CHAPTER NINE

|•| DESIRÉE DOYLE |•|

"John Keats' Ode to a Nightingale is dominated by the perception of the conflicted nature of human life. . ." The voice of the female professor, who had her blonde hair tamed in an overly tight bun, thinned out.

As my manicured fingers tapped against the surface of the desk impatiently, her face slowly blurred and the only thing I could see was the movement of her bright red lipstick and the gesticulations she made with her hands.

I shifted in my seat for the umpteenth time, my eyes darting to and fro the theatre as a wave of paranoia engulfed me, consuming me from the inside out. The intense dread that washed over me had me throwing my head in different directions, now and then.

And when my eyes singled her out in the room, I stopped breathing and my fingers grew shakier at the sight of the sadistic smirk that crawled up her lips. Cold sweat broke out on my skin and my stomach churned with nerves. The walls of the theatre felt like they were closing in on me, m