All of us stare at the front of the room.

“Uhhh...did anyone else hear that?”

“Did Mr. Turner just talk?”

“See, he’s not dead.”

“Did anyone check his pulse?”

“His head isn’t attached to his body. I’m pretty sure we don’t have to check his fucking pulse.” We all stare at the body at the front of the room, but it doesn’t move.

“Who said that?”

“Is someone fucking with us?”

“You heard that too, right?” Mo and Nick scramble to their feet from the desks, unsure of whether to run or help.

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Finish what you started.” The voice seems to emanate from inside my head.

“Where is it coming from?” It had to be the box. Everything weird was because of the box.

“We’re sorry, Mr. Turner. We didn’t know-”

“You should go to the hospital.”

“Are we still talking to a decapitated body?”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I said FIGHT.” The word reverberates across the room, penetrating our subconscious. My muscles tenses, fists clenches. I want to turn around and punch someone.

Everyone else is on the same edge. Their faces a mix of an anxious scowl and a pained grimace. Which might be the same thing. You get what I mean.

But Mo and Nick are a different story. Their faces are twisted in rage, a permanent furious snarl, teeth are bared like depraved animals and like depraved animals they throw themselves at each other. It’s completely different from what could only be called a slight tussle before. This time, they were trying to annihilate each other.

Nick tackles and slams Mo onto the floor, Mo’s head cracking against the concrete underneath the thin carpet. Normally, he would’ve been out, but oddly he’s unaffected. He starts to claw and scratch Nick’s back, tearing through his shirt, gouging flesh in long bright streaks.

“What’re you guys doing?”

“Guys, stop it!”

“You’re gonna kill each other!”

“Somebody stop them!”

“Somebody just do something.” Always shifting responsibility. Classic bystander effect.

Surprisingly, Hannah’s approaches the two. Although, as Nick’s girlfriend, or should I say his acolyte, she would be the only one willing to risk getting caught up in that raging storm.

She tries to hug Nick from behind but he tosses her away like a pillow. She falls to her knees crying.

“Please, just stop.” Hannah pleads, head bowed as if she was in prayer. I had a feeling I’d be hearing that a lot more. The hopeless weeping, the begging, for all this, whatever nightmare this was, to end.

When one girl cries, the others join in like a pack of howling wolves.

And the top howler is Mary. Her hysterical wailing starts grating on everyone’s nerves, pushing them closer to the edge.

The edge of what, I’m not sure. Maybe the edge of sanity, and in the dark depths of the crevice that sanity overlooks is a deep pit of insanity. Maybe this was all a test, testing our sanity, testing who can go as close to the edge without falling in.

“Shut up, Mary.”

“Mary, shut the fuck up.”

“Carissa, do something.” Her best friend/caretaker, Carissa was always by her side. Where Mary was quiet, Carissa was loud. Where Mary was shy, Carissa was outgoing. Where Mary was weak, Carissa was strong.

“Shut her up.” And sure enough, like a practiced mother, Carissa gathers Mary into her arms and burying Mary’s head into her chest, muffling her cries.

“Shhh. Shhh. It’s ok, Mary. Just don’t look.”

Similarly, on the floor in the middle of the classroom, Nick was on top, his head buried in Mo’s chest. Mo was hugging Nick close, making sure Nick had no room to maneuver, knowing that if Nick got a full mount and sat on top of him, he was done.

Nick jabbed at Mo's kidney’s with short staccato punches, not enough room for a full swing, but still jarring.

Growling in frustration, Mo opens his mouth wide and clamps down on Nick’s shoulder, his teeth sinking deep into the muscle.

Nick howls, an inhuman guttural howl. He starts to shake violently freeing himself, loosening Mo’s grip on him.

Grabbing Mo’s head, he starts to peel the teeth away, but along with it comes off a huge chunk of his shoulder still fixed in Mo’s mouth. Ignoring the gaping wound, Nick slams Mo’s head onto the floor.

While Mo’s momentarily stunned, Nick slides up and straddles Mo’s chest with his legs on each side. Mo is finished.

Squirming, he twists and turns, trying to throw Nick’s colossal weight off of him, but to no avail. Nick starts laying down punch after punch, smashing through Mo’s pitiful defense of waving upraised arms, straight into Mo’s face, over and over.

Even after the anguished moaning stop and Mo’s hands are unmoving, the nauseating wet thwacks of slapping meat continue. I couldn't take my eyes off of it.

“Please stop. I can’t take this.”

“He’s gonna kill him.”

“He’s gonna die.” Mary resumes shrieking as Carissa tries to cover her ears. Whimpers and sobs accompany her.

“Get her to be quiet.”

“Shut her up.”

“Shut the fuck up! It’s fucking annoying.” Colin grabs Mary’s wrist and yanks it.

