tick tockThe clock started ticking in the haunting silence.
He was now in another classroom, similar to the previous one.
Filled with silhouettes. All of them stared at him—whether in front of the board or behind each desk.
A rain of sticky notes accompanied them. Each one bore unreadable words.
Mike — I remember now, the sticky notes... stuck on my back every morning: "Trash." "Loser." "Die." I… I pretended not to notice, not to feel anything. People laughing when I walked by, teachers looking away, no one saying a word. What haunted me wasn't the words. It was that macabre silence. Everyone's silence.
Indeed, the silhouettes hadn't moved an inch. The one in front of the board had merely turned around.
A sticky note fell into his hand, written in small red letters.
[Those sticky notes were meant for you, so why did you pretend not to see them? You didn't like it? Then why did you stay quiet? I could've at least TAKEN THEM OFF!!]
Mike — Stop right there…
tick tock
The room distorted. The walls pushed back, the tables grew larger to make space for four chairs under each one. Other tables were attached end to end, forming rows with no beginning or end.
On every table sat a tray. On each tray, a different dish.
Mike looked at the person across from him.
Mike — Every day… my bread tasted different. Sometimes bitter, sometimes nothing at all. Then I understood. They spat on it. Crushed it. Soaked it in something. Once, it was glue. I vomited for hours. But I didn't say a word. It was the only food I had. Chewing was easier than hoping they'd get caught, or that someone would listen.
A wave of nausea came with those words. His stomach tightened as if about to throw up.
In the middle of his tray, in his plate, was a deformed piece of bread, unrecognizable.
The bread crumbled. The crumbs started to move, turning red. Words formed.
[That bread was disgusting, vile, enough to make you puke, yet you kept eating it! If you had let me find the ones who did this… you wouldn't have had to EAT IT!!]
Mike — Stop! Stop crawling into my memories.
tick tock
The room shrank. The walls closed in, now covered in twisted, oozing lockers. The tables vanished. The chairs widened, turning into benches.
The temperature dropped. Cold mist spread across the room. A strong smell of dampness rose from the floor.
A school uniform hung on a hook—soaked, covered in dark stains.
Mike stared at it for a moment.
Mike — I… I remember that too. The locker room. They took my clothes. Left me in my underwear. The door closed behind them. I waited. The bell rang. The lights went out. I was still there, curled up in a corner.
A sharp whistle echoed in the flickering light above. The locker in front of him slowly creaked open.
Inside, a message was scribbled on a torn label.
[You didn't say anything. You didn't call anyone. You were ashamed, weren't you? Why didn't you scream? I COULD HAVE STOPPED THEM!!]
Mike — That… wasn't your job… Shut up.
tick tock
The benches reconfigured once again. This time, plain, cold, stiff desks. All facing forward. All occupied. Except one. The desk next to Mike. Always empty.
Mike — That spot was always empty… next to me. Even when the class was full. Even when others fought to sit together. Me, I was… the obstacle. The one they avoided. The one they ignored.
A small scribble appeared on the surface of the empty desk. Letters scratched in with a fingernail, shaky.
[You stared at that seat every day. You hoped someone would sit there, right, RIGHT? You didn't want to be alone. But you never said a word. You SHOULD HAVE TALKED TO ME!!]
Mike — I never asked you to speak for me.
tick tock
A deep, dull vibration echoed through the space.
An old phone slowly slid from the locker under the desk. Its screen was cracked, glowing. A single notification blinked on repeat:
We know what you did.
Mike hesitated to touch it.
Mike — It was always at night. Always the same words. Unknown accounts. Vague threats. Voices slipping into your dreams. At first, I replied. Tried to deny it. Then… I realized they enjoyed it.
The screen displayed a stream of messages, writing themselves—red text on black background.
Water dripped onto the phone.
[You read them crying, Mike. But you wouldn't let me answer. Why? Did you want to stay a victim? I COULD HAVE SHUT THEM UP. FOR YOU.]
Mike — No… You just want control. You're not here to help.
tick tock
A bell rang in the distance.The walls became covered in paintings, torn papers, ripped-up presentations, burned, crumpled.
A desk rose at the center of the room, covered in papier-mâché.
Mike recognized it.
Mike — …That was my presentation. I worked on it for a whole week. I rewrote every line by hand. That morning… it vanished from my bag. And I found it… in the bathroom.
One of the papers on the floor started shaking, then floated up in front of him.
