Noiseless was the den of my imprisonment, for the exam was far from over.

Mathematics had never been a talent of mine, and today, it spread its butt cheeks and shat on me, in the form of the monotonous tick tock of the moving clock, eating the time I had left to doodle with my pencils and play a silent makeshift version of battleships with my various erasers.

Failure was my destination and this damned piece of paper, my vessel. Expect another titanc, today, friends, for I am going down.

Mista Peterac has his eyes weighed down to the table. So bored was he, that even he took to doing the crass paper himself. The masochist, I say.

I could cheat, but this little fucker was my final, So I shant, because the cost of being victim to Peterac's shifting eyes is one I do not want to pay.

My mind flittered feather like and happened to drift onto the table adjacent to mine.

Hanna Scevarca's golden garden of curls could be seen and all I wanted to do right now was smell the roses.

Toby Anderuse was one table in front of me. Should I tap him? (Sounds so wrong). He's been cramming since Jesus, and he's the dude with the brains. Me? I've been slacking off ever since, so… then I shift my eyes back to good old Mista Peterac, still unmoving from his last position. I think of him closing the attempted exam and subsequently crawling around the room in search of fresh prey, after which I would be caught and crucified for cheating.

I look down, I read some shit. Write down the equation of L2. Give your answer in the form ax+by+d=0 where a,b and d = integers.

…..and without thinking, I reach into my ass pocket and take out a school voucher. The ones you use for money, instead of money, to buy food and the like.

Silence draped all, which was no advantage for scheming little me, as the crumpled piece of yellow paper sang in a more than audible tune, number one hit singles such as, 'a whole lotta crunch', 'Babba O'crunchy' and 'Let it crunch'.

Pen in hand, I jot down what I think needs to be said. I scribble down Q3b ? then crumple it back into a throw-able size and shape.

To the left of me, Johan Schuman stares, and shakes his head slowly, giving me a nice little injection of moral awareness. The shame that I am supposed to feel does not proceed to jab at me, and I flick, quite gracefully, the ball onto Anderuse's table. It lands inaudibly, and all I can see to prove my mission's success is the back of Toby's head rising very slowly… one might even say inquisitively, at the crumpled piece paper. Of course, he dared not look back, as that would mean utter ruin without boundaries forever. He just streached his arm and took it like a good boy.

Johan Schuman, witness to the whole act, curves a smile out of a kind of impressed disgust. I only offer him a smile which had 'fuck you' written all over it.