But I do know one thing:
His story is the oldest tale of the school's relatable experiences. The tragic hero who fell victim to his greatest's nemesis: procrastination.
"That's your fault." I replied bluntly, my voice echoing with zero sympathy.
"Don't you feel bad for me, though? I've been standing like this for the past thirty-minutes! She's so terrifying." He whimpered out, trying to make me see the horrifying experience he is currently experiencing.
But terrifying, huh? I assumed he meant Miss Satomi. Honestly, if I were a teacher and some kid blew off my homework assignment for a whole week, I'd probably have them doing one-legged poses too.
"You've got twenty-four hours in day. I'm sure you can spare a few minutes for a couple of pages of homework." I said, laying down the wisdom like some ancient sage.
But that's the irony. I'm not exactly a model student myself. Deadlines and I have a complicated relationship, just like everyone else. What does he need help with, anyways? Logically, if he's stuck in a punishment that's entirely his fault, there's nothing I can do to help. It's like asking someone to bust you out of jail after you've committed a crime with clear intent.
Sympathy? None. Reason to help him? Also none. I stood up dusting off my pants, and gave him a pity pat on the shoulder, the silent code for something like "Good luck."
He immediately winced, as if I'd just driven a nail into his coffin shut. That was it; I couldn't hold it any longer. I burst out laughing, my attempts to deafen it with my hands proving futile.
I mean, come on. This was comedy gold.
"Hey, don't leave me alone!" He whispered urgently with panic in his voice.
And yet, leaving him there to stew in his own regret did seem like the best possible move. I mean, if I walked away right now, would he break down and cry? That's a bit much, even for me. Plus, I couldn't help but think about the aftermath.
If I left him to fend for himself, what would he do to me later? He looked pretty built. He's definitely not the kind of guy you'd want to mess with under normal circumstances. But then again, this was one of those rare occasions where leading a hand might actually be my advantage.
The question stood tall, though. How exactly was I supposed to help him?
I turned back with confidence in my steps, like I was about to deliver some kind of life-changing advice.
"So… how exactly do I help you, though?" I asked, genuinely baffled by his request.
"Just the hold the book for me, for now. If it falls, Miss Satomi would surely reset the timer again, please!"
Again? Oh, so this wasn't his first thirty-minute stretch? No, from the sound of it, her timer was probably set to ten minutes, but he kept failing and starting over.
What a tragic hero, indeed. I reached up and grab the book from his head, and to my surprise, it was heavier than it looked. It was just a plain Japanese book, probably one of those with a hundred pages max.
But it felt like it was filled with lead rather than paper. What kind of book is this? And why would anyone need to carry ten of these around? No wonder students complain about back pain.
I crouched back down, practically sitting on the floor while the tragic hero stood there, becoming a monument to his own poor decision-making. I opened the Japanese book, flipping through the pages, trying to figure out the source of its ridiculous weight.
The pages felt normal, just like old regular paper. So, what was making this so heavy? The cover unusually thick, but not thick enough to consider it this heavy. Technology these days, man. It's like they planted a microchip in the book to track how many pages you've read, and you can actually feel the weight of surveillance pressing down on you.
"It's weird, right? The book." The guy suddenly spoke up, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
Weird? That's an understatement. It's practically supernatural.
"Of course. You had this on your head for that long?" I asked.
I mean, having something this heavy on your head for an extended period could probably snap your neck off. Trust me, I'm an expert.