Vialism lectures had never been so boring in his entire life. Clancy drew swirls on his page of notes as he listened, half-heartedly scrawling something down to appear as though he was paying attention. This was the last assignment of the day, and then it was off to mandatory worship and straight to curfew. He wished he could skip worship and hide up in the room with the typewriter, but he could tell Keons was watching him closer now, and knew he would notice his absence if he failed to attend.

He risked a glance out the window and saw two Watchers staring back at him. They couldn't know his thoughts. That was impossible, wasn't it? But he had thought smearing was impossible, too, until he'd seen a public smearing nearly a year ago. It was a peculiar and frightening sight, though at the time, he hadn't understood why. Now, he did. When he had looked into the mirror this morning as he was shaving, he'd startled himself into dropping his razor blade and nicking his jaw. He'd seen the same light in his eyes in someone else - in two people, a young woman and a man, the two who had been smeared in the square the year prior. Their Bishop had slowly snuffed out that light, leaving nothing but cold ashes in their eyes. He'd seen them a few days later, and they had both thanked their Bishop for saving them and teaching them the way of righteousness. It had been an example to show everyone that they were safe; to show that if they had invasive, inappropriate thoughts like those two had, all they had to do was inform their Bishop and he would fix them.

Clancy had been tempted more than once to approach Keons and tell him his thoughts, but the thought of being smeared terrified him. Though it had been almost calm, it had seemed to him that the Bishop was strangling them. The two in the square had gone rigid as if in pain, and had then relaxed like they'd been drugged. Though he was curious, he had no desire to know what that felt like. Besides, he wanted to figure things out for himself. He didn't want to fall back in his Bishop's help.

But when he'd seen the light in his own eyes, a deep sense of terror had rooted itself in his stomach. What would they do if they found out? Would they smear him and get it over with, or would he be punished? He'd tried to conceal it - he'd tried desperately to hide the hope in his eyes, but it was no use. He knew others could see it, and he knew that that was the reason the Watchers kept their eyes on him at all times.

From the front of the room, his Bishop mentioned the Assemblage that was to occur in ten days. He already dreaded attending, but if there was one event he absolutely couldn't miss, it was the Assemblage. He only wished there was some way to avoid it.

He found himself scribbling disconnected words and phrases down on his page as his mind tried to stay clear in a hurricane of thoughts. He couldn't stop, even when his hand began to cramp up. He couldn't hear his Bishop speak anymore. All he heard was the deafening roar or silence.

Life is meaningless. You are insignificant. They will find you. They will find you. It's all pointless. Life is meaningless. Live to be Glorified. Live to die. Get out. The compass lies. Get out. The compass lies. Get out get out get out get out

His heart was thudding like a war drum in his chest. He couldn't see clearly anymore. He could barely breathe at all. The air caught in his throat. All he could focus on was the black ink against the white page, dirty blood smeared across his soul, across the perfect, perfect streets of Dema -

He hit the floor with a muffled thump, and suddenly someone was touching him, holding him with gentle but firm hands. Keons. For a moment, he nearly panicked, thinking he was being smeared, but the Bishop was holding his shoulders, not his neck, and had silently knelt beside him. The world tipped and tumbled around him and nearly hit his head on the floor, only saved by his Bishop. His hands and knees were shaking almost to the point where could no longer hold himself up. He could breathe now, but his breaths were short and ragged, making his head spin. He tried to look around, but everything was doubled and he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to be over soon.

Keons gently rested his head on his chest, holding it there with one hand and surrounding his shoulders with the other. Feeling the Bishop's steady heartbeat and deep breathing helped relax him, and slowly, he began to regain control. He kept his eyes shut as he turned his head to hide his face in Keons' soft red robe, embarrassed he'd let himself fall out of control again. He hadn't had episodes like this since he was a child. Why had one suddenly surfaced now? He gripped his Bishop's robe with his shaking hands and felt tears burning in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the Bishop's clothes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Breathe with me."

Keons' gentle voice broke through the storms of fear and anxiety, and Clancy finally managed to take a deep breath. He focused on matching his breathing with the Bishop's, and finally, after a painfully long moment, his grip on Keons' robe loosened. Slowly, he pulled his face from his chest and looked up at him. For a moment, he felt as though he was a child again, looking into his father's deep brown eyes, but the feeling quickly vanished as he was met with a grey face shrouded with a veil. He quickly released him and leaned back. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"When was the last time you had an episode?" Keons asked softly.

Clancy shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on the floor. He wished everyone would stop staring. He could feel their eyes on him, and that made him feel abnormal. "I - I can't remember. It's been a long time."

The Bishop made a soft humming sound as he thought. "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

Keons stood up, and Clancy followed slowly, leaning against his desk for balance. The Bishop turned to another young man staring at them. "Walk him to the nurse's office," he said, before turning back to Clancy. "I want you to tell her everything, alright?"

He nodded, but he felt that same growing sense of dread in his stomach again. The Bishop knew. Somehow, he knew he'd been thinking about escape.

"Don't worry, my son. We will get you fixed up in no time." Keons gently clapped his hand on his shoulder, and Clancy thought he saw him frown when he flinched. "Now get going, you two. The rest of you open your books to chapter fourteen."

