Millimeter to inches ruler

”Stop.”
I really needed the bathroom.
For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.
2:52pm.
Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.
Which was just two chunks of four minutes.
Four chunks of two minutes.
The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.
I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.
But this was different.
This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.
I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?
From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.
It's not like Roman was helping.
For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk. I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open. I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.
It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.
Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Prairie, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.
Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.
I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.
When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.
It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.
I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.
I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.
After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened. The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.
Fuck.
Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.
I was going to throw up.
“Mr Brighton.”
Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”
The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.
Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.
Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.
The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.
Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.
But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.
“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”
The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.
“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”
“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”
“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”
Roman made a snorting noise.
“What?”
The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.
Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.
The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.
2:52pm.
Something ice cold trickled down my spine.
It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.
This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.
Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.
The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.
Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.
With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.
But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.
Something was wrong outside.
The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.
Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.
I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.
I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.
Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.
Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.
His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.
Fuck.
Was I the only one?
But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”
“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”
“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”
Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.
It was too quiet, though.
Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.
Imogen was still chewing her gum.
Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.
But they were the only noise I could hear.
I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.
I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.
We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.
2:52pm.
Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.
“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.
Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.
“Check your phone, dumbass.”
“I broke my phone.”
Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.
“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”
I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.
“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.
I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.
According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.
I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.
So, this guy had nothing to lose.
Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.
“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”
I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.
But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.
Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers. We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us. The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.
This was a nightmare, surely.
My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom. We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have also stopped.”
Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.
He was right.
I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.
“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”
“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.
“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”
“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”
I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.
Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.
He tried his wrist.
Then his heart.
Nothing.
“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.” His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”
“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.
Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”
“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.
“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of sixteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”
Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.
The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't. Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.
“I suppose you could say I am.”
“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.
“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.
He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.
“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.
“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”
Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.
“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”
“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.
“What if I don't?”
Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”
Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.
“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”
The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”
To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.
He straightened up, and closed his mouth.
“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”
The boy did exactly as instructed.
His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.
I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape was mental suicide.
“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”
He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.
"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.
Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.
“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.
He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”
“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”
“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”
“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.
Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair. “There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.
“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”
He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”
“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.
Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”
“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.
“I am!”
After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.
He held it up, and I squinted.
It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.
“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.
“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”
“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.
Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.
“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.
ROMAN HEMLOCK.
There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.
CRISTA ADAMS.
As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.
He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.
“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”
What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.
I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth. Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death. Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.
I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.
And finally, regret.
I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.
I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.
I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.
Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?
I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.
Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.
“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”
The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.
“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.
Mind, body, and soul.
I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.
“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”
The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.
Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.
“Samuels. Are you all right?”
Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.
His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.
He knew, I thought dizzily.
Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk. But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead. He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.
Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”
Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.
Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.
I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.
The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.
Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.
Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.
Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.
So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.
Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”
Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.
Time.
Minds.
And slowly… contorting us into his own.
In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.
When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.
After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.
Sometimes, Imogen would join me.
I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.
I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.
I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?
That sounded odd.
The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.
I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.
Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.
That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.
Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.
Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.
Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.
He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.
“Yo.”
Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.
I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.
Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”
Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more. The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.
With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.
There were no signs of bruises or scratches.
His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.
Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.
“WHAT–”
Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”
Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”
“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.
The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”
“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”
Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”
Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”
Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.
“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”
Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.
The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.
“Are you fucking serious?”
When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.
Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.
“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?
“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”
Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”
“So, you cried out for no reason.”
“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”
Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.
“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”
“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”
“Shoot.”
“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”
“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”
Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.
The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.
“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”
It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.
Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.
Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.
I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.
Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.
I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.
“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.
Genuine.
To my shock and confusion, so was mine.
I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.
Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.
Was I enjoying this?
My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.
They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree. Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.
Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.
Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.
“You good, Christa?”
Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.
“Good. It's your turn.”
I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.
Two sixes.
“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”
Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.
“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”
“That's all I've got!”
Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”
“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.
“My final offer.”
When I reached for the cash, he held it back.
“New York Avenue, he said, with a grin.
“And your pride.”
Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.
Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*
Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”
“You were stealing too!”
We had a plan.
We had…. a plan.
After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.
So, what happened?
We were going to get out, so what… what was this?
Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.
“Mr Brighton *is the thing keeping us here,”* he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”
“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re *stuck?”* Imogen whisper-shrieked.
“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”
Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”
“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”
“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth. “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”
“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”
Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.
Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.
He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.
It felt…right.
Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't care that we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two. I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.
I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.
I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.
He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.
I wanted to stay.
In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.
Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away. I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.
But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.
I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.
Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.
Which was moving, suddenly.
Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.
Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.
Blood.
Blood that was running.
Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.
Like he'd been asleep for a long time.
2:53pm.
We were free.
The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.
And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.
For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.
Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.
The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.
But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.
His lips parted into a silent cry.
Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.
A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.
2:53pm.
“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.
He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.
“Get DOWN!”
I dropped onto my knees, crawling under a desk, the classroom exploding around me.
2:54.
Blood splattered the walls, and I was crawling in it, stained in my friends.
2:55.
I grabbed Mr Brighton's hand, squeezing for dear life.
Roman joined me, his trembling fingers feeling for a pulse.
A gunshot rang in my ears, rattling my skull.
When Roman went limp next to me, I wrapped my arms around my teacher.
“Mr Brighton, say Stop.”
He was so cold…
“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”
Footsteps coming towards me.
2:56.

