I haven't written fan fiction in a long, long time.

But I had an idea recently and I think it'll fit well in the fan fiction world. I'm excited to see where this goes or if anyone cares any longer...I'm still watching and caring.

Rated M for language and further developments.

As always, I own nothing.

I feel like a Mack truck has driven at full speed down a mountain road and hit me head-on. No. I feel like a shark has found me vulnerable in the water and decided to simply nibble on my head while dragging me along the sea floor. Better yet: I feel like I have bungee jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge, only to find my cable has broken and I've propelled myself head first into the frigid, choppy water of the bay.

I am that hungover.

Finals are done. Whether we passed or failed—or landed somewhere in-between—I no longer have to think about cellular memory, DNA strands, or biological warfare. I don't understand why any of it applied anyway. I'm going to be a surgeon, not a technician or a military pawn plotting to take down other countries by means of radioactive blueberries or whatever. Either way, I'm done. And with only two semesters left—one year to freedom—it's time to drink, be merry, and remember we are young, attractive, and swimming in the possibility pool.

But between the choice of swimming in a pool of possibility or swimming in a pool of Jack Daniels, I should have chosen possibility.

Above me bed springs squeak repeatedly. Someone's having sex. The noise hurts my head; the sun streaming through my blinds hurt my eyes; and my lumpy mattress hurts my back. I groan and pull my pillow over my face.

"Oh god," a voice beside me groans.

My eyes fly open and I push the pillow aside. A blond girl, who I don't remember ever meeting, lies in bed next to me—my comforter is pulled up and over her eyes to block out the sun. She groans again. "Why did you let me drink so much?"

Is it rude to ask someone how you met? I decide yes, yes it is.

I force my mind to remember the previous night's events and up until midnight, everything is fairly clear. Mark stopped by just after eight; he had a 30-rack of Heineken under his arm and a bag full of tacos in his hand. We played an hour of Xbox, drank a third of the rack, and ate all but one taco. At nine the girls showed up. Mark invited almost every girl from Alpha Chi, Alpha Phi, and Alpha Fe Fi Fo Fum (I'm pretty sure I made this one up). The girls looked and smelled good and had been drinking since noon. Mark fucked one girl before we even left for the bar.

Last summer we found a shitty bar by Battery Park. The beer was warm, the bar was crawling with suits, and the view of Jersey City was depressing. As we stumbled out we were invited to a rooftop bar just two blocks away. A seductive woman in a red dress led the way down the street and up sixteen floors to the best bar in the city. We had 360 degree views of World Trade Center One, the Empire State Building, and the Chrysler Building, and the bar was packed with attractive women. Mark got us free drinks all night (after sleeping with the woman in the red dress, also known as Sara Strong) and we decided no place was better for a post-finals party.

I was drunk by midnight. I'm never drunk by midnight.

The shots of Jack and Jameson rolled in quickly and soon girls were lining up for body shots. I remember kissing a brunette around eleven. Her mouth tasted like smoke and I felt the cloud of weed fill my lungs. She was hot, there's no doubt, but when her boyfriend showed up she lost her appeal. Mark was already setting up a three-way with two sorority sisters and I had my eye on an attractive red head who kept glancing my way. There was something inviting about her freckles. She kissed another girl—which I assumed was for free drinks and to turn me on—but then I realized the girl was actually her girlfriend.

0 for 2.

At that point I decided to black out, and apparently I did.

When did I leave? How did I leave? Clearly I didn't navigate the subway. Or did I…?

And who the fuck is the girl in bed next to me?

"I have to pee," she moans and slides out from beneath the sheets. I take a good hard look at her body. She's fit for sure; maybe a runner or a swimmer. Her long legs are tan, but it looks like that fake shit that comes out of a bottle. Her hair cascades down her back, half-covering a rather large tattoo of a flower that starts at her shoulder blades and curls around her left hip. "Can you find me some Advil?" she asks at the door.

I nod.

As soon as she's out the door—dressed in my tee-shirt—I call Mark. He picks up after five rings.

"What. The. Fuck?"

He sounds about as bad as I feel.

"Did you see me leave with a girl last night?"