Clancy stumbled to the door, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. The other young man glanced at him warily, but didn't move to help him. Though Keons continued his lecture, he kept his eyes on them as they left the room, and though he had asked another to assist him, he didn't say anything as Clancy stumbled and fell once again. The other young man glanced at him in frustration, but waited for him to get back on his feet to continue on.

Once they left the room and started down the building's cold grey hallway, the other finally spoke. "So what's wrong with you?"

What's wrong with you?

He flinched as if he'd been slapped. Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. If anyone is wrong, it's you. You are asleep. I am awake. "I don't know," he whispered.

"I've never seen anyone do that before," he said. "Frankly, I've never even heard of it."

"Keons just calls them episodes," Clancy muttered. Each step required a ridiculous amount of focus, and he had to speak slowly and deliberately. "I've had them since I was a child."

The other just hummed softly in response and didn't say anything else. He wondered what he thought about him. The young man tried to hide it, but he could see him glancing at him every few steps, though he never made any move to help him when he stumbled or fell against the wall. It took him a moment to realize that he was scared of him. He didn't blame him. He was almost scared of himself, too. But at the same time, he knew something the other inhabitants didn't. He saw something they couldn't, and that made him different. Different, to them, meant something was horribly wrong. It made him an outcast, even though no one knew exactly what set him apart.

At last, they reached the nurse's office, and he slumped over on a chair, feeling as if he had walked the perimeter of the city nine times over. The nurse lowered her clipboard and looked him over with mild distaste, and then forced a smile. "What can I help you with?" she asked.

Clancy glanced at the other young man as if for support, but he only saw his back as he left the room. Keons wanted him to tell her everything, and though he took a breath to obey, his conscious stopped him. His tongue refused to form the words he thought he needed to say. He knew he'd get in trouble if he told her the cause of his anxieties. He was acting out of pure instinct; out of self-preservation.

"Well?" the nurse prompted impatiently.

He could only sit there with his hands between his knees, staring at the floor with wide eyes and a frantic heart. He wanted to go back to the quiet room with the typewriter and write until he knew what was going on.

"If you won't tell me what's wrong, you'll have to return to your assignment."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and she paused.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated. The tension in his neck and shoulders was giving him a headache, and his chest hurt with something he couldn't identify. He wanted to cry, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He couldn't cry here. He was an adult now. He had grown up, and he wasn't allowed to cry anymore. Instead, he sat there silently and fought the tears back to the best of his ability.

"You'll have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help you," the nurse said, running out of patience.

"I can't control myself," he said softly.

"Explain."

"I just...I -" And then he spilled what had happened during the lecture. Somehow, he managed to hide what he'd actually been thinking, and made it sound just like some sort of episode, like Keons had called it. Then again, there was danger in that as it was. It only proved that something was wrong with him. Everything was so wrong.

The nurse didn't speak for a long time. She just watched him, her eyes flickering across him as if she could find some physical indication of his abnormality. He hated the way her eyes picked him apart like a Watcher, exposing every bit of vulnerability. He suddenly had the violent urge to claw her eyes out and run, but he forced himself to sit still, other than his continual shaking.

Finally, she turned to her clipboard and wrote something down, her eyebrows raised and her eyes suggesting that he was wasting her time. "It seems as though you had some sort of attack."

"An attack?"

"Yes, an attack. And you said there were no triggers?"

"No," he lied, and his stomach twisted at how easily the lie rolled off his tongue. There was yet another thing to add to his guilty conscious. Lying was virtually unheard of in Dema, and he was surprised at how easily he'd done it.

"Then it was most likely a panic attack," she said.

"Is that a normal thing?"

"Of course not. But you'll be fine. Go back to your assignment."

That didn't seem right. Shouldn't she help him? "But isn't there something you can do to help me?" he asked softly.

"No," she said. "Return to your assignment immediately."

He stared at her for almost ten full seconds before he could bring himself to stand. He slowly rose from his chair, his knees shaking, and could barely stay upright. Though he wasn't trying to get a reaction, he could see her beginning to get angry as he tripped on the way to the door and knocked a bottle off of the counter. He quickly apologized, but she would hear none of it.

"You're begging for attention," she snapped, and he flinched, his heart starting to race once more. "Somehow, you've convinced yourself that this is really happening to you. It's not. You're making it up, and you're making a scene. Do you want to be Glorified or not?"

"No," he whispered.

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. "What?"

"I don't want to be Glorified." He could see the black words on the white paper again, as clear as if they were right in front of him. Live to be Glorified. Live to die. But there had to be more to life than that. Was he the only one who believed that?

The nurse blinked for a moment, and then huffed slightly. "Well, good. Because you will never be worthy of an honor like that."

Her comment felt like a punch to the gut, and yet it was as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. He couldn't figure out why it felt like that, but he didn't have time to dwell on it, not here. The feelings were indistinguishable in his heart, and he didn't have the words to describe it. He almost apologized again, but then paused. Why apologize for feeling? She didn't understand what it was like. She had no right to hear his apology.

It's time to wake up.

"Go back to your assignment," she said.

He nodded and slowly left the room, but he wasn't going back to the lecture. He was headed to the typewriter.