Zachary
have a panic attack, I’m sitting outside Mr Ambrose’s office.
The meeting I’m about to have with him isn’t serious—I just want to discuss early entry to the Latin exam so that I can start the Latin A-level early and give myself room to study other subjects when I’m in the upper school. My Latin teacher’s already discussed it with him, but Mr Ambrose wants a more informal discussion before we make any decisions.
I sit in the same green chair I always sit in when I’m waiting outside his office. It faces his door, and the light from the window falls right on it. Even though Mr Ambrose is finishing a meeting with a teacher, I keep my posture straight while I wait for him, unwilling to let him catch me slumping in my chair.
My fingers are laced in front of me, my arms resting on my thighs. I look at my hands, at the watch around my wrist.
When it happens, it happens for no reason whatsoever.
I’m not thinking of anything particularly stressful. I’m not even having a particularly stressful day—especially compared to the days I’ve had recently.
Out of nowhere, my heart lurches. It’s a sickening sensation, and I clutch my chest, startled. My heartbeat accelerates, and each beat is a tremor, a horrible shock inside my ribs. My fingers dig into my chest, and I realise, with stone-cold certainty, that I’m having a heart attack.
I fall forward out of my chair, hitting the ground on my knees and elbows. A dull groan leaks from me—a sound of absolute terror. My mind, at this moment, isn’t a cacophony of thoughts—it’s the opposite. It’s calm and empty.
I watch myself as if from afar, and I know I’m going to die.
I’m too young to die, and I have so much left to do, to see, to learn. I’ve still not deciphered the mystery of Theodora. I can’t die without knowing all her secrets, without having the shape of her heart and soul imprinted within me, without holding her close even once.
I collapse to my side and my mouth opens noiselessly. I want to scream and call for help, but I can’t. I try to catch my breath—enough air for a scream, but I can’t even scream.
I don’t even notice Mr Ambrose’s door opening.
Then, Mr Ambrose and another teacher are crouching on either side of me. The teacher holds my shoulder gently, rubbing my arm. Mr Ambrose looks down at me, his hazel eyes grave.
“Zachary, you’re having a panic attack.” His voice is calm and very gentle. “What you’re feeling right now might feel incredibly scary, but it’s not dangerous. You’re alright. I need you to breathe with me, alright?”
He gives me a count and breathes with me, in through the nose, then out through his mouth. I imitate him as best I can, squeezing air into my too-tight chest. I try to tell him about my heart—about dying, but words don’t come out.
I want to tell him to go get Theodora.
I want to see her. I need to see her.
I want to tell Mr Ambrose how worried I am—that I’ll never be able to keep her, that she’s too good and too strong. I want to admit the truth to him, that I failed the sacred duty he gave me, that I never really helped her at all when she first arrived in Spearcrest, that I’ve never truly been able to help her.
Mr Ambrose and the teacher help me up gently.
“Alright, Zachary, you’re doing great. Now I’d like you to do something for me. Concentrate, alright? I want you to name three things you can see around you right now.”
I swallow and look around. A task—I can do that. I’m good at tasks.
“Daylight,” I croak. “Blue chair. Staghorn fern.”
Mr Ambrose raises an eyebrow. “You’re correct—well done, Zachary. As usual, you impress me. How do you know this is a staghorn fern?”
“My little sister,” I croak. “Loves plants. I recognised the leaves.”
Mr Ambrose nods. “Well done, Zachary. Alright. Now can you name three sounds you can hear?”
I nod. “Heartbeat. Clock. You.”
“Excellent. You’re doing great. Finally, can you name three parts of your body?”
I look down. My body feels strange, as though the relationship between myself and it has changed. I never expected it to betray me like this, to turn against me so suddenly and ruthlessly.
“Hands. Legs. Skull.”
Mr Ambrose taps my shoulder. “That’s great. How’s your breathing?”
It’s still laboured, but at least I am breathing. I’m not going to die—I know this now. I’d be embarrassed about my earlier panic if my chest wasn’t still feeling like it’s caved in on itself.
“It’s alright, sir.”
Mr Ambrose stands and pulls me to my feet.
“Let’s reschedule our meeting for now, Zachary, alright? I want you to go to the infirmary and see the nurse, make sure you’re alright. I’d like you to go there now, can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you, sir, that won’t be necessary.”
He gives me a solemn smile and a short nod. Grabbing my bag from the side of the chair I fell from, I turn and walk away, too embarrassed to look back.
some questions that are clearly designed to guide me towards some specific conclusion. She asks me about my sleep, my diet, my emotions, my health. She asks me if I’ve been having headaches, if I’m struggling with schoolwork, if I sometimes feel overwhelmed.
I know what she wants me to say.
That I’m struggling to cope with the workload, that this year has been difficult and that I’m suffering from stress. She wants to diagnose me, to give me a good reason why I randomly had a panic attack.
I don’t resent her. She’s only doing her job. If I was suffering from stress and anxiety, she would be asking me the right questions, and she’d certainly be the right person to help me. And if I needed her help, I’d take it.
But I don’t need her help, and she’s not asking the right questions.
The questions she should be asking are: are the sacrifices you are making necessary to your success? Is this temporary suffering worth the reward? Are you ready to sleep less, work harder, have more panic attacks if it all means that you get to win against Theodora Dorokhova?
If she asked me those questions, she would know the answers are all yes.
Yes, this is necessary.
Yes, it’s worth the reward.
Yes, I will do anything it takes to win against Theodora.
Otherwise, what would be the point? Who else in Spearcrest—in this world, probably—would make me feel the way she makes me feel? The thrill of her expression when I solve a problem first in maths class? The slight pinch of her lips when my name gets called out before hers as our teacher hands us our marked essays back? The satisfaction of being invited to the sixth form lectures when she’s not?
The sweetness of those moments is worth the bitterness of falling to the floor in front of Mr Ambrose, the tightness in my chest, the constant exhaustion—all of it.
It’s worth every bitterness.
The nurse, getting nothing but short, formal answers from me, sighs and tells me to be careful. She tells me about burnout and about the importance of rest and recovery. She tells me to look after my mental health, that it’s as important as my physical health. Then she reaches for some leaflets, hands them to me, and tells me she’ll write me a note to excuse me from the rest of today’s classes so I can go back to my room and rest.
“No. Thank you, Miss, but that won’t be necessary.”
She watches me for a moment. Her eyes are full of sympathy, but her sympathy is about as necessary as her note. I need neither. Neither is going to get me to the top of my classes, neither is going to buy me a victory against Theodora.
In the end, she sighs. “Alright, Zachary, that’s fine. Feel free to come see me if you’re ever worried about anything. And don’t forget to read the booklet I gave you on panic attacks—it’s better to be prepared for things like that, to have coping mechanisms.”
On that, we can agree. “Of course, Miss, please don’t worry. I’ll have a read of all the booklets you’ve given me.”
She nods, clearly not completely satisfied with the exchange, but since there’s nothing I can say to soothe her, I thank her, excuse myself and leave the infirmary.
Outside the door, I sigh and rub my hand across my too-tight chest and the treacherous heart within it. Then I slide the leaflets into my bag and head straight for the next lesson.
