The cold iron chair stung my right arm. I immediately raised it up and pulled the sleeve of my sweater down to cover it. Around me were heads bowed down over test papers. Once in a while a short halted cough or a rough stroke of pen on paper broke the silence. Ma’am Nina was on her desk, puzzled over what looks like a long list of grades. She seems tired. But not tired enough. Not as tired as I am.
For more than a week now, I haven’t had a full night sleep. I am lucky if I get two hours a night. Most nights, I would climb to bed at 9 pm, where I would desperately wait for my mind to stop running. Unconsciously, I would drop to sleep at around 2 am, five hours after trying, but I would wake up with no reason at all after an hour or two. By 5 am, my eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling or outside the window.
“What’s wrong with me?”
I am starting to be afraid. Very afraid.
But it was a week of examinations—one major subject after another. Hell week.
Now is not the time to succumb over insomnia.
I tried answering this question as best I could. I was too tired to review for this exam. But it’s an essay-type test, and I may just work it out. I just want this week to be over, and finally go home.
Mama and Papa still don’t know that I haven’t been sleeping for more than a week. They still don’t know that the dark cloud that started to cover my periphery vision a day after the breakup has not left me. They still don’t know that going to school and taking these tests is sucking every drop of strength that is left in me. They still don’t know that if I don’t do everything I can to finish this week as soon as possible, I might just die of fatigue.
And for the first time in my entire life, I found that thought very attractive.