The Examination

         He awoke, trembling at the scream of the alarm clock that disrupted his bedroom.  The room was simply furnished, with just a small wooden table, the bed itself, and the small dresser that the alarm clock called home.  The hand that reached to turn it off, trembled, so strongly that he managed only to knock the cursed clock from its haughty perch.  As it struck the floor, he could hear the sound as the glass shattered across the carpet, but also the blessed silence as the alarm shut off abruptly.  In the silence, the only sounds that could be heard, were the ragged breaths that he drew spasmodically.  As he got out of the bed, his legs buckled, and he crashed down amongst the broken bits of glass from the, now deceased, alarm clock.
         It had gotten one last bit of revenge however, as one vicious shard of glass sliced meanly into his forearm.  His blood began to trickle out through the slash in his skin, and soon the blood was flowing strongly from his arm.  He just stared at it as his life blood seeped away, and seemingly endless minutes passed.  Only when the bleeding stopped did he seem to regain the capacity for thought, and movement.  He arose, and moved to the bathroom as if nothing had happened.
         Razor in hand, he slowly raised it, so that he might shave, but as it drew nearer, he saw that it began to dance about.  In his mind it resembled the blade of an ancient samurai, its movements unpredictable, but obviously deadly.  As it approached, his eyes grew wide in their sockets, and his heart thumped crazily within his chest, for he knew that though it might well cut his whiskers, he was dubious that it would restrain itself from further swordplay.
         With all of his strength he threw it from his hand.  It flew with terrible speed, but it seemed determined to taste blood, for it dove towards his feet as it fell from his limp hand.
         All of his strength had been insufficient to do more than drop the wicked sword, but it must have done something, for the blade did miss.  It struck the ground just millimeters from his big toe, foiled, if barely.  He turned and left the bathroom, leaving the razor to contemplate its failure, and he his.
         Eventually he arrived in the kitchen.  Like his bedroom, it was simple, but it was good enough for him.  There was a microwave, an oven, and a stove; the fridge was in the corner, which always bugged him, but he never did anything about it.  He got out the milk, and grabbed a large spoon, he preferred large spoons for cereal, and sat at the table once he had picked out which cereal he wanted.
         As he tried to pour his bowl of Cheerios, he made an impressive mess.  He may have gotten more milk on the table than in his bowl, and the Cheerios were scattered about the table.  The result almost looked as if he were a general, moving his troops about on a field of battle.  At that moment, his men were performing an amphibious assault, storming the salt and pepper shakers at the center of the table, though others seemed to be in line to rappel off the table’s edge, joining those below for some covert op, deep in enemy territory.
         His eyes followed the lines of cheerio infantry, traveling along the white tile lines on the floor and up the edge of the cabinets.  Once there, his eyes wandered slightly to the left, to the message board.  There was a calendar nailed into the board, and on that calendar, there was a day, circled in red.
         He rose from the table and moved towards the ominous marking.  Underfoot could be heard the death screams of his men, as his heel carelessly crushed them.  He payed them no heed, for the calendar was marked.  Arriving in front of it, he tried to read the single word printed within the circle.
         No matter how hard he tried, it refused to resolve itself into anything intelligible.  The red circle just stared right back at him, defying him to remember its purpose, and laughing at his attempts to read the word within its bounds.  For agonizing minutes he stood there, the bone shards from his soldiers’ mangled corpses digging into the undersides of his feet, until, finally, it hit him.
         Today was the big exam.  He stared dumbly at the calendar, as if the day might change, but it refused.  No matter how long he stared, the red circle stared back.  He was stubborn, but there was never born, a man, that could out-stare a red circle on a calendar.  He knew that there was no way to avoid this test, though he desperately wished he could.  At least now he knew why the day was going like it was.  He looked over at the clock, to gauge how much time he had left, and saw that he had a few minutes yet.
         He went to clean up the mess he had made, thoroughly embarrassed at himself, but when he bent down to wipe up the milk on the floor, he felt a spasm in his back, and fell to the floor, writhing in the mess he had been trying to clean up.  Many soldiers died then, and it was several minutes before he was able to stand again.
