The Test

        This is the first half of a short story that I wrote for an English Assessment at school. I was given the title 'The Test' and this is what I came up with. I know it's quite long but I'd really appreciate it if you read it and I'll post the rest in the next few days.

       The clock’s ticking really loudly. Every jerk of the hand reverberates around the hall and bounces off of every surface; the polished-to-the-point-of-eating-your-dinner-off-it wooden floor; the ‘off-white’ walls that stand tall around me, imprisoning me; the shiny stage sitting forlorn and unused; and of course the uniform fold-up tables in their perfect rows and columns, knelt obediently. Nobody else seems to have noticed though. They’re all hunched over their desks, hair obscuring faces, noses practically touching the paper and eyes squinted in concentration. But the ticking has crawled its way into my head and it’s echoing around my skull now, a tinny noise- like raindrops hitting against a window pane. Every now and then another sound manages to force its way in. There’s a table towards the front, the left I think, and it’s rickety. The sound of the metal table leg tapping against the ground traps itself in my mind. Along with the ticking.

          I glance around again. There are a couple of teachers pacing up and down the room, their heels clippety-clopping and their expressions blank. I am the only student not writing. One’s blonde, her hair is an immaculate bob. As she catches my eye she smiles, briefly, reassuringly. I know what she must be thinking. I’d better start working...and she’d be right. She’s turned away now, heading back to the front. I don’t think she’s too concerned- not with me. Who would be? Straight As, that’s what I’m headed for. Quite a few A*s aswell if the predictions are anything to go by. All of my teachers are in agreement- I work hard, study hard, put in all the effort. But here I am now and the words don’t make any sense. They’re dancing infront of my eyes, tantalizing me. If they would just stay still. I just can’t keep a hold of them.

          Outside the World carries on but in here, in this exam hall, time is suspended in its own shiftless freeze frame. So why is the clock still ticking?

 Outside the sky is a swathe of grey, omnipresent and gloomy but dry- just a hint of rain in the air. I wish it would just rain, just get it over with. I wish it would stop pretending. Outside is unappealing but inside is worse. There must be water in the air in here too- the words are still swimming on the page. They’re stretching and distorting through my blurred vision. The more I stare, the less sense they make. It’s like when you’re trying to remember something, some distant memory, and the harder you try, the further away it floats. So why try?

          That teacher isn’t trying to conceal her worry anymore. I’m sat back in my chair and my pen lies lost infront of me. I haven’t even taken off the lid. The paper it rests on is blank, other than the uniformly printed symbols that perpetually dent the page. The ones that seem so illusive to me.

          There is a scratching, monotonous and continuous, that drills into my very consciousness- the sound of pen against paper. It’s reminiscent of nails being dragged against a chalk board. And that table leg is still drumming away, faster and faster. It’s all pounding in my head: the scratching, the drumming...and the clock. Manically ticking, frantically racing around and around the clock face, each movement of the hands bringing another wave of deafening noise. This tumultuous cacophony of sound pulses through my mind, beating with my racing heart - forcing my heart to beat, flashing infront of my eyes. Ingrained in my brain. I’m shaking. I blink dementedly, trying to escape. Head down I attempt to focus on the question that is set out before me.

There’s a diagram. It’s all labelled and ruler precise. It’s an eye, open wide. Fearful, those pale blue irises that I know so well. The way she stared up at me from the floor. That image is imprinted forever in my mind. Now this diagram stares up at me, taunting me, forcing me to remember. But last night will last forever in my memories.

I’d heard a noise downstairs.

I don’t understand.

I crept down silently.

It doesn’t make sense.

The door was ajar, the light was on.

Why did he do it?

I saw the shadow first, dark and sinister against the beige wall.

I hate him.