Art z.m

(2) I don't know.

I don't know.

There was a sharp flash of lightening followed by the rumbling thunder. That was the last thing she heard before she pressed 'enter.'

"Shit," Cyra whispered. "shit, shit shit." She sat up and slammed her laptop shut. "Shit!" she shouted while she frustratedly grabbed at her hair.

An angry kick landed on the side of her bed. "Fuck!" She hissed in pain. Cyra was fast to nurse her foot while hopping on one leg. So she clumsily fell over.

"Ow." she moaned into the floor. She punched the floor like a whining toddler. "This is absolute bollocks."

The anger of her results was slowly transformed into sadness, embarrassment. She felt like a failure.

A, B, D.

Those were the results she had been waiting for. Those were the results she had worked so hard for. Those were the results that were going to get her in the uni she wanted, the course she wanted.

London college of fashion, fashion journalism.

Everyone told her she couldn't do it apart from her dad. They had chosen the course together one day in his office. "They ask for high marks, lots of UCAS points but I'm sure you'll get them." He confidently said, grinning at her.

The old memory caused Cyra to burst out crying. Tears streamed down her face and softly landed on the floor with a steady tap.

The loud ring of her phone broke through the quiet flat. Cyra got up from the cold hard floor to shut the iPhone off until she saw who was ringing; her best friend, Angie.

"Cyra bitch! how did it go?" Angie's cheery voice boomed through the line.

"I don't know what to do Angie," her hoarse voice cut through the phone line.

And that is how she ended up in front of the famous central st martins, university of the arts on the morning of the 8th of September.