Nonconformity | Henry Creel

To be Slaughtered

GUYS. OH. MY. GOD.

THIS IS THE BEST PIECE OF WRITING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN. THERE IS A SCENE AT THE END AND I SWEAR IT IS THE BEST MY WRITNIG HAS EVER BEEN.

literally shitting my pants I am so proud of this one.

VERY important sixteen and Peter moment at the end. I

Peter wasn't in the Rainbow Room the next morning.

Six's voice came in and out of focus as she ranted to me about some book she was reading. I didn't register a single word, too preoccupied glaring daggers at the doors, praying they'd open up and Peter would walk through. At first, I figured he was just late. Maybe he ran out of identical white suits to wear and had to throw in a load of laundry. Or maybe he had to practice the next ambiguous monologue he was gonna give me about my abilities. My grasp on common sense seemed to be loosening with each passing moment.

The next thing I knew, hours passed, and still no Peter.

That was when the panic really set in. What were the chances that McLaughlin dies and then Peter goes missing? I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was a coincidence. Not after his promise to make sure McLaughlin wouldn't 'try anything again.' Anxiety had my knee bouncing up and down beneath the table. I didn't even blink, afraid that he would show up and I'd somehow miss it.

I had this awful black hole in my stomach that told me he might have done something incredibly impulsive and ill-advised. Peter was smart. So, ridiculously smart. He would know how to shut down the power, he would know how to time a murder just right. I recalled the severity which filled his eyes when he pulled me into the training room. The cold, collected fury, sealed beneath immaculate clothing and rigid posture. That man could kill someone. Of that, I had no doubt.

No.

No. He was above such a thing. He wouldn't kill someone for me. Peter wasn't capable of a crime so brutal as slitting one's throat. How could he? His smooth, gentle hands weren't even calloused. Sure, he had his more... unhinged... tendencies, but murder was not one of them. I strained to even picture him holding a knife.

'Sometimes, I wish I could hurt people too.'

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Peter was a fucking idiot.

An idiot who was most definitely capable of taking a life. Too much time came and went. I exhausted all possible explanations. The final conclusion I reached made me feel physically ill. Peter killed McLaughlin. And then he got caught.

I told him not to do anything. I fucking told him. Of course, stupid, stubborn, heedless Peter didn't listen. I swore, when I saw him again, I was going to wring his fucking neck. That is if Papa hadn't done it already.

I pictured him on the floor of that dreadful, tiled room, tasers ferociously digging into every single exposed piece of skin. Head thrown back, cries echoing from his lips. I never wanted to hear him beg again. I never wanted to hear him so helpless. Papa didn't show up that morning either. At first, I figured he was simply too focused on finding the culprit and didn't think to check in with the patients. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the culprit had already been identified. Maybe Papa was already exacting punishment. My heart ached, my stomach clenched. Never in my entire life had I wanted to see Peter so badly. See his insufferable, unabating blue eyes glaring into mine. I wanted him to be sat right in front of me, to bicker, to condescend, to do whatever he pleased so long as he was here.

At that moment, I would have taken him at his very worst just to make sure he was okay.

He should've been here.