SKRRRRT! The sound of running and sliding echoes the campus halls, as if in some race or hurry. Now though, the sound is ever so dreadful. For now, any possible contestant would have already broken this sound of silence being so sharply pierced by the pair of surely loosened sneakers. One should only expect such. Being late to anything in this school means being an irresponsible delinquent, and the staff had made sure that notion got across. Various clocks across the campus would tick as students made their way to the next class, first at the pace of footsteps, encouraging most of us to follow suit and avoid being tardy. Though, just before entering class, most of us could swear that the ticking was subtly getting faster, but it would curiously end as the class doors closed us in. That said... it is odd that the afore mentioned running of the delinquent is filling the void a bit too well. What once sounded like a light jog has now steadily evolved into the likes of an engine in its pace, but what remained consistent all this time, was the rhythm of it all. The smooth transition from frequent to absurd, the time intervals between each patter! But of course, what is an engine without its vessel? Such a ludicrous question, surely the vessel would be a peer running late! ... Such a ludicrous answer. It simply won't explain why the pace of the pattering is beginning to graze that of a renowned sprinter, it won't explain the fact that it hasn't gotten any louder or quieter since I first heard it. It won't explain why this person has been running for so long, let alone without res- I shut myself up as I realize that these thoughts are only feeding my curiosity, but it's too late. I opt to find an explanation for at least one of them, something, anything, that'll keep my thoughts at bay while I study. It won't be easy though. Once students enter class and the doors close, there's no way out for the rest of it, so if I want to leave, I'll need a good reason. Simply enough, I'm sure I'm not alone in finding the noise peculiar, despite personally and usually being too study-oriented to pay mind to others, the alleviation of curiosity is far too rewarding. But with that said, I'm apparently not alone in the latter today. Scanning the room, I find most peers variously observing their surroundings, the rest using phones awkwardly being held between their laps, all paying no mind to the so-called pattering, now like a lawnmower in its pace. Then again, I was already planning to volunteer myself to investigate the sound to the teacher so, nothing's changed. I get up from my desk to do just that, but walking up to theirs, I get a strange foreign feeling that I'm neglecting my work. Pushing through, I make it to the teachers desk with no other problem, the teacher himself already looking at my general direction, expectingly, familiarly. This makes things easier. This makes things harder. Having asked permission to investigate, I realized that he too had that same look as the students, unaverting his gaze and worse, his silence as I moved and spoke. It's no wonder these students have the form of someone on a casual stroll! No instructions for them, no agenda for them, I scoff. Then almost innately I shout "This teacher is useless!" Still nothing. What is happening?! I try to justify the deadness of the classroom by using it as confirmation for my statement, but it's very clear I'm neglecting something else, and it is NOT my work. I need to get out. If I didn't have a good reason to leave before, I certainly do now. Using what's left of my frustration, I swing the door open and make a break for it, and I don't bother to look and see if they try to stop me, yelling in class is punishable enough. Pat pat pat, a sound so devastatingly loud now and coming from me, now. I don't even care about what I heard anymore. Not even what I may have heard had I been tardy as well. The clocks, oh the clocks. I find myself running past them at speeds where it's impossible to keep track of theirs, though they're surely going too fast for me to process the hands, deeming them invisible. I can't stop running, in a matter of seconds I've become so obsessed with keeping the clock's pace that it defies physics. Then suddenly, before I can process it, the hands of a clock ahead of me become visible once more. I reach it and time stops. SKRRRRRT! Hands now frozen and ever so conspicuous, I can finally focus on what I came here for in this bizarre yet convenient situation. But I couldn't move. Worse, I couldn't feel my waist, as if I was detached from- I look down. What I find is the rest of myself, detached from the waist by an unorthodox desk, sitting in this hallway. But in the desk sat the whole version of me, the real me. Burnt out with papers scattered, he sought more meaning and knowledge from these papers than they could provide, needing every perspective. Now without me to be the engine, he is a vessel without a soul.