“Don’t touch her!” Carissa screams, pulling her away from him, shielding her. This is the time when frayed nerves become jagged edges that start to point at each other. Where frustration transmutes to anger, anger directed at something they can fight against, instead of what they cannot. Things you would never say or do become the norm from the massive pressure. But I feel it’s just the beginning.

“Alright. This is boring. It’s over.” Like magic, Nick’s bloody hands drop and dangle by his side.

“And the winner by Knock Out is...Nicholas Cardenas!” Nick’s arm shoots up into the air, which he definitely had no strength left to lift. He stands over Mo’s still body in a daze.

“Is he breathing?” Mo’s face is swollen to twice the normal size, mottled purple all over, blood still gushing from cuts buried between bruises, his long black hair matted and tangled.

“Is he dead?” As if to answer the question on everyone’s mind, he groans, stirring, having been unconscious for most of the massacre.

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“Wasn’t that an exciting little treat to start our day’s entertainment. Don’t worry, we have many more activities planned for today’s class. And boy, is it going to be fun. Class is now in session so everyone back to their seats.”

No one moves.

“NOW!”

Everyone scatters. Carissa brings Mary to her seat before helping to straighten out the other desks. Nobody goes near Mo. Hannah inspects Nick’s shoulder, but he brushes her aside and kneels down next to Mo.

“He needs help. Mr. Turner.” His voice hoarse and strange, lifeless, as if he was the one who got the beat down.

Who was he talking to anyways? Did everyone somehow forget the fact that Mr. Turner still was lying headless beneath the table. We just accepted the fact that the voice belonged to Mr. Turner. We were so primed to following authority that we didn’t even stop to question who the fuck was talking.

“He’ll be fine. Get him to his seat.” Nick obeys, draping Mo’s arm over his shoulder and dragging him over to a chair. Halfway there, Mo shakes him off.

“I’m fine. Get off me.” He stumbles the rest of the way before collapsing into his seat. I guess he wasn’t hurt as badly as I thought or he’s just got a super thick skull. Although I heard people with concussions can look perfectly fine but die hours later. I kinda hope that’s not the case for Mo. Yea, I like assholes. So what?

“Mr. Turner, what’s going on?” Are we still talking to a dead body?

“Are you dead?” Hailey raises her hand before asking like it was just normal day of class. I had trouble telling if she was trolling or genuine, her oversized hoodie covering most of her face.

“Is that you talking?”

“How are you talking?”

“Ok, ok. Settle down class. I’m sure you have many questions and I’ll answer them to the best of my ability. Now, one at a time.” The voice sounded exactly like Mr. Turner, the pleasant intonation of a doting grandfather. But that same voice seemed to delight in the cruelty just a minute earlier. It was creepily ambiguous.

“Are you Mr. Turner?”

“I can’t answer that”

“Is Mr. Turner dead?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“When can we leave?” A murmur of approval from the rest of the class.

“When we’ve finished with today’s class.”

“When are we going to be finished?”

“After we’ve finished the planned activities. When that is, I cannot answer.”

“What the fuck can you answer?” Colin challenges.

“I will not tolerate the use of profanity in my class.”

“What the fuck are you going to do about it? You’re dead.”

“Then who is talking to you?” Puzzled, Colin has no answer.

“It’s the box! You’re the box.” Smart guy. Finally. Someone else figured it out. Well, Sal probably already knew. Colin stands up and walks towards the box. Be careful, I want to say. But I don’t. Didn’t he just see The Box make Nick beat Mo to a pulp?

“Please sit back down in your seat.”

“You’re just a fucking box. You can’t do shit.”

“Please return to your seat.”

“You locked us in here. You disconnected all the phones. You killed Mr. Turner. You made Nick almost kill Mo.” If he knows all this, what the fuck is he doing?

“Please do not touch the box.”

“What if I do?”

“You will die.”

“Fuck you.” And he pushes the box.

When we were in fifth grade, Colin Sharp disappeared for two years.

He was full of energy and adventurous, climbing trees, getting hurt. He always had a bruise or two to show off the next day in school.

In the first year of his disappearance, there were rumors that he was kidnapped and murdered by the man who lives in the woods or that his mom ran away with him cause his dad beat them both.

But there was no man who lived in the woods, just an old trailer with a broken couch, and the bruises weren’t from his dad, who loved his mom and never even touched Colin.

He just had cancer. More specifically, acute myeloid leukemia, the worst kind of leukemia.

But not that bad for children. Only a little less than half of them died. Compared to the 3 out of 4 dead for adults.

When he came back to school, the days of romping around were over. He was a ghost, quiet and subdued. It didn’t help that we shied away from him, ignoring him except for the occasional pitying sideways glance. We were kids.

I’m not sure when, but one day he decided to just say whatever he wanted to say.

He must’ve gotten some bad news at the hospital or something cause the first thing he said was “I’m dying.”

