Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Metalsmith

HI!

This chapter does contain some content that may be triggering so;
TW:// graphic descriptions of depression

The comedown was a brutal one.

I needed some time to rest, and so I gave myself a 'three day limit.' With that time, I failed to think about what had happened and I failed to get any real rest. When my limit rolled around, I was just as tired. If not more so.

I sort of lost track of the days after that. Feigning illness wasn't as difficult as it should've been. I don't think Gloria believed it, but she let the excuse slide nonetheless. Occasionally, she'd come into my room with soup or water and her bright, bubbly smile. Each time she spoke to me in this quiet, respectful voice as though I were a dying patient she had to tend to. 'You sure you're doing alright, baby?' She'd ask. And, without fail, I'd smile and say 'just not feeling well.' She and I both knew that's not what she was concerned about, but the matter was never pressed.

'You sure you're doing alright, baby?' The words played on repeat in my head for hours after she'd said them. I was fine. Perfectly, wonderfully fine. Fine, but I just needed some time away from training. Fine, but the thought of flipping onto my side felt like one big, sadistic joke. Fine, but breathing was a chore and I wished my lungs would collapse so I didn't have to do it any longer.

When I was alone, I would spend the day alternating between staring at the ceiling and staring the door. Sometimes I'd think about Papa. Other times I'd think about Six. Most times, I thought about nothing at all. I liked being alone. There was no one to make me feel guilty or angry or sad. There was just me, the tile, the bed, and the silence.

The air conditioner turned on and off in cycles. At first, it annoyed me. Then the hours stretched into days and I couldn't even be bothered to notice the difference. I'd simply close my eyes, pretend I wasn't in my body, and then everything would just sink.

It didn't always work like that. I alternated between feeling nothing and feeling everything. I preferred the former. If it were up to me, the latter wouldn't even exist. Of course, though, it wasn't my decision to make. During those times, I'd cry until no sound came out. Or I'd cry until too much sound came out, and I'd have to slap my hand over my mouth as to not alert anyone waiting outside.

I told myself to fight. To ignore the hopelessness that lingered at the back of my mind during every moment of everyday. The possibility that, maybe, this was an unescapable situation, and life would continue to be this awful until I died. I thought I could simply swallow it down. Bury the feeling beneath smiles I shared with Six, looks I shared with Peter. I figured the universe must've had an omnipotent vendetta against me. And so it would laugh in my face as the feeling resurfaced, taunting me for every trying to deny it.

Paranoia, exhaustion, and hopelessness proved to be a fearsome triad that I had no hope of defending against.

The hopelessness I had so desperately fought against manifested itself as a piece of metal buried beneath my skin. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. With each inhale, I gave it life. The metal grew into a link, which grew into a chain that wrapped around my wrists and ankles, pinning my me to my bed. Veins, arteries, tissue, and bone scraped together as they turned to metal.

My very own mind acted as the metalsmith.

I should've fought against my make-believe restraints. Someone smarter than me, someone stronger, would have fought. They would've taken a scalpel to their skin, slicing through muscle until the little bead of metal was taken care of. I wished I was that person. But I had always hated knives, and I relished in the feeling of metal poking holes through my body, wrapping around my limbs until I couldn't even breathe anymore.