Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Fatal

QUICK ANNOUNCEMENT— I KNOW THIS CHAPTER MIGHT SEEM ANTICLIMACTIC, BUT IT HELPS SET UP THE FINAL 5 CHAPTERS. AHHHHHHHH. I elaborate at the end of the chapter. I hope you enjoy!!

I liked to tell myself that I was a logical person.

Although I did loose control from time to time, most of the decisions I made came from my head rather than my heart. Each time I had a new problem to overcome, I allowed myself a grace period. Depending on the urgency of the issue, that period could be a day or maybe even a week. Either way, I'd use my time to analyze said problem, figure out the best way to address it, and then brainstorm possible consequences that would follow.

Logic was my native language, one which weighed heavily on my tongue with its rational accent.

What really sucked, though, was the fact that logic was completely thrown out the window in the Lab. Everyone spoke a language I couldn't possibly understand, littered with words like 'telekinesis' and 'extrasensory perception.' Most everything felt like a fever dream of bland walls, empty rooms, and awful, fluorescent lights.

There was no 'logic' when it came to visions of dead children and bright red phones. I couldn't sit back and allow myself a grace period because I had no fucking clue where to start. It was impossible to differentiate dream from vision, real from fiction. How do I address an issue when I can't even fully comprehend what it is?

For the duration of my walk to the Rainbow Room, I tried to understand what last night's dream meant. I recalled the brush of Peter's fingertips against my wrist, the feeling of his lips forming words on my skin. That was one of the few things about last night that I understood. I liked Peter far more than I liked most things-- of course he would show up in my dream. What didn't make sense, though, was how quickly he went from sweet and doting to possessive and condescending. How his fingers wrapped around my wrist, reminding me that he was gentle to me only because he chose to, that he was fully capable of hurting me should he change his mind. It made even less sense that I couldn't bring myself to resent him for that.

My adoration for him wasn't healthy. It was intimate and risky and probably misguided. Deep down, I had a feeling it wouldn't end well at all. Deeper still, I knew the risk of crashing and burning with him was far better than our flame being huffed out.

The entire situation made my head spin.

Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the worst of it. Whether I liked Peter or not, I still had to figure out what he did to One. A sinking feeling in my gut told me perhaps this could take a turn for the worst. There wasn't a question if Peter was capable of murder-- he himself confessed to killing McLaughlin. Truthfully, it was hard to picture him lacing a knife across someone's throat. Blood splattered on his pristine suit, silky blonde hair a mess around his head. I knew it was truly wrong to think of Peter in such a state and still be enamored with him.

I couldn't help myself.

I really, truly couldn't.

When I pushed a familiar set of grey, double doors open, the sound of toys clattering greeted me. A final sigh fell from my lips before I was able to convince myself to enter. Once I had, my eyes scanned the room. Four was in the corner, hunched over a puzzle, looking dismal as ever. Number Ten sat in front of some pieces of origami, an art he had slowly but surely been getting better at. Six was at our usual table, wrist zooming back and forth as she scribbled away at a piece of paper.

I made a beeline for her.

I don't think I was consciously looking for Peter. Nonetheless, as I walked to Six, my gaze was drawn to a lovely white suit and sandy blonde hair. Cross-legged in front of a plinko board, he watched as the young girl next to him dropped a chip. Number Eleven, I believe her name was, wore a deep frown as her chip landed in the '6' spot. Peter smiled at her failed attempt. When he opened his mouth to offer advice, his eyes met mine, and he paused. A brief halt was all it was, a dying of the words in his throat. Our eyes were magnets, his north, mine south. It was intrinsic, unavoidable, for my gaze to be drawn to his.