Perfect Timing

“Time’s up,” the instructor declared. This is the final time I can write this exam. My entire future depends on it. Leaving the lecture hall, I notice there are more first-timers than usual rushing to the bathrooms. Stress is an interesting thing. From headaches and breakouts to heartbreaks and blackouts, it’s a miracle students survive.

I close my eyes and stretch my neck; it cracks…vertebrae by vertebrae…as I drop my chin to my chest. “Third time’s the charm,” says a deep voice behind me. I quickly look over my shoulder to smile and nod when a pain grips my shoulder and radiates into the back of my skull. This is what I get for being polite. I tell the voice that I must get to a chiropractor.  Then darkness. 

A pungent smell of dried urine assaults my nostrils. My tongue sticks to a grimy tile as a large hand pulls my face from the cold floor. Two men murmur above me. I hear student of mine and almost dead. The voice. It’s the instructor. The horrific realization that I hadn’t failed those other exams grips my brain. The sick son-of-a-bitch stalker kept me in his class intentionally. The hand yanks my head back, peels my eyes open, and flips me over.
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Plastic covers my mouth and my nose is pinched closed. I brace for more pain, but warm oxygen begins to fill my lungs. I gasp. The instructor commends the security guard and then whispers into my ear, “Next time.”