Here was what it felt like to have an episode:
It felt like someone was squeezing and squeezing her throat and pressing and pressing on her chest. Her stomach cramped and twisted and turned to stone, a heavy, hard stone. Her hands shook. Her whole body shook.
Worst of all were the thoughts. It was as if those thousands of fear-filled books all flew off the shelves of her mind and opened at once, as if every single word was being screamed at her, flung at her, piercing and deadly. Those words made Alma feel like she was caving in, collapsing into the empty, Alma-less space that her insides had become.
When she’d had the episode at school, her first ever, she had sunk to the ground. She hadn’t known what was happening to her. She had only known that it was terrible, that it was unbearable, and that she wanted it to end.
The doctor that her parents had taken her to see had told Alma that what she’d experienced was a panic attack. She’d explained, in medical terms, what had happened to Alma’s body. “Simply put,” she had said, “your brain sensed danger. In response, it released adrenaline—fuel for you to use to fight or run. But there was no danger. So you were left with lots of fuel and lots of fear and nothing to do with it.”
“But why?” Alma had asked. “Why does my brain think I’m in danger?”
“Anyone can experience anxiety, and most first panic attacks feel like they come out of the blue,” the doctor had said. “There are, however, external factors that can contribute. Stress, hormonal changes, and genetics too. Some people have very reactive nervous systems. Their brains respond quickly to even the possibility of danger.”
The doctor had told Alma to get enough sleep. She had told her to eat well and never skip meals. She had told her to take walks. She had told her to keep living her life normally.
“When you start to avoid situations or places because you’re afraid of having another attack,” the doctor had said, “that’s when the real trouble begins. Your brain starts to think that everything you’re avoiding is dangerous, which leads to more panic attacks. You don’t want to give your brain more things to be afraid of.”
Alma had heard the doctor. She had heard her again at her follow-up visits, where she had lied and said that the episodes had stopped. She hadn’t known at the time exactly why she was lying, but her parents’ relief at hearing that she was better had been palpable. And once she’d told that lie, she had kept going. The truth had felt overwhelming. The truth had felt like failure.
Then she had done exactly what the doctor had told her not to do. She started running from her classes. She refused to go anywhere except school and her parents’ office. The number of places where she felt safe shrank and shrank and shrank. And the light inside her shrank and shrank and shrank too.
When Alma got home, no one was there yet.
She took the quintescope into the backyard. She didn’t set it up though. Instead she sat inside the crater, her arms wrapped around her legs, her cheek resting on her knees. She watched the woods for some light, for some sign that the Starling was out there.
She had thought they were connected somehow. She had thought that the flyer and the quintescope had been for her. She had thought that she could do something.
And she’d thought—she’d been sure—that the episodes had ended. What was the use of making friends, what was the use of being involved in a mysterious, magical quest, what was the use of growing brighter, if this terrible emptiness could open up at any moment, dark and vast and consuming? What was the use of any of it?
You’ll lose your friends, her mind said, if they find out how strange you are.
You’re going to keep having episodes forever, her mind said. No matter how bright you feel.
You’ll never be able to save the Starling, her mind said. No matter how hard you try.
You can’t do anything, her mind said.
The sunlight faded and the shadows spread, but the woods stayed dark and empty.
And inside Alma, it was the same.