English - dyslexia

'Turn your papers over?now. You have three hours. Good luck.'

Okay, here's where it all starts. The exam room. I don't know how many
times people have bent over this desk, raking their minds for a scrap
of information that will provide the answer they're looking for. I can
see them now, sweating and swearing that they don't know what to do. If
I look at my desk, I can read the random scrawls that people have
written, testing their answers, finding they don't work and trying
again. I recognise my own handwriting on the desk, from last year's
maths exam.

Tick?tick?tick?tick?

I can't remember how often I've stared through these windows in a
futile attempt to forget the horror that lies before me. The blank
sheet seems to stare at me, defying me to write a single word on it.
And when I get it back, all ticked, and crossed, and graded, it seems
smug. The paper has won. It has defeated my hours of revision and
learning with just a few words that mean nothing. Letters haphazardly
scribbled across the otherwise pure white page are more than a match
for me. They'll always win, no matter what I do.

They are more ingenious. They have thousands of years of learning that
went into creating them. An accident created me.

They sneer at me. Laughing and joking among themselves that I, a mere
spotty, short, fat and ugly teenager, could ever even begin to
comprehend their purpose and their meaning.

They are above me in all respects. They can stop me in my tracks before
I've even started to move.

Tick?tick?tick?tick?

People put so much pressure on me. As I enter the exam room I can feel
my mind slowly starting to go blank, while I try desperately to recall
how Sodium will react with water, chlorine, bromine, iodine, air?And no
matter how much revision I do, the fog of facts that rolls across my
mind is blown away by fear, and all I can see is a clear, blue sea of
nothingness. Factual oblivion has come to claim me.

Grasping the pen so hard that my knuckles go white, I carefully write
my name at the top of the page. At least I can't fail that. Slowly,
mechanically, I scrawl the answer to question 1 on the page. Always
follow your instincts in an exam-if you think about what you write then
you get it wrong.

Tick?tick?tick?tick?

I have made it through the first page. The ticking of the clock drills
into my mind, slicing away the seconds until I have to hand my answers
to the thin blonde in front of me.
I stare at question 6. The words glare back. They are certain of their
victory. Bemused, I glance around. All around me the scratching of pen
on paper can be heard. Heads bent over, the room is an oasis of
silence.

Tick?tick?tick?tick?

I try to think. Suddenly I have an answer! A scream from outside, and
the patter of running feet. In an instant, my groundbreaking
inspiration has vanished. I am left staring at the blank sheet.

Suddenly a bell rings shrilly in the distance. My eyes shift up to the
clock, and slide back down to my paper. I decide to skip that page and
go onto the next. But the bewildering letters stare up, glorious in
their triumph. I admit defeat, and close the booklet. With my head lain
on my arm, I close my eyes and?

'You have one minute to go. Try and finish the sentence you're
writing.'

A jolt runs through my body. It has all become so clear! I fumble with
the zip on my pencil case (clear, of course) and hurriedly take the cap
off my pen. I place the nib onto the paper and?

'Hand your papers to the front. Well done girls.'

I hate exams.