Nonconformity | Henry Creel

I Should've Known

AHHHH GUYS. I FUCKING ADORE THIS CHAPTER.

Im not gonna spoil but I think you guys will like it too

Just to clear up some confusion before you read, In this chapter I talk about how henry's head is like misshapen in his memories ( this'll make sense once you read) and that is because we are viewing these moments from HIS point of view, and so he doesn't see his face while he's living through these moments. (For example, you can't see your own face when you're having a conversation)

if this seems confusing, the chapter will make it make more sense.

it also has some symbolic significance but you can interpret it however you'd like.

I mutely paced my bedroom, careful to keep my steps light and my breathing even. Peter didn't stir once. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, then two. Guilt fell like snow in my body, piling up higher and higher as the moments passed. Now I stood ankle deep in it. My body had long since been numbed by the icy cold wind that blew over me whenever I looked at him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I already fucking drugged him, I couldn't go back now.

I knew I had to go into his mind, invading his privacy and possibly obliterating any fondness that he held for me in the process. It took me a long while to gather up the courage to look at him, let alone begin sifting through his memories in search of answers. He looked so fucking idyllic laying there, it was as though my bed were made just for him. Just for this moment. His hair was a lovely mess around his head, coral lips drawing in soft, feigning breaths. He held a pillow against his chest, one which had taken my place in his arms after I managed to wriggle away.

I felt sick. Somehow, he managed to touch every single inch of my bedroom in just a few hours. I couldn't think clearly when I caught sight of my underwear on the floor, where Peter had callously thrown it aside. He was fucking inescapable.

I couldn't allow myself to be spineless. Not when I had him exactly where I wanted him. Beauty alone couldn't clear Peter's name, and I refused to disrespect Henry by allowing his possible killer to slip through my fingers.

I remembered that little boy once more, strapped down to a chair while Papa cut into his skin. How afraid he had looked, how helpless. If Peter had really killed him, he was no better than Papa. For the millionth time, I tried to tell myself he wasn't capable of such an atrocity, but then logic broke through my rose colored glasses and slapped me in the face-- reminding me that Peter was, indeed, capable of such a thing.

He wielded beauty and cruelty like golden knives perpetually strapped to his side.

I knew he could be calculated. I knew he could be unfeeling. I knew I needed answers as desperately I needed the air in my lungs, but I also needed him. I walked a fine line, teetering side to side, narrowly avoiding a fall into the abyss below. How much longer could I keep this up?

I cast my adoration for Peter aside as I collapsed on my knees beside him. Still, he didn't stir, unperturbed and lovely as always. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Focus," I scolded under my breath. My fingers wound themselves up in Peter's hair as I desperately tried not to think about how silky it was, or how perfect he looked, or--

An irritated sigh fell from my throat. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed my eyes and turned my attention to my abilities. They uncoiled themselves from a pit deep in my stomach, gradually seeping into my veins. My cheeks rosed with the sudden warmth which overcame me. I could feel my fingertips heating up where they met Peter's head, the epicenter of my focus. The blue floodlights flickered on and off, a clear indicator that whatever I was doing, it was working.