The Scariest Hour Of My Life

Certain people in this world come pre-programmed to endure certain varieties of horror without batting an eyelash. I've always considered myself to be one of them, with few exceptions. After nearly a decade of watching scary movies ( Cujo, the original The Shining, It, Rose Red, House on Haunted Hill, Jeepers Creepers 1 and 2, Thirteenth Ghost, etc) and absorbing the gore that comes with them, I have long since reached the point where blood, dismemberment, maiming, and horrific deaths of all kinds simply do not bother me when I see them in a movie. I'm almost tempted to say that, if someone were to be killed horrifically in front of me, I'd scream only because the chances of my being next would then be raised by a large percentage.

At least, I used to think that.

Yesterday started relatively normally, aside from the fact that I left the house ten minutes early under the impression that I was late only to arrive to a school full of near-empty hallways, which only served to further convince me that I was late beyond all reasonable doubt. I was so late, that even the chronically tardy stragglers were in class before me, and I'd be thrown into a furnace for it. Instead of curling into a ball and crying, like a less mature me might have done, I sought out one of the teachers involved in my first class. She wasn't available, but I did find Suzie in the Junior/Senior Lounge Study Center, and she assured me that I was not, in fact, late.

I was almost looking forward to PE that day. This year, for whatever reason, I found Volleyball vaguely enjoyable, and I was looking forward to teaming up with Steven to get our asses kicked by the other team, again. What can I say? It's not whether you win or lose, its whether you actually get to hit the ball before the other team scores or not.

Instead of volleyball, however, we were informed that we would be playing dodge-ball with the other P.E. class. Now, given that the other class is, on the average, 235% more buff than our class, had an advantage in numbers, and our class is mostly girls, I should have been more worried than I was. Instead, my mind went back to elementary school, where dodge-ball was fun, and getting hit in the face was against the rules. Back to when the idea that dodge-ball was too violent for school was simply preposterous.

So I took off my shoes with the rest of my class and climbed the stairs to the mat room, where dodge-ball games are customarily held. Only now do I see the symbolism in the removal of the shoes; its bears an undeniable link to the fact that those in Hitler's internment camps were deprived of their shoes shortly before being gassed, or furnaced, or shot. Yes, we, the puny, weak, fairly intelligent class, were being prepared for our mass funeral. The jocks and various other muscle-heads of the opposing class had planned our genocide to a T.

We entered the mat room, and, because there were balls flying around already, we all huddled in the corner - except me, who went to the far edge near a wall instinctively - and waited for the teachers to tell us what we were doing. Five seconds passed. The words, "One Step," entered my ears, approximately half a second before the word, "Go!"

My entire class was still huddled in the corner. Balls were flying everywhere at speeds exceeding mach 5, which should be impossible for a dodge-ball. Faces intercepted balls with no fouls. Students who complained were told to, "suck it up," and be a man about it. I cowered against the wall, wishing to be hit so I could sit down and protect my face properly, but fearing the inevitable falcon-punch of a ball that would make me regret having been born.

They were merciless, cold-hearted bastards. There were a few who would throw balls as hard as possible at the wall to scare the rest of us, as though we were rabbits and they were trying to kill us without harming our soft, white fur so they could skin us and sell our furs for cheap, blood-stained profits. I thought, This is exactly like war. And if it had continued much longer, or, if I'd actually bee nailed in the face, like I was afraid I would be, I honest to god would have crawled into a corner and cried until it stopped.

They weren't trying to hurt us; they were trying to break us. They weren't just stabbing us with pencils; no, they were shoving pencils into our chest cavities and leaving them there.

I may have dramatized this a little, but it was, honest to god, the scariest hour of my life.