The following excerpt from a dystopian novel is set in the future and is about a pupil sitting an important exam. Doing well would give him the chance to escape the underprivileged area he lives in: the Debtbelt.
I guess what Iām going to tell you is a kind of love story, thoā if you met me face to face youād never in a millions years take me for the romantic type. But when a girl like Tais comes into your life and turns it upside down, well, youāve got to lay yourself out on the line because otherwise what are you ā¦ some kind of dead man walking? Least thatās the way I see it. But relax, Iām not going to give you my whole draggy backstory; me in nappies and all that Momma didnāt give me enough love and Daddy was a rolling stone crap. ā¦ thatās not where this is heading, no, not at all.
I suppose Iāve got to pick somewhere to begin, because yāknow itās not like all the madness sprang up out of nowhere, but looking back on it now, the exam hall was probably the first time the pressure blew the lid right off of me. So Iām going to start there. The final week of my college exams, in the area Test Hall, and itās a quarter past three in booth C for Candidate Number 3017. Anthony, Griffin. Oh, and look Iām going to level with you, thatās not my real name. I picked it up online. But please donāt take it personal, I donāt mean to be rude or anything. Iām only faking up my name so itās clean between us. So that I donāt know you and you donāt know me because itās easier that way, easier to take, right?
And so there I am, plugged into the test frame, Biology: Paper 2 and in truth things aināt going so great for me. In fact, Iām kind of a mess. Twenty minutes have jagged past since the test began and I havenāt even looked at the questions on the screen in front of me. Instead my eyes are blank ā glued to the digital clock in the far right hand corner of the monitor like Iām some kind of zombie. But Iām no zombie. Iām a really smart guy. No really, Iām not bragging. Iām smart. Everybody says so. Iām up for a scholarship and everything.
And this exam is my big moment. Itās my way to blast clear of the Debtbelt for ever. But Iām not doing what Iām supposed to do. Iām not scribbling down all that knowledge that Iāve spent endless months and years cramming into my skull. No, Iām blowing my future, big style, as I sit, motionless and hypnotized by the row of dials nestling alongside the digital clock, each one reading a separate bit of me: my heart rate, blood sugar, adrenaline levels ā¦ and all of the read-outs pounding away in the red zones. Iām amazed the principal hasnāt called an ambulance; I mean why hook all of us up to this shit if he doesnāt mean to help us out when we fly off the scale?
And itās like Iām magnetized to the zigs and the zags and the motion of the dials. I can feel my left hand trembling, gripped tight around the exam pad as sweat trickles all the way down my arm from my back. True, itās a hot day and all, but I am way beyond hot. Iām oozing, slip-sliding sweat, a steady trickle dripping from my palms drumming out a staccato ā¦
tunk tunk rhythm as it hits the pad; forming a dark stain that spreads across the cobalt-blue foam. Iāve got no focus, no mind, no breath.
Ich finde keine Stilmittel (rhetorische Mittel). Woher weiĆ ich, dass eine junge Person spricht und welche Sprache verwendet er hier? Also Umgangssprache oder Alltagssprache?
