Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Nicholas woke up to the noise of the bustling outdoors. His window was wide open, leaving no space for the darkness to settle. He searched his room for any sign of life, but there was only the clean bed of his roommate, Clyde Cullens, who had already left the room.

They weren't fond of each other, but his was the only room that was empty the night before. Nicholas entered uninvited and immediately took to the bed opposite to his. He was well aware of the effect it would have on Clyde, who sighed and squinched his nose, making Nicholas aware that he was vexing, but he turned away to face the wall and fell asleep soon after.

Nicholas jumped out of bed, his head dizzy. He was hungover, and he knew it wasn't a reasonable excuse to skip classes. Instead, he stood, gathering his essentials: a few books, a pen, and a notebook. But just as he reached for any, he was reminded that he had been shot through his shoulder, and he fell back onto his bed, almost as though he had been shot again. He stood once more, and despite the pains, he changed out of his clothes and into a white shirt and grey pants, with a belt that had the insignia of the university at its end, the great eagle. "Fitting," Nicholas thought to himself. Above the shirt was a choice between an army green sweater with no sleeves or a grey long coat that would usually be worn in the winters. Though Nicholas didn't care for seasonal attires and always wore the long coat, he thought that the sweater made him appear too studious and he loathed the worry of appearance.

He reached for the books and stuffed them into his bag and made his way out of the room and down the spiral stairs.

Though the castle was meant to be a grandeur work of art, with each set of stairs leading into a small room that was made of stone, its charm had been dragged away by the not so subtle transformation. The stone was covered with cement and wallpaper, the stairs covered with carpet, and the life-size windows were curtained as if to hide the prisoner from the sunlight that was beyond. It still managed to look grander than the most lavish of mansions. The entire castle, step by step, was illuminated by candles. Each time Nicholas walked past one, the fire would flutter, threatening to silence. In the grand hall, his presence was drowned by the loud chatter of the eager students, anxiously reading through their books and exchanging information under the large chandelier that swung left and right in loud creaks.

"Professor Leonard will not have it easy this time, I just hope he doesn't give us anything from Hoffman's book in the test," one student shared.

Nicholas walked past them, almost in a hurry. He was not in the mood for any such discussions. Before he could make his escape, however, the chants of his name began echoing in the room.

"Nick!" Olaf called in a throaty roar.

"Nicholas!" He said again, but Nicholas paid no heed, instead racing away from the chambers as quickly as possible, making his way down another set of stairs. But one quick jerk made him realize that his wound was deeper than he had anticipated, making him seethe from the pains of his shoulder.

He went pale, standing still in the corridor, his tears prickled his eyes. But he continued, walking down the stairs with just as much vigor as before. Nicholas couldn't feel his limb. All he felt was the pain of carrying it around.

He walked down to another floor, and the banners of school groups hung at each entrance. The banners brought a splash of color that the grey walls desperately needed. Rugby clubs in red, swimming in blue, gardening in green, and literature in black. Nicholas always thought that was a rather odd assortment of colors. The floor had large life-sized windows that overlooked the other wing of the castle and the vast grounds. To some outer spectators, it was a view to behold, but to Nicholas, it wasn't worth a glance. A small board hung outside, Ethics and Politics, and a smaller inscription under it read Prof. Charles Wohler. Nicholas knew he was at the right place.

He turned away into a large room, filled with empty chairs. A single seat was occupied on the far side of the room, Clyde sat pompously, greeting Nicholas with a greedy smile on his face. His blonde hair had been brushed back, and his eyes widened at his presence. Nicholas watched on as a sly smirk appeared on his lips. The army green sweater seemed to be the only thing on his body that didn't gleam with pride.

The room had no windows, and a single sound of the chalk rubbing against the board echoed in the room. Professor Charles, with all his speed, wrote on the blackboard, unaware of his presence.

He continued walking down the row of chairs and sat close to the door, hoping he could somehow get a view of the outside. In just a few moments, the professor turned to see him but remained silent in his pursuit to quickly write the content he had intended to deliver in his lecture.

