Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Mind Your Language

I knew it.

I fucking knew it.

'Don't trust Peter' I had said. 'It's too risky.'

And that task had been so, nauseatingly simple at first. As easy as breathing. Grouping him with everyone else was the most logical thing I'd ever done in his regard. But then, the motherfucker let me go. Sweet, kind, lovely Peter had watched as I walked free. I should've known that it wouldn't stop there. I should've known that he'd proceed to prove himself time and time again. With his beautiful smile, beautiful words, beautiful fucking everything. As I thought it all over, every single interaction we'd ever had felt like one big ploy to win my trust.

And it almost worked.

I had been, perhaps, one more sentimental moment away from giving in completely. Surrendering to those awful, cerulean eyes. Then testing day happened. The smug little shit tricked me, failing to mention his stupid fucking diary and how it had fallen into Papa's hands. God-- just the thought made my blood boil. How had I not caught on until then? I should have known something was wrong when he didn't try to convince me to try during the tests. Of course, he wouldn't let all those hours go to waste, not when it was Papa he'd have to answer to. I wasn't sure if he had given the notes before or after he knew about the threat posed against me, but either way, he had fucked up. If he tricked me once, what was to stop him from tricking me again?

I had fabricated our entire relationship. That was the only logical conclusion. He saw me as a part of his job. He probably had the same words for me and every other child he'd ever mentored. Oh, but that didn't make sense either. I highly doubt the other children had seen Peter getting punished or listened to him explain the wicked ways in which Papa conducted himself.

The entire thing made my head spin.

All I knew was that I was fucking pissed, and Peter would have to get on his fucking hands and knees and beg for my forgiveness if he ever wanted me to trust him again.

As training began and Peter led me toward our destination, I did not look at him. Nor did I speak to him. We walked side by side in complete silence, broken only by the rattling of the air conditioner overhead. His eyes, annoyingly, remained glued to my face. He watched me as he would an active bomb, apprehensive and expecting, prepared for me to blow up at any moment. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

When we arrived at a set of double doors, unmarked and grey just like the rest, he pushed one open and gestured for me to go inside. I did so without a word. No matter how petty it was, I hoped my cold shoulder made him uncomfortable.

I stood in the center of what I assumed was a kitchen. White tile occupied the entire room aside from the ceiling, which housed light bulbs and the occasional sprinkler. There were a few ovens, an industrial-sized fridge, and two sinks. Aside from that, there were rows upon rows of bleached, colorless cabinets.

The a/c was even louder in there.

"How long do you plan on moping, Sixteen?" Peter asked, suddenly right beside me. I didn't know what he hoped to accomplish with the question, because all it did was aggravate me further. I had every right to 'mope.'

I sniffed. "As long as I please, Peter. That is unless you plan on tricking me into a better mood."

"I'm not going to trick you."

"Why?" I asked, "You're so good at it."

He positioned himself in front of me. The corners of his lips tugged downward, creating the smallest hint of a frown. "Don't be angry with me," He urged, "Yes, I gave him the notes knowing the risk. I didn't want to trick you, Sixteen, but you wouldn't have succeeded if I hadn't." His confession only made things worse. It meant he was willing to put me in harm's way for his own gain.