"I was a little preoccupied man." Mark groans and whispers something I can't hear to someone in the room with him. "Wait, did you go home with someone?"

I check underneath the blanket—yup, I'm naked. "She came home with me."

The bed springs continue to squeak above me.

"Well fuck me sideways! Derek Shepherd is now in the race to become the next Mark Sloan!"

"Holy shit," I throw the pillow across my eyes again. "I gotta go."

"Wait, how was she?"

"Later Mark." I hang up the phone just as he beings to protest.

The door clicks shut and I hear her walk across the room. She climbs back in bed and scoots close to me. This feels too real. It's too much. I pull the pillow away and toss it to my feet. She moves closer still and rests her head on my chest. The pain in my brain and eyes and back all seem to radiate brighter as she covers me with half her body. I resist the urge to literally push her out of my bed and onto the floor. Her fingers smooth over my chest and down to my stomach.

For a long, long moment we both lie there—unspeaking and awake. I know I should make a gesture: touch her hair, feel her ass, but it seems like such a commitment. I don't want to cuddle and talk about our feelings. I don't want to reminisce about our first night together (unless it actually jogs my memory) and I certainly don't want to spend any more time pretending last night was anything more than a one night stand.

I try, as casually as possible, to sit up. I pretend to be reaching for the pillow. She lays her head on her bent arm, her eyes open and watching me.

It's 11:03 AM.

I smile. The first day of my internship starts in less than an hour.

"I gotta go."

She sits up. The blanket falls away from her boobs. "Oh really?" she sounds concerned, but all I can focus on are her pink nipples.

"Internship," I shrug.

She sits up fully and the blanket falls down across her stomach, pooling in her lap. "This early?"

I don't know if she means the time of day or year, but either way NYSTEM is calling my name. I hate studying stem cell science, but the internship is paid and affiliated with school. "They don't really care about finals ending and all that shit." She stares up at me expectantly. "So…I'm going to shower." I say, hoping to get the message across. She doesn't move. I grab my towel. "I'll call you."

She nods and smiles, "Okay." She gets up from the bed and crosses the room to me. I try to stare at her face, but her boobs and her hips and her thighs are distracting. She reaches out, cups both my cheeks, and presses her mouth to mine. It takes me a second, but I drop my towel and wrap my arms around her bare waist. I might not know who this girl is, but she's hot and she's kissing me, so I really don't care.

Being pressed up against her, naked and ready, makes me groan. I have to go.

I pull away. "I have to shower."

"Let me join you." Her hand finds me.

I shiver. "I'm going to be late."

"Fuck it. We're young. Let me shower with you," she whispers against my ear before kissing down my neck.

My internship is waiting. My parents will flip if I fuck this up and my shot at getting into a good medical school next year could be blown. But the tall, gorgeous, completely willing girl pressed up against me is clouding my judgment. She continues to ready me, touching me and kissing my neck, and after a few seconds I groan, "Fuck it" into her neck, lift her up into my arms, and carry her awkwardly to the bathroom.

I am so fucking late I'm surprised they don't fire me on the spot. But Dr. Weaver, my mentor for the next three months, assures me it happens all the time. I didn't mention I was fucking a girl against the shower door, but instead blamed the subway. "The ride from Christopher Street to here is the worst," he assures me, claps me on the back, and sets me up with a temporary ID.

I already hate my internship.

I sit in a dark room, no light except a dim overhead lamp, and read and alphabetize stem cell samples all day. I read the tubes, jot down the information on a chart, and put both in their correct place—the cells in a refrigerator and the chart in the filing cabinet. I do this for five hours. I get up three times to pee and each time I have a new text from the girl from the night before. My memory still can't remember taking her home, but I fairly certain her name is Michelle. Or Maggie. I wait for Mark to text me—distract me from my heinous job—but I'm left with clingy Michelle/Maggie and hundreds of thousands of experimental stem cell transplants.

Just before five, after I've thought of at least two dozen interesting ways to kill myself, Mark texts me back.

Heartland Brewery 5.

My stomach churns at the thought of drinking.

I reply: Be there 5:30. Bring a gun so I can off myself.

You got it.