Soon, a crowd of people rushed in, and students sat on the seats furthest from the board. Benjamin and Olaf rushed to occupy the chairs next to Nicholas.

Nicholas adjusted himself as he watched the professor cleaning the chalk from the crevices of the board.

"You're early," the professor said, finally acknowledging his presence.

"I know," Nicholas replied, his heavy voice resounding in the large space. The professor was not a fan of his rudeness.

He turned to see Nicholas, seated before him, his dark eyes widening as he observed him.

"Where is your book?" the professor's voice echoed in the room. Each word resonated against its walls, like the flutter of a bat's wing echoing in a large cave.

"I thought you were to teach," Nicholas questioned.

"I am," the professor snapped in an instant.

"Well, if that's the case, then, Charles -" Nicholas was quick to reply, but Charles was quicker to correct him.

"It's Professor Charles," the professor snapped.

"I have it right here," Nicholas continued as he took out the book from his bag.

The professor's annoyance was evident. With a sigh, he turned to clean his board. The professor was slightly aged, but his figure seemed to resemble that of a young thirty-year-old, still a far fetch for someone who was forty-six. His hair grayed, and his beard had turned white, though he maintained it by coloring it a dark shade of black.

Nicholas examined the man before him. Never had he paid this much attention to someone's coat, or someone's tall stature, his disposition, the contents of his desk, his writing as he scribbled "Deceptive Lying" on the large board with white chalk. Neither had he been this interested in his lecture. He was left seated as students came one after another and filled the class in a matter of a few minutes. The shuffling and constant conversation filled the room that previously echoed in the silent whisper.

As soon as the bell rang, Clyde stood from his seat, shouting at each student individually to sit quietly so the professor could start the lecture. But the students became louder as he passed by.

"Silence Class!" he shouted, and everyone did as told as was routine for them. Clyde felt a tinge of annoyance as he sat back in his seat.

"Today, we have a very interesting topic to discuss," he announced.

"Lying," his voice echoed once more as silence reached the far end of the room

"Now, lying has vast application, we lie on the daily. Perhaps you have made a false justification for one before you have entered this class. But most of what we think are lies may not be lies at all," The professor moved around the class with ecstatic energy. His passion for this lecture seemed to be in motion. With the white chalk in his hand, he delivered his first few opening lines as though leading a choir, signaling highs and lows.

"What is a lie? Can anyone tell me?" he looked around the class for any input.

"Deception," Clyde answered, but the professor didn't look towards him, still searching the sea of idle faces for an answer, until the defeated teacher took in the answer.

"What is deception?" he questioned the class.

"Leading someone away from the truth," the agitated Clyde had answered. Nicholas's eyes fixated on the professor who was avoiding acknowledging his presence.

"That is correct," the professor said, walking back to his board and writing the answer on the dark green board.

"How do people lie? Does one represent falsehood by words? What is a liar's intent? If a man speaks ill of someone's character, but the man himself does not believe himself, does he deceive, or does he not?" the professor questioned.

"A liar deceives when he represents something he himself does not believe. This simple intention is not what represents deception," Clyde answered. The professor looked at Nicholas, hoping he would have answered but was immediately disappointed.

"Right, you are Clyde!" he said as he commended the boy who tried so hard.

"When someone presents a play, presenting themselves as a cynical villain who demands death and destruction, he is representing something he does not believe, but does that make him a liar? If one proudly proclaims he is a notorious thief but says in a different tone or winks afterwards, we can not directly assume he is decieving us. Another annotation of a deceiver is that he intends to keep his intentions hidden from the hearer. When Saint Athanasius truthfully said that Athanasius 'is not far away', he attempted to communicate to the soldiers that he was not Athanasius. Thus, since he intended to mislead them into thinking that he was not Athanasius, he was deceptively lying. The sole reasoning of a lie is based on these two principles," The professor's deep concentration was broken as Nicholas spoke.

"But he told the truth," Nicholas contradicted him. The simple utterance had the professor quietly contemplating what Nicholas meant.

"It was a lie if he attempted to deceive the soldiers into thinking he was not who he was looking for," the professor responded. He was relieved by Nicholas's intervention.