Hello beautiful people! Just got out of a really easy checkup and thought I’d share my good news and offer some encouragement and reassurance ❤️‍🩹 I’m 54, I had a laparoscopic procedure May 13th, surrendered everything except my ovaries. I can’t say enough good things about my surgeon, if anyone here lives in Silicon Valley/Bay Area I’m happy to recommend her - she has a specialty in treating endometriosis and special training in robotic surgery.
https://stanfordhealthcare.org/doctors/m/kristine-miller.html
I had a very large fibroid and a slightly enlarged uterus with multiple fibroids and now they are both gone. I’m feeling my humor and energy coming back after years of anemia!
On the bummer side, still not cleared to exercise (which is very difficult because I am still low key hyperactive and mange it through yoga and dance). Also, no internal exam and I was advised to just let everything continue to heal, still nothing internal until the next check up in 3 more weeks. I told the doc I was feeling minorly anxious about it…like, do I have a vagina anymore? She was kind and reassured me that even though she removed my cervix, it’s not part of the vagina, she didn’t remove any vaginal tissue and if I did lose any depth we’re talking millimeters, not inches.
I hope that everyone is also having easy check ups and feeling the dawning relief of a life without chronic pain 🫶🏼

I Have a '24 Maz3 Prem Plus ( just to help rule out any weight variance between trims if that matters ) and installed Eibach lowering springs, their Pro Street.
I drove the car about 300 miles and got the alignment checked. It all passed the stock values , so that's the good news.
The question is this: I noticed a slight difference in the wheel gap between the fender and the top of the tire between the driver and passenger side front tires . So... I got out a tape measure to check to see the difference, and found almost a quarter inch difference between the two sides.
To explain a bit better: I measured from 3 different flat surfaces ( to rule out uneven ground ) from the bottom of the tire ( what I'm referring to as the "ground" ), across the face of the wheel/rim and measured up to the top dead center of the wheel well arch/fender area, right where the sheet metal begins. I noticed each time that my passenger side was always 3 millimeters up to a full quarter inch lower to the ground than my driver side. NOW, I know some cars are designed to be lower or heavier on the passenger front corner to account for the weight of the driver helping balance the car once they get in.
Is anyone else seeing a slightly lower passenger side height difference either before or after installing spring? I just wanted to see if this is normal posturing for this car or if maybe something was off during my strut assembly reinstall. Bit of a "mechanical hypochondriac" so I sometimes feel like something is off or wrong. Hoping it common for the Maz3 to lean a little heavielower on the front passenger side at stock values or after lowering springs.
Edit: I'll put the car on jack stands and remeasure the bottom of the tire to fender center height again to see how it changes in an uncompressed state as well, just haven't gotten there yet

