You try on a blank expression to fit in like The Others, yet feeling like you are wearing stage makeup and logie, you are an uninvited impostor to the stage. You put your worst foot forward, willingly concealing the extent of your genius, stepping forward into the fuscous hallway, relying on their uniformity in order to blend in.

Their stares are drawn to you instantly, mouths agape and their lucid eyes showing no expression and no thought. It was cold as you shifted your eyes to look at the floor. Step after step you can hear the blood pounding in your ears, every pulse becoming louder as you focused on your feet. You knew the drill-- if they ever stopped to talk, the dreaded question would be asked-- "How are you?" You would suffice to a smile, a lie, though you had never felt so empty. How could that be answered in honesty if all you can say is "Alone," "Ignored," "Devalued?" The insomnia, the stress, the anxiety, the truth: that is what would break your will and increase your assimilation into this plain society. That is, if they ever cared to ask. Ignored in passing conversation, unheard, unseen, struggling under a load of knowledge of a world that was not always this way. Yet, you smile when they ask. They may think you as the happiest person, if they could think, but you have shut yourself in the darkness where they will never find you.

Trudging down the hall with your eyes glued to the floor, and a painted expression on your face, you head back down to the room of your residence. Security cameras scan over the people and guards strode up and down the hallways like they always do-- To keep the peace. You have your doubts about that, constantly wondering if The Others could think if they had the chance. The hall was lit by ***** globes running down the center off the corridor, casting everything in a dismal brown glow. Everything was colored putrid brown: the dirt floor, the ***** lines on your unwashed hands, the doors, the uniformed shirts, the course hair, and the eyes staring back at you. You quickly drop your wandering gaze back to where the rats live, but one of The Guards was already walking toward you, a menacing expression on his grime covered face.

Out of all The Others, The Guards were the worst ones. They remained unthinking and expressionless, but they can tell when another individual was thinking. Any thought is prohibited, be it good or evil. It may break the peace of this thoughtless society. They hunger for violence and deliver unjust punishment without question, especially one of thought. A whipping or a kick is one of the less severe consequences of thought. However, you have witness death before, and you hide your trembling white hands in the pockets of your jeans.

"Yellow," the guard mocked, smiling, licking his lips in anticipation, "How are you?" Then the whipping comes, blow after blow on all sides, both pain and blood searing your nerves. You didn't realize the extra guards coming from behind. Their expressions change, relishing the feeling of joy each time their bats hit another mark on your soft flesh. Thankfully, your conscious quickly retreats to a hiding spot they where can never find you.