When five rolls around Dr. Weaver is gone for the day and the rest of the white coats are packing up. I don't say anything to anyone. I clock out, tuck my ID away, and head for the downtown train to Times Square. The subway platform is packed with suits and skirts leaving work for the day. Everyone checks their work emails on their BlackBerrys and iPhones, even though they just left the office. Men carry bouquets of flowers and woman carry bags of groceries from Whole Foods and Trader Joes. The obligatory musician plays a violin in the corner and I can see he has about $15 out on display.

The train blows in minutes later and everyone rushes the doors, leaving a foot or less of space for exiting passengers. I stay near the turn styles until the last second, jumping onto the train with a grin.

"Nice jump," a girl not much older than my youngest sister says. She's wearing a pink backpack for Christ sake.

I slip my iPod earphones into place, "Thanks," and turn on Jay-Z.

The train ride is only a few minutes, but by the time I reach Port Authority, everyone is aggravated with the crowded train car, annoyed with the people begging for food and money, and pissed off with the one token "loud talker." I meander down the stairwell, much to the disdain of everyone behind me, and I stroll along the underground pass between 7th and 8th Avenues.

Mark waits inside Heartland at the bar. He sits alone nursing a half-drained beer.

As I sit he motions to the bartender to bring two more.

"So work's fun?"

"Oh yeah. Fucking enthralling," I grumble. "Do you think it's possible to kill yourself by jumping out a four story building?"

Mark takes a sip of beer and then throws a peanut into his mouth. "It depends on what you land on. Cement, probably yes. Grass, maybe not."

"After today, I learned the best way to off yourself is a napalm gun."

"Sounds hot. Speaking of hot," he smirks. "Tell me about your fuck buddy for the evening."

The bartender sets down two frothy glasses of beer. I take a huge gulp, expecting to feel pain from the previous night's drinking, but the beer tastes good. "I don't know her name. I don't even remember leaving with her. I found out this morning she's on the pill at least, after I had sex a second time."

"Twice in twenty-four hours? What is this: a relationship?"

I shake my head, taking another swig. "Definitely not. She text me five times today, though."

"What'd she say?"

"Last night was fun. We should do it again. Did I enjoy myself? You know, typical morning after girl freak out shit. I text her back and let her know everything was cool. I think she got the hint."

Mark laughs, "She didn't."

"She hasn't text since then." I show him the last message at 3:41 PM.

"She's stalking your Facebook. She's talking to people who know you. She's not done with you yet."

"You don't even know her," I disagree.

"Neither do you," Mark reminds me. "What's her name anyway?"

"I don't know." Mark bursts out laughing. "I think its Michelle or Maggie. She's tall, blond, great body. She has a ridiculously big flower tattoo on her back."

Mark composes his laughter. "Is the flower purple and red?"

My stomach drops. "Shit, did you sleep with her?" I hate the thought of recycling a girl between Mark and me.

"You slept with Megan Lowell."

"Who is Megan Lowell?"

Mark digs his phone from his pocket and slides through until he turns it to me. "Is this the girl from last night?" Sure enough, it's her. I nod. "You slept with the Holy Grail of sorority girl. Megan Lowell doesn't sleep with just anyone. In fact, she's turned me down three times already and even made her last boyfriend wait two months before getting any."

"You're the worst gossip in the world."

"I can't believe you fucked Megan Lowell."

"Stop saying her name like she's a freaking god."

"She isn't a god; she's a goddess." Mark sighs. "I can't believe you had her twice!"

I polish off my beer. "Can we not talk about this? What about you? Who'd you bring home?"

Mark leans back, "Ah, two blonds. One was particularly limber."

"Jesus," I groan and roll my eyes. Sometimes Mark acts like more of a pig than other times.

"Whatever, you had the best ass around. I will forever be in awe of you."

"I gotta go." I push my empty glass away.

Mark shakes his head, "Fuck no. I want details, man!"

"Not tonight. I'm still too hungover for this shit."

"Fine, but I better hear all the dirt tomorrow."

"You got it," I agree and with a wave, head back home.

