Death by Calculus

I truly wish I could say I was taken off guard when I arrived at school for the exam, but the harsh, unforgiving truth was that I was just unprepared. I wandered to the front of the gymnasium to take my seat. I was in the front row, thanks to the alphabetical ordering. The desk was hard as stone and restricting and contained a thick book of white paper with an alien language sprawled across each page laying atop its smooth surface. Anxious for the exam to start, I found myself baffled as to why I took calculus and hating myself for slacking off so much during the course. My lack of motivation had landed me among the few students who were forced to write the exam, and I needed 90% to pass the course. As I glance up at the clock I find Mr. Becker smirking away. I bet he thrives off watching students suffer and squirm as they tackle his impassable exam. My pencil seemed distant in my hand, and any recollection of math in my brain had vanished. I was vulnerable. I feel the disgusting little grade 9's eyeing me as they wait to begin their exam. I give them a deathly glare, one that softly whispered into their soul "if that exam doesn't kill you, I will." It was harsh, but the pressure of passing had been getting to me. The exam begins and it takes all my willpower not to rip it up on the spot. I attempt the first question. Erase. Start over. this process repeated itself until I was no longer leaning on my left hand as I wrote, but slowly ripping every stand of hair that I could grasp out of my scalp, I hear a voice in the back of my head, and it smugly whispers " I knew you couldn't do it." and it was at that moment I knew. This exam might be the death of me.