Distractions
If you stare at blank space long enough, there comes a time when you realise you’ve been staring at it for too long.
In a moment, words flash in your face. Squint—no, couldn’t grasp it. Instead, eyes drift to the side, then up an inch to the top of the page. No, you don’t remember that wrinkle in the corner of the paper. A second of weakness, didn’t plan on giving up yet, but your resolve slips. Only for a bit.
Just ignore the figure staring over your shoulder.
Remember, the needle on the clock won’t stop. It’ll continue ticking on the wall in front of you. Tick, tick, tick, tock. Stop staring at it. The paper needs your attention right now.
Foot tapping. It’s not yours. Behind you. The image of orange earplugs pops up in your mind. Not like you have a choice, though. That’s your teacher standing there. Same bald head, same emotionless stare, and same dusty shirt that never seemed to fit over his stomach all the way—like every other shirt you’ve seen him in. Heat warms your head. Sweat—one streak streams down your temple, then drips farther as it cools your cheek.
Make sure nothing was forgotten. Glance to your left, empty space, but you can imagine the cell phone you left at home. No one should be calling around this time, you assume. To your right, there they are: your pencil, pen, and eraser. One mental note to check off in your head, one less lecture to hear from your teacher.
Your teacher should really stop his foot-tapping.
Oh wait, that’s you this time.
Stop your leg. Eyes glare at your paper. The corner of the page looks lonely. Grab the pen, scribble your name. Done, you finally have something on it. Congratulations.
Only nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine words to go.
Then you realise names don’t count.
Maybe if you stopped imagining how bulged out your teacher’s stomach must be right now, you’d actually get something written down. Your eyes start drifting around the blank space on the page before they close in on your name in the corner again. Perhaps if you keep staring at it long enough, you’ll go colour blind and stay that way; the rest of the room looks as blanched as your paper anyway. The table’s also simple—basic shade of wood-brown, matches the chair you’re sitting on. The room itself is tiny; you can count the feet. Twenty-five by forty.
It wasn’t as if your teacher had the best eye on room designing.
But it wasn’t like procrastination was going to get you out of detention either.
