Test Tube

Your hands are shaking and you stare at them at if that will keep them steady. You try to ignore the shouts from downstairs. They haven’t found you yet.

Releasing a deep breath, you grip the test tube tighter and stare intently at the end of the pipette in your opposite hand. Gently, you squeeze and release one drop of bromine into the test tube.

One.

It fizzles when it makes contact with the blue liquid already inside. You ignore the sound of feet running up the stairs.

You squeeze the pipette again, letting out another small drop.

Two.

The muffled shouts are closer now, and your heart is beating loudly in your ears. Somehow, you keep your hands steady, and pinch the end of the pipette.

Three.

Fists pound on the lab door, and your breath is choked out of you in a mixture of fear and surprise. The pipette falls from your hand.

“Professor, open up!” a shrill voice shouts from behind the door. The doorknob rattles, and more shouting ensues.

You don’t have time to look, just to scramble to the ground and pick up the pipette. Squatting, you drip another bead of bromine into the test tube.

Four.

You only — a loud slam against the door — need — your mouth is dry with fear — one more — a loud crack, and the sound of running feet — drop.

You squeeze again, and the last droplet of bromine waits on the tip of the pipette, as if refusing to fall. You can hear feet stop just behind you, and hands grab at your shoulders, but it’s alright, because — hiss — the last drop has fallen into the test tube.

Five.

“It’s complete,” you whisper hoarsly, and the hands clawing at your shoulders stop. The test tube is warm in your grasp, and you stand and hold it up for all to see.