I wasn't always this way—boozing, taking home any girl who flung herself at me. In fact this is a recent development in my life, and I'm not sure what I think about it. Some days I like it. Mark and I are certainly closer and the lifestyle allows for a lot of fun and meeting a lot of new people. But some days I find it horrifying mundane. Every night a new drink, a new bar, and a new girl to either take home or just shamelessly make out with against a wall. My classes are still first priority, but with med school coming up, fucking around with half of New York isn't going to help me finish with my license.

Mark doesn't see it that way. He finds the whole drinking, hooking up, sleeping to noon thing refreshing every single day. He basks in piles of girls and pounds back the shots with excitement. Mark lives and breathes for our nights out and even though he is on the same track as me, he doesn't seem the least bit worried. Drinking and staying out all night aren't killing his grades either—he thinks they help them—and until he starts failing classes, he'll continue on.

Most days, I ignore the fact that I've become the stereotypical privileged white guy. Other days it's harder to overlook. My dad's business started out shaky in his earlier days—very little revenue, a lot of nights of boxed macaroni and cheese, and never one vacation—but around my thirteenth birthday he was picked up by IKEA and his previously highly-crafted furniture was mass produced into crappy "easy-to-build" shit. The deal brought in more than we expected, so the whole family packed up our Yonkers house and moved to a ridiculously huge house in New Canaan, Connecticut. I hate that house.

That's where my privileged status started. I met Mark—also the son of a millionaire—attended a prep school and wore a freaking tie to school every day. When the SATs rolled around and when I had to make a decision about college, my parents pushed me towards the top schools in the country—Harvard, Yale, Stanford, but I hated the idea of living in the middle of the boonies attending classes with rich assholes. I was now a rich asshole, but I wanted something grittier. To appease my parents and fulfill my own wishes, I chose Columbia. Still full of rich assholes, but its closeness to Harlem was appealing. My parents didn't want me in an ivy league just to tell their sweater wearing friends; in fact, the only reason they pushed so hard for Harvard and Yale was because they wanted only the best for me. Neither had the chance to go to school, so all they wanted was their children to have the chance. Kathleen chose to go to Harvard and then onto Harvard Law and Nancy chose Duke and then med school at Tulane. Sophia rebelled against the money and the name. She's living in Scotland last I heard, but she won't speak to any of us. Amelia is going through the process now, but she's leaning towards UC Davis.

We're privileged. And because we're privileged, the world bows at my feet.

I show up in a bar and everything is free. It's like the owners can smell money coming off my skin. It's mostly Mark's fault, really. He buys into the whole wearing Armani and Gucci, flashing his Amex black card, and rolling up in a souped up Ferrari. I don't care about that shit. The clothes are meaningless and Gap jeans fit better than most. The credit cards—while tucked away in my wallet—never make a real appearance. And the car is ridiculous in New York. I prefer to hoof it or take the subway, much to Mark's horror.

But despite the money and the lifestyle, certain things we can't let go. Like Heartland Brewery and free concerts in the park. Not everything has to be a spectacle, and while I hate Mark most of the time for dragging me headfirst into this life (and my parents by extension), I do enjoy the moments when we live like regular guys.

The girls are a different story entirely. Some of it is just the fact that I'm in college and that's just what college kids do. We have one night stands; we make mistakes; we sleep with inappropriate people. The other part of the story is that I've been burned and the best way to get over a bad ex is to try and forget her. The girls I bring into my bed don't dispel my memories of her, but they grow weaker for the hour I spend with someone else. I'm hoping, eventually, that I won't see her face at all as I kiss someone else.

None of it is an excuse, obviously. I have too much. I give too much. I live too hard.

Most days I hate myself.

Most days I have to remind myself that while my actions may be vile, the person I am is good.

I find myself walking down 8th Avenue back to my apartment. The evening is settling in and the heat from the afternoon seems to only be stuck in the asphalt, not the air. My brain won't turn off and all I keep thinking about is the person I've become. If my parents had known what money would have done to my life, maybe they wouldn't have so readily handed it over. Or maybe, the money has no affect on the person I am. Maybe I was always going to be this way.

My self-pity is nearly as pathetic as my bitching about being wealthy.

