Nonconformity | Henry Creel

A Fall From Grace

Peter held my forearm as though it were sand falling through his hands. Urgent, desperate fingers wrapped so tightly, I expected them to paint my skin black and blue. He didn't say a single word as he listlessly dragged me down hallway after hallway, staring into every camera with a hatred that was nearly palpable. He forced us to halt outside of a plain, unmarked training room and ushered me inside.

My weary limbs screamed in relief when I leaned against the tiled wall. It was cold to the touch, a loving embrace for my feverish skin. The re-opened wound on my arm wept crimson tears, staining the sleeve of my hospital gown. I couldn't be bothered to stop it.

Peter didn't glance at the camera in the corner of the room like he typically did. That's when I realized there wasn't one for him to glare at. Whatever was about to happen, he didn't want anyone to see it.

I barely restrained the urge to break down crying right then and there. Just when I thought things were getting better; just when I thought things could be okay. McLaughlin, his tasers, that poor cat. They showed up and made a mess of it all. I must've been an awful person before I lost my memories. Maybe I had this coming. The universe was punishing me for my past sins and laughing because I couldn't possibly redeem myself. How does one repent for a transgression they don't remember?

Of course I wouldn't cry, though. Not while Peter watched. I was humiliated enough as it was. With Two and Four's attack, with my failure to defend myself from McLaughlin, I didn't need to make a fool of myself in front of Peter, too.

"No cameras," My laugh was strained. I was on the verge of tears, begging myself to just hold it together long enough to make it back to my room, "Perfect time for you to kill me."

His eyes narrowed. Apparently he didn't find my joke very funny.

Silence followed. It seemed Peter was more perturbed than I was. Strands of vanilla colored hair fell onto his face, but he didn't seem to notice, too focused on glaring at me. Unabating blue eyes greedily watched my every movement. Each twitch of my finger, each rise and fall of my chest. I squirmed beneath his unrelenting stare.

"Maybe I should just go to the nurse?" I suggested after a few more moments passed, "You probably have, you know, orderly shit to do--."

"--What did he do?" I was taken aback by the anger in his voice. No, no, it was more than anger. It was hatred. Burning hot and simmering off of him in slow, rolling waves. If he was an angel, then he had fallen from grace.

I sighed, "You saw, Peter, didn't you? He tased me."

"Don't be coy, Sixteen. What else did he do?"

"It doesn't matter," I shrugged, "It's nothing Papa wouldn't do."

"That's not an answer," He spat. I couldn't shake the suffocating feeling that I was cornered as he took slow, careful steps towards me. "Look at you. You're bruised, you're bleeding. Tasers don't inflict such wounds."

"Do we really have to get into the gory details?" I tried to cross my arms, but a biting pain shot through my ripped open stitches. Peter's stare didn't relent, as though he were trying to coax an answer out of me with looks alone. I could feel the pressure of his eyes boring into my brain, pushing on my temples, crushing my skull in. "Fuck, fine, stop glaring at me. He had me pet a cat and it scratched me." I showed him the claw mark on my thumb, "See? It's fine. I'm fine."

"What else?"

"He didn't do anything else."

"Clearly he did."

"You're being unreasonable."

"What else, Sixteen?"

Irritation curled in my gut. It's like he wanted me to be mad at him. "He slapped me, Peter. Is that what you want to hear? Are you satisfied?" I returned his glare with equal intensity, "You and I both know nothing is gonna come of this. Papa would've done the exact same given the chance, so why would he punish McLaughlin for it? I've dealt with worse. It's not a big deal."