Nonconformity | Henry Creel

McLaughlin

I never quite understood the term 'dying of boredom' until I had to spend three weeks in recovery. Sitting in a hospital bed, surrounded by the incessant noise of both the air conditioning and the heart monitor was enough to drive any person insane. On top of that, I wasn't allowed to leave the room without a guard flanking me, which just about trampled any chance I had of enjoying myself. There was no adventuring down new hallways or sneaking into the kitchen with Roger breathing down my neck at all hours of the day.

Fucking Roger. The bane of my existence, clad in his stupid green uniform with his stupid unibrow and-- good fucking god-- that man's social skills were as deficient as his personality. Watching paint dry with a blindfold on seemed like a thrill ride compared to a conversation with Roger.

I admit, the weeks had amped up my irritation with... Well, everything, I suppose. On day two, Gloria told me that my recovery would be a lengthy one, and so I'd have to form a routine to keep myself out of my own head. I appreciated her for looking out for me, and lord knew I wanted to avoid that awful headspace I fell into after everything happened with Peter, so I obliged.

Day four spawned my official routine. Every morning since, I woke up at eight o'clock. Then, I'd have the same breakfast of pulpy orange juice, toast, and an egg. The term 'toast' was a generous title for the food. It wasn't ever really toasted, just kind of warm like someone had stuck it in the toaster for five seconds and pulled it out. Either way, I would simply shut up and eat what I was given without complaint. Sometimes I would read, but then I'd get annoyed at myself for not understanding the occasional word and give up. Afterwards, I'd sit back in bed and day dream about having another soda or doing impossibly rash and stupid just because I was bored.

Mid-day was probably my favorite part of my routine. I'd pass the time until Six came around by practicing my abilities. They were far stronger than they had been during Two and Four's attack, but I still pushed myself. I didn't want to be that weak ever again; sleepless, out of practice, completely unable to defend myself. I fantasized about getting even with them, hitting them back harder, and so I developed a plan. If Two or Four ever strayed from the group, I'd follow them, try to shut off the cameras with my abilities, and then promptly beat them into something as pulpy as my orange juice. I'll admit, it wasn't the most well-thought-out or fool-proof idea I ever thought of, but at least it was something. After that, Six would come around with her walkman and her favorite seven tapes. We would listen to them over and over, and then I'd berate her for having bad taste in music and she'd berate me for saying that since I didn't know any other music.

After our attack, Six and I were questioned relentlessly as Papa searched for any possible indication of the perpetrator. We both claimed to have amnesia. Six had said the trauma of the incident made it difficult to recount, like her brain refused to let her remember. I claimed that the sheer physical damage I endured made me forget the incident altogether. With both of our memories allegedly mangled beyond repair, no one was ever brought to justice for the ambush. To this day, I was shocked that it actually worked. Papa might have been one of the most cruel, infuriating men to ever exist, but he wasn't stupid. Hidden beneath his boring clothes and mediocre personality, he was quite intelligent, and so I expected him to catch onto our lies as soon as they'd spilled past our lips. Three weeks passed, though, and there wasn't so much as a peep.

My alleged amnesia wasn't a total lie. There were bits and pieces of the fight I couldn't remember. Like when Six broke her rib or Peter found me barely conscious. Perhaps I wouldn't be so worried if it just ended there. After my 'seizure' erased any memories of my old life, I figured there wasn't anything else to forget. The past few months regrettably proved me wrong. There were new, odd gaps in my memory that I couldn't quite place. Random conversations I didn't recall having, words that I used before but suddenly didn't know the meaning of. Maybe there was some sort of lasting damage to my brain's hipocamp-thingy. I always had a sinking feeling that something was wrong, but I hoped it was just my paranoia.