I kick a soda can into an alley. Sometimes I hate this city.

turn left to cut across to Greenwich Avenue. I love the liveliness of the West Village in the summer as the sun sets. It's different than Midtown, which is bathed in horrendous light and open-mouthed tourists. The village becomes a lifeline. The people come out onto their stoops and pass a cigarette between three or four of them. They eat fresh popped kettle corn and take long sips out of cans of Pabst. The clickity-clack of high heels in Midtown is replaced with the rough step of boots and the nightclubs and discos are bars and pubs. No one cares nearly as much as they do in Times Square. This is the New York I love.

I stroll across Greenwich to 7th.

Almost home.

Almost home when I hear it.

Not it, really, but her. A woman screams.

I turn around and the road is nearly empty. A woman taking her dog for a walk pauses at the sound and looks over her shoulder. She eyes me accusingly. But it wasn't me and it wasn't her. She continues on, but her shoulders are rigid with tension. Across the street, the bar patrons are boisterous and merry. They didn't hear it.

Then I hear a bang and a grumbled voice. It sounds like a man's voice.

The dog walker is gone and the street is clear. I walk a few steps forward when I hear another bang. It sounds further away. I backtrack and turn onto Perry Street. "Please," a female voice begs.

I start to run down the street. A muffled noise pulls me toward a crevice between two buildings. At first I don't see anything. The sun is too low on the horizon and the buildings are too close together. The streetlamps are barely aglow. But then I see a foot kick out. It's small and it hits something. Someone groans. A muffled cry spills through the alleyway and a man says: "Don't fucking try that again. I will kill you."

There's more muffling and the sound of clothing rustling, as if someone is taking off a heavy jacket.

Nothing registers. I don't think about the likelihood that he has a weapon or how much bigger than me he may be. I just know I can't stand by and watch.

"Hey!" I call down the dark space.

All movement stops.

"Help m—" her voice begins, but is silenced when his hand slashes across her face, smacking her.

"Get out of here man," he warns.

My palms sweat.

In the darkness, my eyes begin to adjust, but I can still just barely make out a woman pressed against the wall. She's small—so much smaller than him—and he has her pinned with his bent arm against the wall. His other hand is hidden somewhere and my stomach coils at the thought of where it could be.

"Leave her alone," I demand, but I know it sounds silly. I don't have a weapon. If he jumps me I'm helpless and if he pulls a gun I'm dead. I roll my shoulders back though and stand tall. Look opposing, a voice inside my head says.

The guy laughs. I look pathetic. "You don't want any part of this."

He does something to her I can't see and she cried out. Her face turns away from me, looking down the alleyway, but from the sound of her labored breath, I can tell she's crying.

I don't think. I push into the darkness, my hands out in front of me, and when I come into contact with a warm body, I push. I'm lucky that it's him, but he still has a hold of her. He stumbles into the wall, but she goes with him with a squeak. I reach out, trying to find her arm or waist to pull her away from him, but I only come in contact with his broad chest. He's much, much bigger than me.

Something—I'm guessing his fist—comes in contact with my jaw, followed by a sickening crack. The pain blindsides me. I trip back, fall onto my ass, and instinctively hold my jaw. I see stars and a bright blue light before my eyes and I know it's from the hit. I've never been hit before in my life.

And then she cries again. My eyes adjust slightly and I can see him pushing her up against the wall.

My body is stiff with pain and for a second, I allow myself to feel the full extent of the punch on my jaw. I try to open and close my mouth, hoping it will loosen some of the pain, but it only ignites it further. My left eye waters.

And then she cries out again and whispers, "Please." I'm not sure if it's to him or me, but I begin to react.

As quietly as I can, I force myself onto my hands and knees and crawl along the side of the alleyway. I push myself up onto the balls of my feet, my knees still bent and close to the ground. As I grow closer, I see the man more clearly and I see what his hands are doing to her. He has her left shoulder pinned and his right hand is digging up the front of her shirt. She cries quietly, but I hear her sniffle twice. I have no time. Without another thought, I stomp behind his left knee as hard as I can, causing him to curse in pain and pull away from her.

She drops like a stone, but I collect her before her head touches the ground. Her arms lay by her side like pieces of driftwood and her feet can barely move. She continues to cry.

