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My life is flashing before my eyes, my breath is getting shallow, my pores are leaking out cold sweat; it is almost over. Yes, finals. I'm sifting through old packets of British Literature, most are untouched. The paper around the staple at the top left hand corner is crisp, a sign of not evening lifting the first page, let alone reading it. I'm missing many of the ones that I'll need to study. The one about Greek Drama has disappeared in this group, and that is what Mr. Daly said would be most important. Orestia is the only packet with notes. None of my texts are in tact still. It's all coming to a harsh end. And that is only Lit.

Geometry is much worse. I don't remember anything from first semester, but tomorrow I will be forced to poor out the little knowledge I have on to a scantron, which will determine my fate. My future will be crushed by its results, along with my grade for the semester. I will die at the angry fists of my parents; a hard, painful death it will be. My grave will be deserted, lonely, undecorated; a symbol of the failure I was. So remember me when I pass. It will not be long.