Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Oh, Sixteen

I woke up to a faint buzzing sound. My skin was slick with sweat, and I could feel a terrible headache coming on. Exhaustion rippled through me. My limbs felt like dead weight, and I was helpless to control them. I wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep.

Then I felt a sting on my arm.

I hissed, and my eyes shot open. I didn't know where I was or how I had gotten there. I could hardly see through my sleep-wracked eyes. Everything was blurry, coming in and out of focus too fast for me to comprehend. I had to pause and close my eyes. My strength had completely abandoned me. The warm, alluring pull of sleep yanked at my subconscious, and I wished for nothing more than to give into it.

But I couldn't, because-- motherfucker-- it felt like someone was jabbing my arm with burning hot nails. I winced against the pain and tried my hardest to ignore it. After a few more seconds of trying to fall back asleep, I gave up.

With the little energy I had left, I opened my eyes again. My vision remained far too bleary for me to see anything decipherable. When I moved my hand to rub my eyes, I was met with resistance. I froze.

I tried again, but my wrists were stuck steadfastly in their place.

I blinked furiously, clearing my eyes well enough to make out my surroundings. The room I sat in was almost entirely empty, aside from a small table to my left and whatever chair I was perched upon. Dark, dingy metal walls met a metal ceiling, making the room feel more like a cage than the former.

I felt another sharp, aching pinch on my wrist.

My gaze snapped to a man who knelt by my side, one I hadn't noticed in my sleepy haze. I blinked once again, slower this time. Every move I made seemed to buffer, as though I were processing them a long while after they occurred.

"You drugged me," My voice was thick with sleep and almost inaudible. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what being drugged felt like. But whatever daze I was in certainly wasn't due to sleeping.

"I didn't have much of a choice, Number Sixteen," Papa's firm, disapproving voice made my vision just a bit clearer and my mind just a bit sharper. I sat up in my seat, though it still took far too much of my energy. "Do you remember what you did?"

"What I... did?" My mind was spinning. Had I experienced some sort of seizure aftershock? Annoyance hit me like a speeding truck; I was growing rather weary of forgetting things. The pain in my wrist persisted.

When I mustered the gall to look down at whatever was ailing me, my breath caught in my throat. Papa wore a pair of black surgical gloves, which were gripped around a gun of sorts. Except instead of a hallow barrel, there was a needle at the end. A needle that pierced my flesh without mercy, producing harsh, black lines on my wrist in the shape of a '0' and a '1'.

Processed.

The word acted as a trigger, and suddenly hours' worth of neglected memories resurfaced. All at once, flashing before my eyes, unrelenting in their vividity. A digital clock, coated in red-- the smell of pennies. A man slumped against a bed, staining the perfectly white floor crimson. Slippers padding through an endless maze of white hallways. Lost, lost, lost. Flashing lights, adrenaline, each and every nerve feeling as though it had been set on fire. Peter. Peter staring at me, Peter walking towards me, Peter letting me go.

My energy had been restored.

I fought with newfound vigor, pulling at my restraints as hard as I possibly could, each and every limb shaking with the effort. My nostrils flared when I met Papa's eyes, my entire body burning with hatred as raw as the skin on my wrist. "Let me go!" My voice ricocheted off of the metal walls, each syllable dripping poison, "You can't do this, you can't make me another cog in your fucked up machine!"