The rest of the text blurred into an inky mess resembling a squashed blue cockroach. Minerva Ching moaned, banging her head on the study booth -- not too hard, lest she attracted the wrath of the irritable librarian.

God, I'm never going to finish studying in time, she thought. I don't even remember what the hell is section 42 of the bloody Act.

"Argh..." she groaned piteously.

Bloody exams...

The girl in the study booth next to Minerva, looking up from a thick Physics book, gave her the evil eye.

Dad, I damn well hope that you appreciate me dying slowly of terminal Law slogging.

Briefly, she wondered why her father had pressed so hard for her to take Law in A-Levels. Probably the same reason why he named her "Minerva". Sheer, bloody-minded ambition, she decided. If only the stupid college offered a course in History... I would've taken that with the Lit. and Socio. I'm already doing, instead of this crap.

Looking down at her notes again, she sighed and glanced at her watch. Seven o'clock. One more hour to go, then a break for dinner.

Gah. I've been here three hours! Blearily, she tried to focus on the words.

Actual Bodily Harm (ABH)
ABH is defined in R v Miller as "any harm calculated to interfere with a person's health and comfort." The definition is very vague but would include the following:
a) Physical harm.
b) Harm of a mental/psychological type, although emotional harm is unlikely to be construed as ABH.

Finding her attention wandering again, Minerva shoved aside the hastily-scribbled notes, lips curled in disgust. Coming to the library to study was a mistake.

Yeah, as if staying in the apartment with my Housemates from Hell is any better. Where did the college dig up those people?

She shivered slight, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. At least the apartment was warmer than the library, which seemed to be permanently in sub-zero temperature.

Nah, any place is better than the apartment.

The study booths were arranged in long vertical rows, each unit separated by high wooden panels. It would have made claustrophobes uncomfortable, and even the indoorsy Minerva was beginning to feel just a tad hemmed in. Having nothing to do, she studied the smudged surface of her booth.

She stifled a giggle. Someone had scribbled "I just want to say I love you" over and over on one of the booth's walls. Another, more cynical person had added "Sappy trash" at the top of the scribblings. It was a sentiment she could well emphatize with.

Eyeing the notes, she finally gave in to frustration and left the library for food. Minerva ate alone at one of the stalls, indulging in high-calorie hawker fare: the mainstay of many a Malaysian student. Here, she was spared the vacuous chatter of her housemates -- and despite herself, the feeling of alienation -- as well as the barely-concealed contempt they felt for her.

It's easier to believe in a stereotypes, isn't it? she asked herself silently, in an uncharacteristic attack of melancholia. It was easier to fit me into the "studious, quiet, docile student" archetype, rather than going through the process of knowing a real person. Easier for them to believe that I'm weird and a snob rather than acknowledge the fact that there are people who'd prefer not to fit into the mould they find pleasing.

Finally, with lingering regret, she trudged back to the apartment she rented from the college. Well, half of a room, to be more precise. To her relief, no one seemed to be home. She could avoid them for a little longer.

Just seven more months. Seven more months and I won't have to see them ever agai--

"Oh, hell."

The kitchen was a mess, the sink piled with plates. Including her plates. And forks. And spoons. All of them, crusted with some kind of reddish gravy.

Minerva cursed incoherently in four languages, threatening grevious bodily harm on the offenders. She set to work washing the "borrowed" cutlery, knowing that they would be left to be fungus beds if she waited for her dear housemates to clean up. By the time she finished, and contemplated doing her laundry, the murderous rage had turned into cold decisiveness.

At times like this I wish was a frigging mega-telepath. She set down her pail with more force than usual, sending a nearby house lizard scurrying away. But I guess my puny power would just have to do.

That night Ella dreamed that her boyfriend dumped her, then turned into a psychotic axe-murderer.

Roslina whimpered in her sleep, as the aliens prepared their tests. On the bed next to hers, Adrienne cried out for help. The shark was gaining, and it didn't look happy...

Deep inside her mind, cocooned within a sleeping body, Minerva smirked.

Docile? Yeah, right.

She deftly wove the nightmares of her housemates into an unbreakable loop, ensuring that they would get no easy sleep tonight. Controlling nightmares did not give her access to the astral plane, but it had its uses.

"I am Morpheus, hear me roar," she laughed, sending a silent apology towards Neil Gaiman.

Hovering in front of the three Mobius bands that represented the girls' dreaming minds, Minerva gave her work a satisfied nod. They would unravel at precisely 6:30 am the next morning, one hour before classes were due to start for the day.

Sure, it's petty, malicious, unethical and I'll probably burn in hell for it. Her psyche slowly slipped back into sleep. But just this time, God, feeling good about committing actual bodily harm can't be all that big a sin.