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Lydia (#ulink_59a2d901-fcd6-546d-902d-7804abad1ef5)
1. (#ulink_85cead49-2bb8-5970-89cc-cc6fd4db6fcd)
All of a sudden he’s got a knife. The flash as he draws it is so unexpected fear paralyses me. I try to speak, but the sound dies in my throat. I can only stare at the blade glinting in the light streaming through the classroom windows.
Then waves of adrenaline pulse through my body and I can move again. I reverse towards the open door. Bilal steps forwards at the same time so that the knife remains pointed at me, at my chest, my throat.
My thoughts scramble and fall away. I once did a training course on how to handle these kinds of situations. An image of the textbook flashes through my mind. But I can’t remember the tips. I can’t remember.
Intuition kicks in: Don’t make eye contact. Try to escape. But will I make it to the door?
I glance at Bilal. His gaze is strange, fixed, predatory. His eyes register every movement I make, but surely he cannot see the wild heartbeat I can feel in my throat. I try to empty my face of expression, but I’ve no idea whether I’m succeeding. I probably look more surprised than frightened.
Surprised, because I hadn’t seen this coming. But I should have been prepared for it, particularly with Bilal Assrouti.
As he passes the first line of desks, the other students are still quiet, stunned. I stare at the knife and the world contracts into a tunnel through which I can see only the long blade and Bilal’s glittering eyes. The nineteen-year-old standing in front of me might be a schoolboy, but he’s also a man; he’s a head taller than me, his arms are muscular and there’s a tic in his neck.
My eyes become glassy with fear; time stretches. Probably no more than a few seconds have passed, but it feels like minutes, minutes in which I know I’m in serious danger.
Thick fog in my head. Reason, Lydia. Talk. I need to talk. Start up a calm conversation. Show him this isn’t the solution. Show him I’m taking his feelings seriously.