         He was scared; he didn’t know why his back had done that, it never had before.  He was only twenty, things like that weren’t supposed to happen to him.  He was young and strong.  He played football, baseball, basketball, soccer, and any other sport you threw at him.  He not only played it, but he played it better than you did.  This was not supposed to happen to him.  Not to him.
         It must be that test.  He was feeling so stressed that it must be what had caused the spasm.  He didn’t know what need there could possibly be to feel so stressed, but he was.  He had studied, but what if he had studied the wrong thing, or the wrong way?  He would fail the test then.  That was a frightening thought.  It caused his heart to race and his palms to feel clammy; his stomach began to feel queasy.
         If he failed it, he would fail the class.  If he failed the class, he would probably flunk out of school.  If he flunked out of school, he could never get a job.  If he didn’t have a job, then he would be thrown out on the street.  If he was thrown out on the street, then he would go hungry.  If he was hungry then he would get sick.  If he was sick, then he would die.  If he failed this test, then he would die.
         In some part of his mind he was aware how ridiculous that was, but it ruled over him.  He felt powerless, as if his fate depended upon the charity of a cold, unthinking, scoring machine.  He would answer the questions as best he could, and yet the answers might be wrong.  Even if they were right, the machine might mark them wrong.  If he didn’t perfectly fill every little bubble he was doomed.  If he didn’t erase well enough, he was doomed.  If he accidentally jumbled the order, he was doomed.  In short, he was doomed.
         It was with a sense of that impending doom that he changed his clothes and left his home, his sanctuary.  He walked towards his car.  He heard the sounds of the cars as they passed by his driveway, and though he did not count them, he could have sworn it took far too many steps to reach his car.  It was as if the specter of this test had stolen every ounce of his energy.  By the time he finally reached the car, a glance at the watch on his wrist revealed that he was going to be late.  Just one more disaster to add to the list, he got in the car and drove off.
         His eyes and mind refused to focus, and his hands were unsteady on the wheel.  Almost with a mind of its own, his car leapt into another lane, right into the path of a large semi.  In desperation he commanded his arms to move the wheel, and, almost to his surprise, they did.  As the semi passed it buffeted his car with a tremendous blast of wind, and he almost lost control of the car again.  He had only barely escaped with his life, and he drove on in terror, all street signs mere gibberish to his unfocused eyes, and all hope of an uneventful trip shattered.  He heard the sound of someone honking behind him and slamming on the brakes, and his heart raced in terror once more.
         He braced his arms on the steering wheel, preparing for impact as his eyes darted uselessly towards the mirrors.  Uselessly, because they still refused to focus, and he could see nothing in the mirrors.  He huddled down in his seat, trying to draw whatever comfort it could afford him.  It was only many seconds later that he accepted that there was no imminent crash.
         Confused, he looked down, at the speedometer, but it took him several seconds to concentrate enough to force his eyes to focus and read the number.  When they finally did, he realized that he was going way under the speed limit.  He was so afraid of the test, that he was only going about ten miles per hour.  Reluctantly, he increased his speed; he would never get there in time if he went ten miles per hour.  He couldn’t be late, Mr. Maelstrom would not allow him to take the test if he was even a minute late, all memory of the car behind him already forgotten, though he was sure he would never forget the semi barreling towards him.
         He was not a particularly religious man, but as he finally arrived at school, he gave thanks to whatever power there might be watching over him.  He knew it had been a mighty miracle for him to arrive safely with the way he was driving.  Looking at his watch again, he realized that he was going to have to run to get to class.
         He broke into a run, but every thing seemed to pass by in slow motion.  He knew it must be some trick of his mind, trying to delay the test, because he was fast.  He could outrun anyone.  Yes, it had to be just a trick the way the scenery went by so slowly that it was almost as if he was slowly stumbling along.  Then, the ground reached up and grabbed his foot, and he fell.
         He hit the ground hard, as a burst of agony exploded into his mind.  It felt as if he had fallen from some great height, and not only a few feet.  When he tried to rise, another jolt of pain sent him back to the ground.  This time he was able to discern where it was from.  It was his hip.  His hip had never hurt before, so he must have landed on it just wrong.  He forced himself to bull through the pain, and got to his feet.  Once there, he resumed his journey.
         He tried to hurry, but his hip hurt so badly that all he could manage was a slow agonized walk.  Even then, everything seemed to pass by in slow motion, even slower than before!  He had to hurry!  He couldn’t be late, he just couldn’t!  He had to do whatever it took to get to class and take that test.  By some miracle, he arrived at the door with one minute to spare, though his hip was a mass of agony that would have its day in court sooner or later.  Relieved to be on time, and ignoring any future reckoning, he opened the door and entered the room.  If it hadn’t been for the test still looming over his head, he would have smiled about making it on time, but as it was, the morning’s perpetual frown still hung firmly in place on his face.
         As he looked around the room, it was strange that he did not recognize any of the faces.  There was even some strange student sitting at the teacher’s desk.  She was pretty, but he knew she wasn’t the teacher.  He couldn’t imagine what she could possible think she was doing.  The oddities made him pause for a moment, but then he just decided to ignore it and went to find a seat.  He could vaguely hear someone calling out, but wasn’t paying any attention to it.  All of a sudden someone tapped him on the shoulder.  It was the girl who had been sitting at the teacher’s desk.
         She said, “Sir, are you sure that you are in the right class?”  She didn’t recognize him, and she always prided herself on knowing all of her student’s names and faces.
         “Of course!  I’m here to take the test!” he replied.
         “Sir, there is no test,” she replied, puzzled.
         “Of course there is!” he insisted.
         “No, I’m sorry,” she said gently, “there really isn’t.  You must have made some mistake, because I’m not giving any tests today.”
         Of course she wasn’t giving any test today, because she wasn’t the teacher.  Girls weren’t professors!  All they were good for was cooking, babies, and cleaning.  Only men were smart enough to be professors.  What was she doing there at all, he wondered.  She should be at home, cooking or something.  He was about to tell her so when he noticed her eyes flicker towards something behind him before returning to him.  He turned his head and looked over his shoulder as someone entered the room, looking around, as if searching for someone.
         When the man who had entered saw him, he gave a relieved sigh and said, “There you are John!  I’ve been looking all over the city for you.  I was worried something had happened to you.  Come on, lets go.”  His head was shaking slightly, and there was a slightly bemused expression on his face.
         “No!  I have to stay and take the test!”  He didn’t know who this guy was, but he wasn’t about to leave now.  He had already gone through enough without this adding to things.
         “John, there is no test,” the instructor insisted, using his name now that she knew it.
         “Of course there is!” John insisted, moving towards her with his hands clenching into fists.  He ought to teach her to stay out of men’s affairs.  If only she wasn’t a woman, he would have.
         The man, who’s name badge read Mark, said, “John, she’ll let you do it some other time ok?  For now, just come with me.”  As he spoke, his hands came up, palms down, trying to soothe him.
         “She isn’t the instructor,” John informed him, still looking directly at her, “she is just some crazy girl.”  He turned away from her, and returned his attention to the other man.
         “John, here, look at this,” Mark told him.  He held out a state identification card.  On it was a picture of John, and among other things, a birth date.
         “Who is that?” John asked, confused, his eyes scrunching up a little, and his head cocking slightly to the side.
         “You,” Mark explained.  He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy however.
         “Nope,” John stated, completely ignoring it.
         “John,” Mark said.
         “What?” John asked impatiently, he had a test to take.
         “Look in this,” Mark said as he held out a mirror for him to look at his own face.
         With a roll of his eyes, he looked into the mirror.  He saw the face of the man on the license, which was of course impossible.  That man was old.  It was some trick, though he did not have a clue why they were playing it on him.  In truth, he did not care why they were doing it, he just had to go take the test.  He turned his back on both of them and took his seat, waiting for the teacher.
