(no subject)
When I took a theater survey class during freshman year, the professor described a theatrical device used in traditional Hindu plays to dramatize the deaths of heroes and gods in tragedies and passion plays. Say for example, one guy throws a spear at a king and his aim is dead on. The action slows down and a new character walks onto the stage: a god of death. He takes the spear and slowly, regally carries it over to the king. With ceremonial flare, the death god thrusts it into the king's heart. The concept stuck in my mind; I'm a sucker fo dramatic death scenes.
The air was noxious and heavy when I walked into the classroom where I would be taking my microbiology exam. My heart, which I'd spent the preceeding days forging into steel with endless drilling and self-quizzing, suddenly felt like a banner in a hurricane. I took a seat and scanned the front of the room. There stood a TA I had never noticed before: an Indian girl, clad in traditional garb and made up as you'd expect to see in a movie.
My professor took the microphone and began to describe the test. The number of questions was wrong, and suddenly the foreboding environment made sense. She had changed her mind; before, she had announced the test would not be cumulative. She had apparently informed the class of her malign change of heart on a day I had been absent, because only a few of the faces around me betrayed the same fear.
She handed copies of the test to each of the TAs to distribute. The spear had been cast.
The Indian TA walked down the aisle, slowly approaching my row. The air cemented around me and I was entombed in asphyxiating silence, unable to move. She only had one copy left when she arrived at my row. She paused, hovering above me for a moment. With suspenseful slowness, she reached down to lay the test on the desk in front of me. She twisted the test so it was straight on the desk. In my mind, that was the finishing stroke. I waited for a moment, half expecting my heart to just cease beating. I think it may have a delayed effect. It'll probably hit me when I see the results.
The air was noxious and heavy when I walked into the classroom where I would be taking my microbiology exam. My heart, which I'd spent the preceeding days forging into steel with endless drilling and self-quizzing, suddenly felt like a banner in a hurricane. I took a seat and scanned the front of the room. There stood a TA I had never noticed before: an Indian girl, clad in traditional garb and made up as you'd expect to see in a movie.
My professor took the microphone and began to describe the test. The number of questions was wrong, and suddenly the foreboding environment made sense. She had changed her mind; before, she had announced the test would not be cumulative. She had apparently informed the class of her malign change of heart on a day I had been absent, because only a few of the faces around me betrayed the same fear.
She handed copies of the test to each of the TAs to distribute. The spear had been cast.
The Indian TA walked down the aisle, slowly approaching my row. The air cemented around me and I was entombed in asphyxiating silence, unable to move. She only had one copy left when she arrived at my row. She paused, hovering above me for a moment. With suspenseful slowness, she reached down to lay the test on the desk in front of me. She twisted the test so it was straight on the desk. In my mind, that was the finishing stroke. I waited for a moment, half expecting my heart to just cease beating. I think it may have a delayed effect. It'll probably hit me when I see the results.