Bonfire Night: The Intro

November 10th, 2009:
The weather was surprisingly warm that day. To celebrate, about 15 of my closest college friends decided to skip our classes and start drinking a little early. We cracked open brews around 5:30pm, toasting to the good weather, and to what we knew would be a good night.
Now, normally, I am not a wine drinker. But earlier that day, I decided that I wanted to be a part of an elitist club called Screaming Zinfidelities, where I'd drink white Zinfandel and critique Dashboard Confessional. No one was game to listen to Dashboard, so I decided to drink the bottle of wine anyway.
Around 8pm, the sun had fallen and some of the boys who had been tossing disc out in the quad came rushing into the apartment where we had all gathered. The following is a conversation that could only make sense after three solid hours of heavy drinking.
Group of Boys: "WE'RE HAVING A FUCKINNNN BONFIREEE!!!!"
Group of Girls: "Wait, what?! Where! That doesn't sound like a good idea!"
Boys: "IN THE FUCKINN WOODS!!! WHO CAN DRIVE, WE NEED MORE BEER!!!!"
Girls: "Okay, the woods? Alright... well that sounds legit. We're down!"

Three boys take off with the only sober person to load themselves into a minivan and make a beer run. I look down at my bottle of wine, and realize that it's empty. As some of my friends start to head out the door, I realize I'm barefoot (a common occurrence, no matter what the weather) and think that I probably need shoes. Okay... who's apartment am I in? Oh right, Bretts.
"Brett, can I borrow your flip flops?! We're going to the woods!"
"Okay Whit, but DON'T lose them. I love those shoes."
"Deal!"
I took two shots and was out the door.
I met up with my large posse of bonfire-going friends and we started walking across campus. After what felt like forever, we started walking through a gravel parking lot where our friends hop out of a minivan with 3 30 racks. I grab one from Dave and start following a trail that most of the boys seem to be familiar with.
Suddenly, that bottle of wine, shots, and beers that I've consumed start to catch up with me. I stumble on the rocky pavement, blaming it on the unfamiliar path, and giant flip flops. Dave, my best friend, smiles at me, takes the 30 rack out of my hand, and puts his arm around my waist, in some attempt to stable the two of us.

This is my last memory of Bonfire Night.
I am only aware of the following events by being filled in from other people, spectators, co-workers, or friends.
My next memory is waking up in absolute darkness, bleeding, and smelling like smoke.

To be continued.