Dread

I walk to class with a orchestra of nervous violins screeching just behind my eyes. My neck is tense, and the skin of my temples stretches as my ears strain backwards. Will he give me another chance to present my performance assignment? I slept through the last class session. Now I’m cursing my choice of an 8:30am class. I need to pull my grade up in this class, and what do I do? Sleep right through it. Well done, idiot.

The weight in my stomach drags me back against each step I take, but my nervous energy propels me forwards more quickly, and I make it to class earlier than I normally would. The professor is not yet at his podium, as per usual–he has previously preferred to be no more than thirty seconds early, and he does not presently break pattern.

I sit and wait for his arrival.

 

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