I can’t do it.
A tear slips unbidden from the corner of my eye, falling, slowly, hot down to drop on my lips.
I can’t do it.
The words blur on the page before me. Trigonometry is beyond me. I can’t remember. I can’t think.
I can’t do it.
I press my fist tighter around my pencil until it snaps. The echo ricochets off the walls of the silent hall, so distinct a sound from the tip-tap of the invigilators’ heels.
I can’t do it.
A sob escapes my mouth. I feel the eyes turn to look at me then back to their work, but I can’t think about it.
I can’t do it.
I press my forehead to the desk, still clutching two ends of a broken pencil in my right hand, as tears drop onto the equations of my exam.
I can’t do it.
I think too much. It all throbs beneath my temples.
I can’t do it.
Why am I so stupid?
I can’t do it.
Why did he leave me?
I can’t do it.
Why are there cuts on my thighs?
I can’t do it.
Why am I such a disappointment?
I can’t do it!
Failure.
I can’t do it!
Slut.
I can’t do it!
I scream.