The professor scanned the hall before his eyes rested on the boy who spoke again.

"It was not a lie in the literal sense if Athanasius himself did not conceal the truth. He was truthful in saying that he was indeed not far away," Nicholas repeated himself.

"But he did not tell him about his whereabouts and lead them away from him," the professor made his argument. The entire class listened in silence as the two made their sides of the argument.

"What Athanasius stood for was a half-truth. Withholding half the truth is not lying. If he had told them 'I do not know who Athanasius is' he would have been lying," Nicholas remarked, it wasn't so much as a matter of intellect, he was annoyed at the implication of his professor's perceived intellect.

"Withholding truth is a lie, a bald-faced lie," the professor was uncompromising in his resolve. "If a person is coughing blood and shedding hair, do you tell him the truth of his illness or withhold it?" he asked.

"It's not a lie to withhold truth. It's a lie to contradict the truth, and if it prevents conflict, why would you tell the truth?" Nicholas retorted.

"It's a bald-faced lie if the patient is aware of his condition," the professor responded, "just as it is if I say 'Nicholas is not a drunkard', is it not?" he shot back. The entire class erupted in laughter. Even Benjamin snickered shrilly in his seat. Nicholas simply stared at him as the professor smirked.

"If Nicholas turns up at my door, covered in dog litter, splotches of wine on his dress and wearing a woman's petticoat instead of men's clothing, I'd likely think he is indeed lying when he is saying he is not drunk despite what he says to justify his lie," the professor's remarks made quite an uproar. He looked at the class, and that finally seemed to be engaged with what he said. But he was slightly taken aback to see Nicholas smiling widely at his own insult.

"Just as one might say that he did not beg the principal to not remove him from his job after he—" Nicholas halted as Olaf nudged him. A response was never made, and the entire class silenced. The professor stared, his eyes widened as if to say,'I dare you'. No one in the class made so much effort to coo at his half-baked retort, and Nicholas realized he was satisfied with his answer. It was as though he had kept everyone in the dark, and only him and his opponent had known what he meant.

The professor cleared his throat, turning away from all distractions, returning to the board he had made, and continued his lecture.

"Deceivers, more often than not, don't have an intention to keep their intention hidden. Deceptive liars often want this intention to be completely open. In fact, they sometimes go to great lengths to make manifest to their host that they intend to represent themselves as believing in their lie. For example, a deceptive liar or a truth teller might assert their lie and then say,'I swear that that is what I believe'..." he continued the rest of his lecture without making any stops to entertain questions. He met Nicholas's eyes countless times, his eyes searched for a better distraction, despite his mind mapping everything he had said, making meticulous thoughts of his lecture, he wished he hadn't taken to argue with Nicholas.

Nicholas, however, seemed greatly happy with the silence. He wanted to simply observe, but the professor's remark was not very welcoming, and yet he still came out victorious. Such was his life on the daily.

As soon as the peon sounded the bell, the professor departed like a hurried cat, leaving the class full of students, buzzing to immerse in their conversations, of the eventful few moments at the start of the lecture.

Nicholas stood from his seat, taking his quick leave before anyone else. Benjamin, keenly aware of Nicholas's abrupt exit, moved with a cautious grace after him, determined not to ruffle any feathers or betray his silent pursuit. With nimble steps, he followed the man he sought to shadow, moving through the bustling room like a phantom into a silent hallway.

And then, as though guided by intuition, Nicholas abruptly turned, his eyes locking onto Benjamin's approaching figure. Nicholas took a deep breath, mustering up all his energy and strength, with a deftness that hinted at hidden strength, he delivered a devastating blow to Benjamin's head, a strike laden with intent, one he knew would render the young man incapacitated for a long time. Yet as he retreated, his arm felt numb. The pain in his shoulder meant he could not move at all.

Benjamin fell to the floor, seething and crying.

"Ferguson!" he shouted for help.

Nicholas nudged him, picking him up from the floor and carrying his weight as though he himself wasn't on the verge of collapsing.

This was a deliberate attempt, an excuse to make his visit to the hospital a necessity.