[Previous] [First] [Patreon] [The cult of He-Who-Festers]
-North Warrens, Razor Ridge-
The jagged slopes of Razor Ridge shook with cries of conquest.
Within its narrow innards, the battle for the North Warrens was quickly reaching its climax. Inch by bloody inch, the Kobold army of Skegga was pushed back by the sheer mass of teeth and steel that the riders of Marrow and Red-Eye threw at them – their screams being lost as they choked on their own blood, or that of their comrades.
A wash of crimson stained the normally onyx walls of the ridges. It would be the last thing the Yips of Skegga saw before they expired – speared clean through by the coordinated advance of the rats or eviscerated by the fangs of their mounts.
"RUN-RUN!" their God bellowed in the wake of the chaos, adopting the fearful, timid screams and speech patterns of those who his webbed feet had always trod upon. "MAKE FOR THE FORT-FORTS! HIGH WALLS WILL STOP THESE VERMIN!"
Above the madness of battle, the general of the rats heard this cry all too clearly. He knew, then, that the army of the toad-man would have heard it, too. He knew they were doing nothing more than fighting for their own survival, now. Devotion was fading with every drop of Kobold blood spilled upon the blasted ground that was soon to become their graves.
"Not so Godly now," Marcus said to the rat-priest beside him.
He had seen the abject terror flash in Skegga's eyes when the toad saw that he, the prophesized Shai-Alud, was looking down upon him now. The architect of all the fat toad's pain.
Marcus had looked back, frowning slightly to see the impish, childlike figure that squelched upon a floating stone throne. Such a throne, barely holding the screaming tantrum that was its occupant, seemed more like a baby's highchair than the seat of a respectful monarch.
"He is still believing the End is not coming for him," Deekius said, closing his eyes to the world beyond his swirling thoughts and breathing deep the untapped power of his Lord. "He is having no idea what faith in a real God can be doing."
Marcus did not look at the priest. He kept his eyes on the form of Skeever-Steelclaw, his First Talon, as the ratman speared through another triad of Kobolds, kicking their Skogs away as they tried to push him off. He had led the charge spectacularly. More proficiently, in fact, than Marcus had expected. He had not even given the ratman the command to launch his daring attack upon Skegga's bloated form.
"Maybe Lady Luck is finally with me," Marcus mumbled, before glancing at his priest and noting his changed demeanor. The rat's veins bulged on his forehead. His fingers twitched, and his staff shook with an intensity that seemed impossible considering the rodent's size.
But then, Marcus thought. You've always been able to pull off the impossible, haven't you, Deekius?
"High-Priest," he said aloud, becoming alarmed by the froth appearing at his companion's furrowed lips. "Are you sure you can do this?"
The ratman shook with contained pressure, his body swaying with the unchecked energies of his Lord. He felt the power that many living upon Thea's surface feel, learn to control, and harness to create both beauty and devastation. But he felt also the overwhelming sense of triumph emanating from the other side of the Warrens. He breathed in the scent of death that lay like a stagnant blanket upon the air of the North. His Lord was with him.
"No," he answered his Shai-Alud. "The Will of He-Who-Festers cannot be commanded. I cannot be knowing if he shall find me worthy enough to guide His hand. But He is with me, Shai-Alud. As He is with you."
I certainly hope not, the Shai-Alud thought.
Both of them – man from beyond and rat of the realms – looked down on the bloody battlefield below them, knowing that without their final intervention, victory would be pyrrhic at best.
And Marcus wasn't about rest his laurels as a Fantasy General on a battle that wasn't decisive. Not after how far he'd come. How much he'd had to do to get here…
He bristled as Deekius' breathing grew more haggard. The ratman, though he wouldn't admit it, was struggling against the flow of energy within his being. Right now, the gap between him and the raw power swelling in his veins was getting thinner and thinner. Marcus didn't see Deekius in those dark eyes anymore. He saw a vessel for a thirsting God, snarling with pride to see his chosen species spill blood in his name.
"We've had to endure much, you and I," he said, knowing that he had to guide his soldier. "And yet I still seem to just ask you to do more. I've asked you to betray your own. I've asked you to rally three Clans to my side. I've asked you to place your trust in me – one who isn't even part of your kind. Now, I must ask one more thing of you."
He placed a firm hand on the ratman's shoulder, trying his best to channel all his strength into his arm so the rat couldn't feel that he was shaking at this final, pivotal moment.
"Fulfil your destiny as your God's chosen priest, Deekius of Clan Red-Eye," he said. "Crush the enemy."
Deekius' eyes bulged then with recognition and with pride. His pupils dilated, his shaking fingers curled round his staff and gripped the wood so tightly that cracks appeared across its surface.