"You fucker," he growls from the corner.

I just need to get out of the darkness.

The girl doesn't move well, so I half drag, half carry her from the prison and into the fresh air of the street. I hear him moving not far from us, but I don't look back. She whimpers once when I pull her roughly to my side and I throw a "Sorry" her way. We're barely past the crevice, when he comes bounding out, limping and clawing at the side of one of the brownstones. I move faster, pulling her up by her waist against me so her feet don't even touch the ground. She's surprisingly light.

"I'll kill you both!" he growls, but with the bars and the traffic, no one hears.

Just get to 7th. Just get to 7th.

I'm only ten feet away when I hear a click behind me. My stomach drops. He has a gun.

With the last bit of strength I have, I pull us both onto the well-lit street, where a man is climbing out of the cab. I pull the girl in with me, almost knocking the man out of my way, and slide in with her on top of me. The near-rapist clears Perry Street and stands on the curb. He's younger than I expected—maybe 25—and his nose is dripping with blood. She must have hit him. I smile. He looks left and right, trying to find us for sure, but I sink back into the cab out of view.

He has nothing in his hand, so I can only assume I either imagined the gun, or he has since stowed it out of view. A few pedestrians take note of him, but he doesn't notice.

"Christopher Street," I say and the cabbie raises his eyebrows. We could easily walk that in just a few minutes.

The cab pulls away from the curb and I watch the man scream something down 7th and disappear back onto Perry Street. I should have taken a picture of him for the cops. He's only going to try it again.

The girl sniffles and I readjust her so she's sitting next to me, yet still wrapped in my arms. She keeps her face turned down and continues to cry.

Before I can even ask if she's okay, the cab pulls next to the Bank of America on the corner. I push money through the window and help her from the cab.

She stumbles once onto the curb and then rights herself. My apartment is only a block away.

But why am I taking her to my apartment? Surely she needs a hospital.

I stand on the corner and place my hands carefully on her shoulder, in case he hurt her. People mill around us and some glance my way, but no one stops. If it hadn't been me, would someone else have helped her? I lean down so I am on eye level with her and I meet her glance. Her eyes are watery and her cheeks are red and tear-stained. She worries at her bottom lip. She shivers and wraps her arms around herself.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital."

Immediately she stiffens. "No." Desperation.

"You're hurt."

She shakes her head. "I'm fine. Please."

I drop my hands. "Okay. Okay, I won't take you." She fumbles a bit and I return my hands to her shoulders. "Can I take you back to your house?"

She shakes her head and sniffles again. A fresh round of tears pours from her eyes. I can feel her anguish inside my gut and it makes me sick. I squeeze both her shoulders gently. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe now."

She gasps and turns her face away from me.

I don't know what to do.

Her whole body shakes and I wish I had a coat for her.

"Where do you live?" I ask.

She shakes her head. Why won't she tell me?

"I don't know how to help you," I say honestly.

The girl looks up at me, moving in slow motion. Her eyes are wide and a soft shade of green. Not emerald or sea foam or any of the other ridiculous ways to explain green, but they're a soft, subtle green. Almost hazel. She lets go of her bottom lip and I wait for her to speak, but instead she turns quickly to the side and throws up onto the sidewalk.

I take a big step back, letting go of her shoulders. I look down at the vomit and my stomach turns. Suck it up. You're going to be a doctor, I tell myself. When I meet her eyes, she looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

Before I can reply her eyes begin to roll back and just as I take her waist into my arms, she passes out.

Everyone is watching us. People seem appalled by her. Teens laugh and adult scowl and I want to shout at all of them. But I don't. And I don't know what to do. The girl is completely still in my arms save for the rising and falling of her chest. I hold her against me, away from the vomit. I should just bring her to the hospital now.

I reach inside my pocket and pull my phone out. I plan to dial 911, but something stops me. Maybe it was the sheer terror in her eyes when I suggested it before or maybe it was her screams from the alleyway, but for some reason I don't call. Instead I return to my previous call list and press 'Send.' The phone rings twice.

"Hey, man we—"

"Mark," I cut him off. "I need your help."