I
had come to realise that some things
in life were necessary, however much
we resent them. I had been told by
seniors that, in order to progress
successfully on my current career path,
I must volunteer to present and evaluate
research ascertained partly by me,
something I always found stressful.
Having recently started a new, intriguing
job, researching and observing the effects
of different drugs on the human body, I was
repeatedly told that I must do something in
order to progress successfully. A few
weeks after starting, the opportunity, as it
were, arose, much to my displeasure.
A senior researcher in the company had
just announced that they had discovered a
cure for a malicious disease and that they
needed someone to take on the role of
presenting that information to senior
consultants in the field. Upon hearing this
I felt my senses numb, and perhaps due to
an almost blind panic, a loud throbbing in
my temple. I knew this was what I had to
do, even though I would have to face a
phobia which I had only encountered very
few times.
However, in my perhaps deluded state, I
raised a quivering hand and said "I
should be able to do it." "Is that so?"
replied the senior in a ruthless manner.
"And do you consider yourself to be a
figure who is likely to be successful when
delivering this?"
With a sense of trepidation I replied in a
slightly more authoritative and defiant
tone "I believe I would." Thus I was to
present the research to, in my mind, a
group of sadistic and abrasive academics
who would like nothing more than to
watch me fail.
Several weeks passed with no menition of
the presentation, and so I worked
methodically and somewhat surreptitiously;
had they forgotten? However, the answer
came in the form of a message delivered by
post; it was thick and heavy and contained
a scrawled handwritten note which read
"Evaluate and present this research on
Tuesday morning". A wad of paper
containing all the essential details was
below, and, with some anxiety, I opened it
and began to read.
The work was highly complicated, long
and arduous. I would spend hours each
evening not only trying to make sense of
the information given, but also
manipulating it so that it was actually
presentable. The weekend came and
went, and the Tuesday deadline drew ever
nearer. At the end of Monday evening
and having clicked Save for the final time,
I leaned back and stretched my aching
arms. Although I should have felt
relieved similar to finishing an exam, my
nerves just grew, and the feeling of
apprehension engulfed me as I
momentarily closed my eyes.
Someone was shining a bright light; I
tried to reach out and grab it, but it just
slipped out of reach. I opened my eyes;
light was streaming in through the
window and I realised that I had fallen
asleep. As I lifted my hand out of its
awkward position and the blood rushed
into the fingertips, I glanced at the clock.
Half past eight; my presentation was to
begin at nine.
Leaping off my chair, I forced some water
down my throat, dressed, and sprinted
out of the flat, slamming the door behind
me.
I arrived at the research centre just in
time, haggard and untidy. Upon entering
the room in which I would give the
presentation, I noticed how
unsophisticated the equipment was.
A slightly raised platform awaited me
with an off-white screen available for
projecting information. A few rows of
mundane looking chairs, waiting to house
the academics, sat waiting, almost gleeful
at my poor appearance and the
consequences it was likely to bring. For
some reason I felt vaguely calm before
arriving, none of the usual paralysing fear,
but even now I could feel my nerves
increasing as nine o'clock drew nearer.
Academics, senior consultants and
medical advisers traipsed in to the room.
All of them emanated an affluence which
could only be obtained when you reached
a high level of expertise in your field of
work. They greeted one another like
friends and looked consolingly interested,
but there was certainly still an element of
their superiority in the way they walked
and looked at me with unassuming eyes.
Once they had all sat down, I was
expected to begin.
Whilst I had been waiting, almost
inconspicuous amongst the surrounding
level of expertise, my nerves had begun
to build until they reached out to every
part of my body, both writhing and
twisting. I had rehearsed many times
how I should begin, but somehow as I
opened my mouth to talk, all that could
be heard was a gurgling noise. A fog,
thick and unmoving, encompassed my
thoughts and vision. Again, I tried to
speak, but only a faint grunt was heard.
Then, tentatively, a word soared through
the fog, its letters jumbled and
unorganised. It pranced, antagonistically,
in front of my eyes and I tried to reach
out and grab it, but it just became ever
more elusive. I was paralysed, no longer
could I move my lips freely, no longer
could I form desired words, the number of
words increased, taunting my failure, and
out of despair and desperation I forced a
weak and quivering hand into my pocket,
hoping to be released from the incessant
fog.
A crackle of paper reached my almost
oblivious ears, forcing my resisting hand
to clench it. I brought it out of my pocket
and stared, transfixed, at what it was; my
notes. The fog lifted and the words, once
jumbled and confused, rearranged
themselves in a more orderly fashion.
The once seemingly abrasive looks on the
faces of the academics had vanished and
a look of welcoming interest had
appeared on their faces. I started as I
had rehearsed, and delivered the
presentation smoothly, as had been
intended. Although I had not wished to
volunteer, even though in some respects I
knew of the resultant consequences, I
had come to realise that some things
were necessary, however much we resent
them.
Aluredian 39
The Volunteer
by Oliver Fox,
5th form