And then, in one fluid motion, he walked to the edge of the ridgeline, raised his staff high, and made a proclamation to the entire Underkingdom:
"I AM DEEKIUS OF CLAN RED-EYE! BORN OF FLEAPIT, BLESSED BY THE HAND OF HE-WHO-FESTERS! I AM THE INSTRUMENT OF HIS WILL. I AM THE UNCLEAN HAND THAT SHALL LEAD YOU TO THE RIGHTEOUS PATH!"
The rats below felt the onrush of power surge through their veins, and Skeever bellowed the command for them to pull back. The time had come for the final curtain to draw upon this blood-drenched day.
Boss Skegga followed the thundering roar that sent shockwaves into the battlefield within the ridge, confusion and terror merging in his face as he watched the rat priest raise his staff high and slam it into the ridgeline.
"BY THE UNCLEAN!" Deekius roared with a voice that rang with the timbre of a thousand other voices. "LET THE GREEN LIGHT OF HIS VENEGANCE SHINE UPON YOU!"
As soon as the hilt of the rat-priest's staff hit the ridge it cracked into pieces, shattering and spilling wood shaving across the ridgeline like a flurry of shaven stars. He dropped to his knees and let out a cry that pierced the ceiling, and beneath the Kobold's feet, the earth began to quake.
"W-What is…" Skegga stuttered.
His Yips, meanwhile, had already figured out the problem. They were more than used to the vibrations of the earth, and they knew when those vibrations were thrown off by an exterior force. They knew when such a fact indicated that something was about to go very very wrong.
They saw the ratman cavalry fall back and pushed with them, seeing the slow inching away as a slow retreat.
They had been wrong.
"God Skegga!" a Yip honor-guard screamed as the walls of the ridge started to stutter like a pair of wheezing, cancerous lungs. "We must run-run! Go now!"
Skegga blinked, rose to slap at the Yip who had dared to command him, and then was thrown from his throne in the very next instant. The earthquake ripping through the ground under them had become more than even his floating throne could bear. He gripped on to the sides and tried to throw his gelatinous, bloated body back onto his chair.
"YIPS!" he cried. "PROTECT YOUR GOD! SAFEGUARD ME! CARRY ME HOME TO MY PROMISED LAND! YOUR GOD COMMANDS YOU! YOUR GOD –"
The explosion that then rocketed up the walls from the spot where the rat-priest was kneeling cut off any other salient statements from the great toad or his men. The ridge folded at the top, boulders splintering off from the walls and tumbling down to crush the Kobold army below. The Kobolds, already trapped and funneled into a wall of spears, now looked up to see a rain of rock from the sky. The hail crushed the army by the hundreds, spattering brains and limbs and pancaking entire pockets of the Kobold horde until finally their ranks broke completely. The Yips began issuing their own retreats and turned tail, sprinting for the safety of their forts and dwarven stronghold. Whether or not their God followed them was not their concern – he was left to those who were closest to him. His honor guard that carried him only under the pain of his wrath. Yet even they could not help but quiver in the face of the rat-God's power.
As the army fell line by line, their bodies baked into the very soil of the collapsed ridge, the ratmen of Skeever-Steelclaw watched a new wall of stone rise up before them – a new construction that would forever prevent any further incursions into their lands from their mortal enemies and their now-beaten God.
The Kobolds left numbered nothing more than a measly token force, and Marcus watched them carry off their screaming God with a smile.
Let him go, Marcus thought. We've done what we needed to today. If our forces in the West have met with similar success, we won't even need to fight another battle.
He placed a hand on the shuddering form of Deekius as the rat man swayed, like a great weight had just been placed upon his flea-bitten shoulders.
And he looked down upon the unbelieving rat-man below as an unnatural silence settled upon the world.
A silence broken only by the voice of the one who had brought glory to the true rulers of the Underkingdom. Now was the time that might have called for a fancy speech that said as much.
But Marcus preferred a simpler approach:
"Ratmen of the chosen Clans!" he called. "This battle is over. The false God has been vanquished. WE HAVE WON!"
In the near future, when the ratman Empire would value its history in very different ways, the scribes of Fleapit would write of this moment. They would write that the Shai-Alud shone like a green beacon with his hallowed priest, symbolizing the union between man and rat. They would say that the soldiers of Skeever Steelclaw fell to their knees and wept before their Lord, that the boulders had in fact killed Skegga, and that even the Spinerippers bowed in respect to the champion of the whole Underkingdom.
But the truth was more base, and yet more significant.
Because for the first time in their history, the rats of three clans raised their fists to the air of their realm, and their lips spoke only one name into the corrupted air that was now theirs, forevermore:
"HAIL, SIRE MARCUS! HAIL, THE SHAI-ALUD!"
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Join the cult of He-Who-Festers at this Discord server. Humans welcome.

