The Cubicle Above the MPR

I don’t know when or how or where I’m writing this. But I am. Please read it. I don’t know who you are, but you need to read this.

I was your schoolmate. You probably don’t remember me. Plenty of students leave the school and never come back, disappearing into the world. I disappeared, but I never left the school.

It all started in the multi-purpose room as I nervously waited to begin my PSAT exam. The proctor shouted “You may begin NOW!” As I flipped open the test booklet, a debilitating agitation shot through me. The words swam on the test page, and my heart began pounding — a slow jackhammer against my rib cages. My legs twitched under me, as I shifted uncomfortably around in my chair. Panicked, I hurriedly flipped through the test booklet, trying to find a problem I could comprehend. But the ink on the page swirled into one incomprehensible blob. Accompanying my thunderous heartbeat seemed to be a glassy, hollow tap, coming from the top of the multi-purpose room. Dink, thonk! Dink, thonk! I looked up — the sound was undeniably coming from the tiny cubicle sitting above the MPR.

I had never given much attention to the cubicle — it sat directly opposite the stage, hovering several meters above the bleachers. I’d never seen anybody in it, but I always assumed it was just for some tech stuff — controlling the lights, displays, nothing of interest. The tapping didn’t stop, and the beat seemed to rise and fall like the blearing of a siren or the wail of a sorrowful mother. I flipped again and again through the entire test booklet, but no matter how much I tried to work on the exam, my mind could only focus on the mysterious tapping.

I knew I had completely failed the PSAT. But it didn’t bother me like it should have. My mind was focused on other things, on one other thing, rather — the cubicle. What was making that noise? What was up there? Why couldn’t I focus on that test?

I made the mistake of telling my parents about the exam. “Why don’t you study a bit more, huh? Instead of staring at your stupid phone and playing your stupid video games! Why are you such a failure!” they yelled. I had never been the star student my parents always wanted me to be. I was always the little-worse-than-average student, always coming short of their expectations. In the beginning, I felt sorry for disappointing them, but that sorry feeling sometimes turned into resentment. Why do they expect so much from me? Why can’t they just treat me like a normal kid? Why are they always putting pressure on me to do things I can’t? And in those moments, I hated them.

As I lay in my bed, an idea struck me. If I could find out who or what was in that cubicle that day making that tapping noise, I could prove to my parents that it was not my fault. I could prove to them that I’m not a complete failure and that perhaps some things are just out of my control. Then maybe they would stop yelling and love me again. I fell asleep that night planning how I would get into the cubicle.

On the day of Halloween, the time came. The teachers and students were out in the quad and on the blacktop playing various Halloween games in their loud costumes. I secretly slipped into the empty MPR. I circled around through the back doors and sprinted up the stairs to the cubicle. Adrenaline pumping, I finally reached the door and pushed it open.

The cubicle was dark and gave off the musty smell of old carpet. The only light coming into the room was from the three large windows providing a full view of the MPR. I stood in awe for a moment staring down at the large space. I wouldn’t have called the view beautiful, but seeing the MPR from such a different perspective made the place seem so small, so manageable, so aesthetic. I could see how someone could stay up here for an eternity staring down at all the busy events that happened below. For a moment, I forgot the reason why I had come up here — a shadow moved in the corner of my eye, and as I swiveled around I was met by a blinding pain, then darkness.

I opened my eyes, and I saw three rectangular panels. Wait. Three windows — I was still in the cubicle above the MPR. How long had I been here? I couldn’t move — or maybe there was nothing to move. I couldn’t see or feel my limbs, or my nose, or my eyelids. There was nothing other than the three large windows. As I focused my vision out of the windows, the MPR seemed normal. The basketball hoops were lifted up. The curtains to the stage were closed, and the room was quiet. White, plastic tables, were spaced out evenly across the room, just like they arranged it during exams.

I tried once again to move — but I was stuck. I tried to look around, but my eyes didn’t seem to cooperate, or maybe I didn’t have eyes? Panic coursed through my body — or whatever was left of my body. What happened to me? Was I still alive? I probably am alive, given that I am thinking. But why can’t I move? Why am I here? Why? Why me? Will I be stuck here forever? Will I see my friends again? Did my friends even notice I was gone? Did my parents? Are my parents worried? Will I ever see them again? Maybe it’s better that I’m left here. They won’t have to live with their burning disappointment. Maybe they’ll have another kid who checks all the boxes for them and lives up to their expectations. Maybe the world was better off without me.

The sound of the MPR doors opening jerked me back to reality. Unfamiliar faces filed into the room, placing their pencils and calculators on their tables. Who were these kids? A grown man’s voice boomed through the room, “It is Tuesday morning, and you are taking the PSAT.” The PSAT? Had it been a full year already? I couldn’t recognize any of these students! How many years has it been? I felt alone and weak, overwhelmed by everything I had seen. I missed my parents — their warm embrace, my mom’s comforting whenever I cried, my dad’s home-cooked meals, and the dinner table chatter. They would do everything for me — make me food, do my laundry, drive me to school — without asking for anything in return. How could I have ever hated them? They were always there for me at my lowest lows, but now I had no one. I wish I could have told them one last “Thank you,” one last “I love you.” But I couldn’t.

“PICK ONE,” a raspy voice coming from behind me growled. Startled, I tried to flinch away from the voice, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t turn to face the voice nor could I run away from it. “Pick one what?” I wanted to ask, but no sound came out. “PICK ONE,” the voice repeated. I stared out the windows. What am I picking? A window? A table? A test booklet? A student.

My vision centered on a student with dark wavy hair, dark eyes, and dark pink skin. Their eyes were bright, and they sat confidently awaiting their test. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know why, but I knew the moment I looked at that student, they were the chosen one.

As the exam began, the student’s feet began tapping nervously against the floor as they furrowed their brow. Their eyes raced along the page as they desperately flipped through the entire exam packet. They restlessly shifted around in their seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Suddenly, it hit me. I was just like that student during my PSAT. My feet had twitched around. I had rapidly flipped through the entire test. I had just chosen the next victim.

I had to tell them. I couldn’t let them share my fate — frozen in space and drowning in regret. I tried to scream and shout as loud as I could — no sound came out. I tried to punch and kick the windows — but they stood unscratched.

I was helpless. The student I had chosen was helpless. I began crying. Not a tearful cry as I was sure I no longer had physical eyes, but a crying of the conscious mind, a weeping of the soul. Dink, thonk! Dink, thonk! A sound all too familiar. For a second, I stopped weeping, and the tapping stopped too. Dink, thonk! — that was the sound of my voiceless cry. The chosen one looked up at me and stared. The more it made sense, the more it hurt. The more it hurt, the more I mourned. And the more I mourned, the more intense the DINK, THONK became.

I hope I’m getting to you, chosen one. I don’t know your name, but please, no matter what you do, no matter what the circumstance, don’t let the cycle continue. Don’t come to the cubicle above the MPR.