         Mark turned back to the real teacher, and tried to explain things, he said “Seven years ago, when he was sixty-eight, he started to lose his memory, but it’s more serious than that.”  Mark shook his head and paused for a moment before continuing, “The doctor’s don’t really know exactly what is wrong with him, but in addition to the memory loss,  . . . something . . . is eating away at his brain, from the inside out.  It makes him . . . have these delusions, that he has to take, some test.  Noone knows why, but it happens every day, and every day, John feels driven to go and take this test.”  After a moment, he added, “He doesn’t walk very fast, so usually it’s not a problem to keep him from escaping the home, but somehow he snuck out today.  I’m really sorry this.”
         “That’s okay,” she assured him, “what can I do to help.”
         “I don’t know, I had hoped the mirror would work,” Mark explained, “Usually that is enough.  Of course, usually we are at the home, which helps to make the point.”  Marks shoulders slumped.
         John noticed them still standing together, talking.  Hah, he had showed them.  He had not fallen for their stupid little prank.  He wondered where the teacher was though.  His watch showed that it was now several minutes after class should have started, and he was never late.  He fidgeted nervously in his seat.  His earlier anxiety had faded somewhat in his anger earlier, but now it returned full force.
         Why couldn’t the teacher just get there?  He needed to take this test and he wasn’t here!  If he didn’t know how much was riding on this stupid test, then he would have left.  It wasn’t fair of Mr. Maelstrom to make the students wait like this.  He looked around at the other students in the room, trying to gauge how they were feeling.
         They didn’t seem to be bothered like he was, but then, he really did not recognize any of them.  He couldn’t find a single familiar face in the room, except, oddly, when he looked at Mark.  That was just too weird to think about.  He knew he had never met the man before, and he must have met these students before, so it must just be some trick of the impending test on his mind.  That was the only thing that it could possibly be.
         A few more minutes passed, and John couldn’t seem to keep his mind from continually turning back to Mark.  There was something, maybe a memory of a memory, or something.  He couldn’t give it credit, but he couldn’t banish it from his mind.  The other thing he couldn’t get out of his mind was the face he had seen in the mirror, but that had been a trick, it had to have been.
         There was simply no way that was him.  He was twenty, not seventy.  He clenched his fists and flexed his muscles, feeling the strength.  His arms vibrated with the power of his muscles.  He looked over at his biceps, to see the power, but something was wrong.  His eyes had been acting funny, but now they had replaced his manly arms with a vision of an old man’s arms, shaking not with power, but from weakness.  He knew those weren’t his arms, they couldn’t be, but then he saw something, a cut, on the arm.  He had gotten such a cut that morning . . . but had his arm looked like that then?
         It slowly began to dawn on him as more time passed that the teacher wasn’t coming, at least not the one that he had been expecting.  He continued to sit in his seat as the girl who had claimed to be the teacher got up in front of the class and began a lesson.  When Mark tried to talk to him however, he just ignored him and stared at the girl teaching the class.
         It was a novel concept to him that a girl could teach a college class.  Elementary, sure, but not college level.  All professors were men, weren’t they?  He looked at his arm again, at the cut, and then he looked over at Mark and asked, “What if I believe you?”
         “Then we’ll go to the home,” Mark answered, cautiously optimistic.  He had been wracking his brains trying to find a way to reach John, but had come up with nothing.
         John wept on the entire trip back to the home.  He hated the way his mind failed him. 
He might not remember the way he had felt all of the previous days, but every day it hit him like a load of bricks.  It was a betrayal of the highest order, and that could not be forgiven.  He hated his own mind, and therefor himself.
         Every night he tried to come up with some way to remind himself the next day, before he made a fool of himself.  Every night he would mark the calendar to signify that tomorrow was the day he wouldn’t be fooled.  He would circle that day in red, because on that day he wasn’t going to be everyone’s fool, but by that time each evening, he had forgotten that the circle was the very thing that had set him off that morning.  He refused to be fooled, but every day the morning came, and every day he forgot.  Every day of his life was like an endless nightmare.  The only peace that he had was that he couldn’t remember how much of a fool he had been the day before for those few moments before they shattered his world every morning.
         It was strange, but, in a way, those hours he had spent in his delusion that morning had been some of the happiest in years, despite the impending doom of the test.  At least a test had questions that he could answer, right or wrong.  At least that world made sense.