Parxy’s hair grows randomly from a few millimeters to a couple inches so he constantly has to cut his hair or it will grow to the floor

At his 1 month checkup he was 99th percentile head height and 40th weight, 85th head circumference. He just had his 2 month and is either 99th or 86th percentile for height (I had him measured last week at a specialist's office who had an actual thing that held baby's head in place with an attached ruler which measured him at 24.5 but at yhe pediatrician they just lay him on the paper and mark where his head and feet are and they measured him there at 24 inches), 33rd percentile for weight and 86th for head circumference. His pediatrician said he isn't worried about this but it's so hard to not worry as a FTM. He's having plenty of wet and dirty diapers, takes so many massive poops but he does nurse a lot...

I think most guys in this subreddit can relate to never having gotten a decent haircut in their life. You tell these barbers "Mama ek inch kaath do" and these fellows will reduce your hair to millimeters. I'm sick of looking like an egg till a month after my haircut, because they always cut the sides too short, despite me giving clear instructions.
Where do you all get good haircuts? A place where they actually listen to your needs. Preferably somewhere in the Secunderabad area. Please mention costs too. Thanks y'all.

Relatively new to tubeless (use it on my gravel bike which is mostly used as a road bike). Yesterday, I picked up a 1-inch screw and it was likely in my tire for 5 miles. I noticed it when I got home and it was staring me in the face when I leaned the bike up against the wall. It was fully embedded in the tire with just the head sticking out. It was at the edge of the tread, about a few millimeters above the sidewall.
I grabbed the screw head and pulled it out. Of course, all the air rushed out. My question is: should I have rotated the tire 180-degrees so the screw was at “6 o’clock” before removing it? Would the sealant have had a better chance of doing its job then?
Sealant was relatively new, and nearly full, since I topped it off a week prior to do a small puncture that took a little time to seal.

Basically title. The PAC102S is a T-type with the classic plate bridge, and VegaTrem has a retrofit bridge for Teles. Only problem is I don't know how standard the PAC102S hardware is, and because this is such a rare instrument these days, the Yamaha website barely even acknowledges that they exist.
I asked VegaTrem about it and they also want to know what the body thickness is because the string-thru holes are where the VT2ND adds the tension springs, and one would think I could measure easily since I literally have the guitar three feet away from me, but I don't own a ruler or tape measure and none of the online spec sheets I can find mention it. I will attempt to acquire a ruler tomorrow, but if anybody can tell me that measurement before then and save me the trip, that'd be awesome.
Edit: I bought a ruler and found that the guitar is in fact 1.75 inches thick, exactly what the doctor ordered. Now I just need to find out how standard the routing is and I'll be set.
Edit 2: The routing appears to match the Modern spec of the VT2ND, at least visually. I would like a little bit more hard confirmation before I drop 315 Euro, which right now is $340, on it, but I'm reasonably optimistic.

I had a new client come in the salon today and I washed her hair first then took her to my chair and asked what we were doing as I was brushing it out. She said she wanted two inches off. I told her of course could be done. I cut two inches and I was half way done my section in the back when she said asked if I was actually cutting two inches off and I said yes I am. She then proceeded to move all over the chair looking at the floor going that’s not two inches. I calmly said it is two inches but would you like more cut off. She said yes(rudely I may say so myself)
I took another inch off(not wanting to chance taking to much off and getting yelled at) and asked if the length was more like what she had in mind. She then proceeded to say the whole that’s not three inches. It got to the point that she had me pick up a chunk of her hair off the ground to show her that it was three inches. I took her chunk and held it against my comb and it was in fact the right length that she told me to cut off. Knowing that she was wrong then got defensive and said that my comb wasn’t wrong. She then wanted me to go get a ruler to measure it.
At that point I have had enough and I looked at her through the mirror and said where would you like your hair to sit. She then started to say she wanted two inches but I interrupted her and said show me with her hand where you want your hair to sit. She huffed and then placed her hands just under her shoulders. This woman came in with hair down to the middle of her back.
I was frustrated by this time, so I kept my mouth shut and proceeded with the cut and took the length off. At the end she asked if I had a card and I stupidly said yes I do. (I’m a newer stylist and can’t be to picky with my clientele just yet). I took her to the front and proceeded with check out. I gave her the total which came to $46.63 (and for a long cut in my city is not expensive at all) she then said wow that sure has jumped since the last time I was in (the last time she was in was before the new owners took over which was 6 years ago. We had to re enter her into the system because her account has expired) I explained to her that we are on the cheaper end and that the prices are raised yearly to help cover cost of our computer system and the debit machine costs and deductibles. She paid and handed the debit machine back and I printed her receipt and handed it to her. I then printed my copy and she looked at me and said “I didn’t give you a tip because of how expensive it is.” Then she took my card and left.
I will be happy if she never comes to see me again but if she does I won’t be mad about it either. I can handle strong headed people it’s just frustrating being questioned about my career that I went to school for. I know that the next time she comes in to ask where she wants it to sit not how much she wants off.
Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk