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| My Private Hell | |
| By Bookwormandco. | ||||
| 29 August 2008 | ||||
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It's not really a story, more like a lump of prose, but I didn't know where else to put it. Nerves run high and biting as the crowds mill about around the assembly hall, recently transformed to a prison cell of row upon row of desks, some new kind of diabolical torture. Eyes cast about for some comfort that the situation is not as apocalyptic as it seems. Others frenziedly raking through notes and books searching for the answers that should have been learnt, hoping that by some saving grace that the tiny scrap of information they glean might save their skins. The time has come. Commandant-like rows are called in, and like an apprehensive army, row upon row troop towards their impending glory or doom. We march into an inescapable hall, all doors barred by silent crows, their beady eyes noting every move, watching, waiting, for some poor soul to succumb to the butterflies eating away their stomachs. Or to forfeit their lives in the hope of finding the answers on another paper. In the gloom, pens dig words into the paper, minds whirring, churning out the answers. The uncomfortable shufflings and frantic swirling of thoughts with no answers fills the room. In tense faces panicked eyes flit as far as they dare without the danger of a crow swooping upon them, as the tension tightens.Through the cutting silence, the quiet of the ticking clock counting the seconds; it’s not over yet. The faint smell of nervous sweat and apprehensive flatulence adds to irritate the already raw nerves of the tortured minds as the tension strengthens its grip on the throats of all.A sea of students awaits those last few minutes, some faces contorted in concentration, hands hastily scribbling anything down as they race the merciless hands of the clock. Other faces wear a mask of calm boredom shielding their fearful ignorance as they gaze about the gloom, waiting to be released into the welcoming arms of the sun streaming in from the outside rooms. The last faces wear the panicked expression of a deer in the headlights of a monster truck as they rack their brains for the answers that will secure their survival. One minute to go. The long unswerving hand counts down the seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Please put your pens down, the test is over.” Still the tension holds, straining against the waves of emotion demanding vent. The crows strut down the rows, collecting the source of all the sweat and tears of the past two years, oblivious to the tsunami of passion hovering just below the surface. At long last, when all is gathered, it is finished. A universal sigh escapes the hall. The scent of sweaty panic is drowned under the tide of students fighting into the joy of the outside world. Faces sag under relief, signs of worry still crease some but they are lost as a loud chatter swells out of the doors. Freedom at last from that gloomy private hell, guarded by devilish crows and filled with the sweaty stench of fear.
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