Holding death's door

The exit door to Buchanan A creaked as I pushed it open. It was 8 p.m. and I’d finally finished my three-hour PHIL 213 lecture. I could go home, but I took one last look back and made eye contact with two others prowling behind me. I shifted out of the way and held the door open. 

They passed by. I could finally leave. But then, a torrent of people filed out from the lecture hall, heading towards me. I couldn’t let the door shut in their faces.

I was a statue, haunted by the phantom of my former self, metal handle tight between my fingers as I grimaced at the students who passed. But nothing could prepare me for the treatment I endured. It shook me to my core. That’s right — some of them didn’t even say thank you. Pure evil. After an eternity, the hallway was empty and the worst 13 seconds of my life were over.