teacher walked back to his desk and continued the lecture from where he'd left off yesterday, leaving Elian to absorb herself in the reading.

The book was a surprisingly interesting read, considering her lack of interest in the subject matter. Yet it was, at times, painfully obvious that the author was more in love with himself than anyone else.

"He's an unreliable narrator," she said during one of the class discussions.

"How do you mean?" the teacher asked.

"Well, he's telling the readers about his own life. We're not hearing it from anyone else, we're hearing it directly from him. Even if he's 'confessing his sins,' he's still trying to make himself sound good. But he... slips up, sometimes. He's not as charming as he thinks he is." She flipped through the book to find the page she'd marked. The teacher would probably want an example....

"Can you find an example?" he asked, proving her guess right.

"Right... right here. The um... third woman he'd seduced?" Or was it the fourth? "The woman in the carriage, anyway. If you'll forgive the paraphrase, he'd basically just told her it was going to happen whether she wanted it to or not. Maybe the rest of them were seductions, but that sounds like flat-out rape, to me."

"But she consented," one of the students protested. "He gave her a choice—"

"He gave her an ultimatum," Elian corrected. "He threatened to expose her to scandal if she didn't do what he wanted. I don't know, maybe the morals were different in those days; if we're to believe Casanova, then the woman obviously thought the blow to her reputation was the bigger threat. But today?" She shook her head. "Forced consent isn't true consent."

"And that gives us our next assignment," the teacher said before the discussion could continue. "Was Casanova's behavior typical of those days? Oh, not his precise actions," he said to a smattering of chuckles, "not the seductions, but how he justified them. I want a two-page paper, due first thing next week, with three sources besides Casanova, comparing the morals of those days to the ones common today. Something specific, please, but not too specific—we'll be expanding on the topic for our portfolios at term's end, so try not to write yourselves into any corners."

The bell rang shortly after he finished talking, signaling the end of class. Elian lingered at her desk as she always did; the longer she stayed put, the lower the chance she'd have to bump into anyone on the way to her next class.

But this time her habit worked against her. "Elian. A word?" the teacher said.

Elian sighed, and waited until the classroom was empty before she approached the teacher's desk.

"You can't keep doing this," he said, without waiting for her to speak. "You know perfectly well that half the school's curriculum isn't what you find in books, it's the social experience. If you don't participate—"

"But I do participate!" she protested. "I take part in the class discussions, I socialize," no matter how much I'd rather stay in the dorm and read, "I've even joined a few clubs...."

The man simply folded his arms. "But you never let anyone touch you."

"What, like last night?" she snapped. "Like Keith?"

The teacher shook his head. "Keith's attempt was inexcusable, given the circumstances," he replied. "The faculty is already deciding on a suitable punishment. But Elian, how many times have you shaken anyone's hand? Since... oh, since you first enrolled?" One eyebrow lifted. "Once? Twice? Ever?"

"I'm pretty sure there was a lot of shaking going on at the assembly," Elian said.

"Someone else tearing your hand from your pocket because you can't get away fast enough doesn't count." The teacher smiled. "You said it yourself... forced consent...." He held out one of his hands.

Elian stared at the hand and backed away like it was a poisonous snake. She kept her own hands plunged deep into her pockets. "I'm working on it," she whispered.

"Work harder," the teacher said. "Consider it part of your grade."

Elian flinched, and bit her tongue to keep from saying anything she might regret. She walked back to her desk to collect her things, then left the room without another word.

Part of her grade? How was that anything but an ultimatum, a way to force her "consent?"

But honestly, why couldn't she do it? What was wrong with a simple handshake? What was wrong with her, that she'd rather go home than go along with something so insignificant?

Except she couldn't go home, not now. Home was too far away. She'd need money for a cab and a plane ticket. She'd have to leave the school grounds... alone....

And no matter how much she wanted to be left alone, no matter how much she shook just being in the same room as another person, the thought, right this second, of actually being alone filled her with such a dread that it nearly made her sick.

No... it wasn't being alone that made her feel sick. It was the idea that she wasn't as alone as she thought. That something else was there, something following her in the now-empty hallway, keeping just behind her, always keeping itself out of sight.

She couldn't stop shaking. There was no way she could manage Phys Ed like this. Maybe she should just return to the dorm. Or check in with the nurse, first; she'd need to give Mr. Harper an excuse for missing his class, and she was feeling ill....

She whirled around. Something was there, she was sure of it! But when she looked... nothing.

She groaned. I'm going to wind up in a straightjacket I keep this up. She forced herself to walk toward the dorm as she tried to get her fear under control.

But it refused to be controlled. Her vision narrowed, her heart jumped into her throat, she couldn't breathe, she had to get out of the hallway

"Oh! Are you all right?"