And I knew I hated it more than anything

And I knew I hated it more than anything else in the world. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll set the scene. You're sat in an exam hall, and you have just been told to open your paper, and look at the creative writing prompts. And they are all crap, none of them inspire any confidence whatsoever. You shoot a "Help me!" glance at your teacher, but she just smiles encouragingly and makes a writing motion; and then whispers something to the teacher next to her. The sound of other pupils pens scratching fills your ears, everyone but you is writing away. You steal a quick glance around the hall, 200 children dressed the same; writing away. It's like a hall of clones, you think, everyone looks the same, and they are doing the same thing. What would aliens think if they could see us now? Well, if they had any sense they'd get straight back into their spaceship and fly off, who would want to be here! Clock-watching? Your greatest enemy in an exam, seeing the minutes tick by so slowly when you can't write, or so fast when you need more time. You could swear time takes on a new dimension in an exam, how’s that for relativity, hey Einstein? In fact, you reckon that’s how he came up with the bloody thing in the first place, sat in this flaming exam. Why does your school have to be the only one in the city to follow this syllabus? You think of your friends, happy in the sun outside, their exam was a week ago, and you bet they had better prompts too! A drop of water drops onto the hall, the leak at the front is back! After the 12 exams you've taken in this place, he feels like an old friend. 124... screws in this place, the ones you can see anyway. Mrs Jones's baby is visibly kicking against her top, Mrs O’Brien’s chewing her nails, Mr Carlson looks as if he's dreaming of being on a desert island, and Mrs Gardner is escorting people to the loo. She's on her 12th. Can't these people control their bladders? Do they have to pee so damned much? The divine ramblings of a bored exam student. And you let out a big sigh as the powers that be (Mrs Jones) informs the hall they only have an hour left. Only. She comes over to you, and you stifle a giggle as a foot appears over and over again outlined in her top. "What's funny?" "You have a regular Beckham in there Miss!" And she looks and sees the outline, and gives you the faintest hint of a smile. "John Terry actually. Now shh!" She walks away, and you see her recounting her tale to Mr Carlson, ending in "John Terry!" Looking down at the paper, the lines seem to carry on forever, eventually going off the end of table. “These are spaced further apart than normal lined paper.” You make a mental note to bring a ruler into the second part of the exam, so you can measure to check. And then you realise, “I sound like a crazy person thinking that. I’m talking to myself. Oh my god. I am a crazy person.” And you worry for a few seconds on the state of your mental health. Then, you decide that you cannot possibly judged on your thoughts at the moment, after all, this is really no better than solitary confinement, and that’s torture, right? “Bzzz.” A buzzing insect enters the hall, you have a moment of vain hope as Mrs Jones almost runs to stand next to you, anaphylaxis suddenly having a distinct advantage, as you follow the teachers eyes searching round the hall, a vain hope of it being something, anything with a stinger. Mrs Jones reaches out and clutches your epi-pen off the table, and then a sigh of relief, as one of the teachers spots, and swots, a fly. The pen is replaced, and she walks away once more, excitement over. The cloak of silence once again falls over the hall, and you dare to shoot a quick glance at the clock. Half an hour remaining, you say a silent prayer of thanks to the time lords, and hope the rest goes as quickly.

(end of chapter 1, will post chapter 2 shortly. The explanation for the lack of paragraphs is explained at the end of chapter 2 also. Thanks for reading!)