Short story part 1

I was in 5th period, just after lunch.  On this hot spring day where students boil in their seats, the weather foreboding summer's freedom, the world changed.  At least perception changed, or began to, I began to question myself.  I began to question the authenticity of my role as an observer.  Mr. Thomas discussed the fallacy of singular perspective, in this case in relation to historical analysis.  How national history is a sham.  Here, read this article from Cuba on the Pay of Pigs, see how they felt.  I was in the habit of glancing at the clock, freezing time.  Each glance only slows times passage widening the flow until all signs of movement are beneath the surface, the current far below.  In the midst of this eternity the lecture loses all meaning.  Beneath my palm a quarter sized pool of black ink rests.  Staining my skin, globbing between my wrist and the cuff of my cotton shirt, the ink laughed.  As I moved my hand across the desk a long brush stroke formed, a comet's tail from the original pool.
           "Mr. Thomas I broke my pen, may I go to the bathroom" I said while raising my hand.
           "Andrew please wait to be called upon. Yes hurry."
           But where did this pool come from?  MY pen was fine, I examined it from all angles, still fully intact.  With my remaining appendage I rifled through the bottom of my backpack finding no evidence.  Fuck it.  I glanced at Alex.  I glanced at the clock, 12:43.