Not in an attention seeking miserable way. But just matter of fact. He just kept saying: I’m dying, I’m gonna die soon, the cancer is eating me alive.

We got used to it, so used to it, he started joking about it and we would join in. Laughter’s the best medicine, unless you have cancer.

The next thing he did was ask every single girl out. One by one, he went up to each girl and told them that he’s dying and didn’t want to die a virgin.

Of course, they all thought it was a joke and laughed it off.

All except one girl, Brianna Norman. Small girl, huge tits. Yea, I know, the best combo. Chorus, flute, disgustingly nice to everyone.

Her friends kept warning her not to do it. But she had her own secret. She had been in love with him since third grade. Or so the story goes.

They got lucky.

His cancer went into remission. He slowly fattened up and put some meat on those sickly bones. Joined cross country, broke a few records. She won a few competitions with the marching band, sang at Carnegie Hall.

But he never changed his outlook though, he lived as though he was going to die. Said whatever was on his mind, did whatever he first thought of.

And Brianna was the perfect match for him, the sponge for his gushing faucet. Ok that was pretty gay. Anyways, they were definitely going to be the first ones to get married out of all of us and live happily ever after.

Until now.

Maybe if Brianna had been here, he wouldn’t have had to die.

Colin shoves the box, with his right hand.

Before he can even touch it, his arm falls to the ground, unattached. The box had sliced his arm off, just like Mr. Turner’s head. His shoulder sprays blood. Immediately, the ever growing familiarity of the screaming chorus fills the room. Don’t they get tired? I wonder when they will stop, when they will finally be numb to the blood. After death number 3? Number 5? When do soldiers stop thinking about the death that surrounds them? Never?

Poor guy. I’m really gonna miss him. Brianna'll never be the same. She's gonna need a lot of comforting. Wink wink. You don't have to tell me again. I'm a horrible human being.

Aanya leaps off her seat and sprints to Colin, kneeling in front of the box. Ballsy. Who knows what that black box would do? Even if I knew how to save Colin, I wouldn’t go near it. She tears off her own shirt and tries to staunch the blood, but her orange shirt soaks through in a second, turning a rust color. She's wearing a sports bra. Damn shame it wasn't something sexy.

“Someone give me a jacket, a shirt, anything!” Nobody moves. Who can blame them? Why should they help? The box said Colin will die. Who are we to defy the box? But Mary through her incessant tears moves to help.

Oh, the kind soul. More like naive.

Carissa pulls her back. At least she’s cautious enough for the both of them.

“Are you guys really going to just watch him die? Huh? You’re all fucking evil.” Evil? It’s Colin’s fault for touching it. Much as I like him, the box did tell him he was going to die. No matter how harsh the punishment, when the rules and consequences were laid out beforehand, it’s easy to blame the culprit. I guess, that’s why those fuckers in Iran are ok with stoning a cheating woman. Wait a minute. Maybe we are evil.

“Please, someone. Help me.” The begging, again.

CLATTER. Someone standing. It’s Brandon. The kid is fucking huge. At least 7 feet tall. Beneath the basket, he doesn’t even jump to catch rebounds. For a moment, he seems to consider something for a second. He squeezes his eyes shut, sweat drips down his face. And then suddenly, he bounds forward. Two steps and he’s there.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Rip your shirt in half length ways, but only three quarters of the way down. I need to make a tourniquet.” Soon, she is wrapping the stump.

“I need a strong stick or anything long and hard.” That’s what she said. I know, not the right time. But I can’t help it. It's how I deal with stress and crisis. Or that's what I say.

Brandon looks around. He takes a chair and bends the chair leg until it snaps. Aanya inserts it into a loop she’s made, and starts twisting it, tightening the makeshift bandage until the blood stops leaking out. She looks up at the box.

“I don’t know what the fuck you are, and I don't give a shit. But Colin's lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“You can let us the fuck out of here so he can go to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry I can’t allow that.”

“Stop saying that. You’re not fucking sorry.”

“I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. I’ve been very patient in letting you help him. Now we need to start class. Please return to your seats.”

“He's going to die! I can’t just leave him here. Please.”

“I truly am sorry, Aanya. But there are rules I have to follow as well. You can blame his death on me. Please go back to your seat. I don’t want to have to use anymore violence.” Jesus, pretty convincing act he’s got going on there. I thought for sure he got off on all that blood. 'He' doesn't sound right. I'm gonna go with 'it'.

“Brandon, please help Colin back to his seat.” Brandon looks at Aanya for a second before listening reluctantly.

“At least, let me give him water. He needs some fluids.”

“That's fine. See? I can be lenient. Finally, we can start class. We’re going to be far behind the other classes so I’m going to have to let you go a bit late."

Does he think he's funny? Acting like it's still a normal school day?

"Let's begin. Lesson one.”