[You knew who took it. But you didn't say a word. You just picked up the pieces and started over. WHY? I COULD HAVE HELPED YOU. I COULD HAVE BROKEN THEM.]
Mike — No. You… you just want revenge. I just wanted them to stop.
tick tock
The room darkened. Muffled laughter echoed off the walls. Footsteps, bags being thrown, blows being struck.
Mike looked up.In front of him was a younger version of himself, curled up on the ground, arms over his head.
Mike — I got used to the pain. The hits weren't the worst part. It was that they didn't even look at me. Even while hitting me… I was invisible.
The shadow of one of the students leaned over the younger Mike. Holding a ruler, stained with blood.Floating in the air was a word, etched in trembling letters.
[You clenched your teeth. You didn't scream. You didn't move. You accepted it. WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME DO WHAT YOU COULDN'T?]
Mike — Because I didn't want to become like them.
tick tock
The lights changed. A cold, frozen room.
An adult silhouette stood at the board, back turned, motionless. A teacher.
The chalk dropped from his hand and rolled to Mike's feet.
Mike — I raised my hand. All the time. I had the right answers. But he never called on me. Even when I was the only one.
The figure slowly turned around.
His face was blank. Flat. Smooth. No mouth, no eyes.
Mike — He always said: "Maybe next time." But there was never a "next time."
A small notebook fell from the board, open to a single page.
[He knew. He knew what they were doing to you. But he chose silence. Chose not to make trouble. Chose to let it go on. You knew it too. And you let him. Why? WHY DIDN'T YOU SPEAK UP?]
Mike — Because… I wasn't worth it. That's what they said. And I started to believe it.
tick tock
The classroom walls stretched endlessly.
All the boards showed group photos… but in none of them was Mike present.
There was always an empty spot where he should've been. A blur, as if he'd been digitally erased.
Mike — …They always took the picture without telling me. Or said I was blocking the light. So I stopped showing up. But even when I was there… they erased me.
One of the frames fell and shattered.
In the shards of glass, words appeared:
[They didn't need you to exist. So let me exist IN YOUR PLACE.]
Mike — No, you… I won't let you.
tick tock
The room twisted. A long hallway appeared, endless.
Mike ran, but always remained in front of the same door. Always the same one.
Mike — That hallway. I walked it every day. People passed by me. Walked through me. Sometimes I wondered: "If I collapsed here, would anyone stop?"
Footsteps echoed, growing in number.
Faceless silhouettes ran toward him, then through him, again and again.
A word scribbled over and over on the walls:
[WHAT WERE YOU WAITING FOR TO DISAPPEAR? I WOULD HAVE RUN FOR YOU. I WOULD HAVE BITTEN FOR YOU. YOU LET ME ROT INSIDE YOU.]
Mike — Shut up… shut up…
tick tock
The room turned back into a classroom.
But this time, all the silhouettes were laughing. Faceless, voiceless… just wide open mouths, bleeding as they laughed.
Mike — They laughed… even when I cried. Sometimes I wondered if my tears fed them.
A laugh escaped Mike's throat—unwillingly.
A deep, slow laugh… that wasn't his.
??? — See? We can laugh too.
It's easy. Just forget your skin. Your shape.
Let me speak in your place.
Mike — …No.
tick tock
A version of himself appeared at the back of the room.
Then another. And another.
Each Mike did something different: scream, collapse, smile, write, strike.
They said nothing, but their eyes screamed.
One of them stepped forward, holding a broken mirror.
Mike — In the end… which one am I?
The mirror reflected an eye… but not his own.
Red. Split. Like a blade.
??? — The one you refuse to be. The one you locked away, suffocated, drowned. You let me scream in the dark… So now it's my turn! I'll be waiting on the next floor!
In an instant, the room returned to a simple classroom.
In the still silence, the silhouettes had vanished.
Only Mike remained, sitting behind his desk.
He swayed a bit, then collected himself.
Around him, the class was no more than a frozen memory. The silence felt solemn.
Mike — Class is over… But this story isn't.
He stood up slowly, slinging his bag over one shoulder, his gaze hardened.
Voice? — You're going to face him?
Mike — No… I'm going to show him I'm still here.
He walked toward the door right behind his desk.
He grabbed the kitchen knife from his bag.
Mike — Voice, I hope you're ready to back me up in this fight!
The knife in his hand trembled slightly, as if fear gripped it.
The door, meanwhile, shivered even before he touched it.
Mike placed his hand on it.
And exhaled, slowly.
Mike — Let it begin.