Edgar Allan Poe
I was bored – bored unto death with that long agony. It was in this boredom that I passively percussed about at the pink parallelograms on my pinging phone’s screen. Until I heard a voice; a stern voice that belonged to the professor. An angered voice that asked me to stand. My stomach lurched, and I nervously deferred. I felt the iron bar of the desk against my thighs as I rose. The classroom had lost its commotion, instead it had grown so silent it could have been drawing sound from my reddening ears. This quietness was just as suddenly broken by a gleeful snicker from a classmate. I glanced sideways to look at the hyena snorting, and I tasted bile.
The professor spoke again; this time his voice was louder, his words were harsher. Beads of sweat had begun to form on my face, threatening to trickle down. My chequered shirt was suddenly hugging me tighter, and my tension was transforming into fear. I heard the voice, the stern, angered voice that belonged to the professor, asking me to leave. The transformation was complete, and it was fear that was tugging at my collar, tightening around my neck. But it was my classmate’s derisive taunting that was tugging at my heart, pulling it into my throat. An enraged shriek snapped my attention back to the professor, and I saw that his decrees were still issuing from those lips. I saw them shiver with an infuriated enunciation. I saw them mould the syllables of my name. Yet I found myself unable to comply, my feet bound to the ground, rooting me. He faced no such issue, however, as he began to walk towards me.
Forward – steadily forward he marched. I noticed his shirt was spotted with perspiration.
Forward – certainly, relentlessly forward. His moustache was quivering in lividity.
Forward – still unceasingly – still inevitably forward. His unsteady fists were clenched, throbbing in fury.
Then the ear piercing bell rang. The professor finally stopped, still drilling into me with his eyes. When he was done staring, he turned slowly and walked out – out into the corridor.
– Arvindmani Satyanarayan
An imitation of Edgar Allan Poe’s writing style depicting an event in NIT Trichy.