Nonconformity | Henry Creel

I Hate You

I was used to treachery.

So, incredibly used to it that I'd grown paranoid of my own shadow. Who knew? What if it turned around and swallowed me whole? It was exhausting, being suspicious of the very walls that enclosed me in my own colorless hell. Could I be blamed, though? To survive, I had to adapt. Naivety would only put me in danger, and I refused to be lead to the slaughter like some mindless little lamb. I'd kick and punch until my muscles were rendered obsolete, and after that, I'd bite. Laying over and dying was never an option I had the privilege of choosing. I'd been through too much, been hurt too many times. Call it pride or the highest form of delusion, I didn't care.

I learned to adjust to my environment and see through Papa's parental ruse. His smiles, his endearment, his promises of safety. They all rang hallow through my head, disappearing as quickly as a puff of air in icy cold weather. He never had me fooled.

Peter, however... Peter had me fooled.

I once believed we shared a sense of otherness. That we both recognized the demented innerworkings of the tiled halls caging us in. I thought he trusted me. We'd spent hours together, exchanging smiles, secrets and comfort that we both desperately needed. I could have sworn it wasn't one sided. That he cared for me, at the very least. And I could live with the fact that he wouldn't ever treasure me as I treasured him. Settling was easy when his eyes met mine, when he smiled, when he laughed. Perhaps it was foolish of me to consider him my friend. Some days, though, it felt so, incredibly real. But of course not.

Of course not.

I should've known. How many times had I repeated that saying in my head when he tricked me into the program? Hundreds, maybe thousands. Even still, I managed to forget the phrase as soon as he sent his awful grin my way. Like a spineless fool, I groveled at his feet, knowing he could kick me in the face if he pleased and yet fully convinced he would not. So that's exactly what he did. He lulled me into a false sense of security with his beauty, his warmth, only to smash my teeth in with the polished black tip of his shoe.

I should've been more angry. I should've been more surprised.

But things had always been this way, and they probably always would be.

So I stared at Peter in complete silence, the tape grasped between my sweating palms. The hurt of his betrayal, the sting of salt in a wound, it showed in my gaze. No one moved. The world had stopped and forced me to sit in the pain, hoping-- no, praying-- that it would kill me. The walls laughed, the door wheezed, the very air I breathed mocked me. How could you be so foolish? So blind?

I had no answer.

"So, what now?" My voice broke the silence, bitter and unsteady, lashing like a whip through the air around us. "Is it fulfilling, being Papa's little bitches?" I jerked my hand towards them playfully. Two of the guards winced away, as though closing their eyes would protect them. They were lucky, I suppose, that I hadn't actually tried anything. A smile played at my lips, "Why so jumpy? Don't tell me you're scared."

"Mind your manners, Sixteen," Peter's voice almost mirrored mine, the key difference being that I was far, far angrier. His deep, authoritative voice typically stuck an unsettling-- perhaps even fearful-- cord in me. Not today. Instead, it acted like coal to my already raging fire.

"Mind my manners?" I raised two incredulous eyebrows. "Oh, oh. That's my fault, I didn't realize I was talking to the fucking bastion of politeness. Please, enlighten me. What's the most polite course of action to take in a situation like this?"

His eyes were frozen, practically stone. The warmth I once adored was a ghost, his expression so devoid that I was forced to wonder if it'd ever been there in the first place. "Stop with the theatrics," He spat, as though I didn't have a right to be angry. As though I was a ridiculous, mindless child throwing a tantrum.