Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Oh, Sixteen

"Quiet, Sixteen," Papa's voice was accompanied by an especially painful jab of the needle. I gasped, angling my body every which way in a desperate, fruitless attempt to escape the inky blackness that polluted my bloodstream. "This is for your own good. I had hoped that you weren't foolish enough to fight it, but I suppose we've both been disappointed, hm?"

"Stop it," my voice was quieter, sharper and every bit as biting as Papa's, "Stop pretending to care about me. Stop pretending to have my best interests at heart--."

"--I'm not pretending, Sixteen," His face was warped by the lighting, and he appeared almost demonic, "I have two options presented before me." His glare was withering. This man was a completely different person to the 'Papa' I had known only hours earlier. "Option one... kill you before you can hurt anyone else. Truthfully, it's the easier of the two."

My blood ran cold.

"Option two, help you hone your abilities. Prevent you from hurting anyone else, including yourself. Do you think I want you dead, Daughter?" He allowed the slightest bit of warmth to slip into his gaze. He squeezed my hand, desperate to appear endearing, desperate to establish a connection. But I wouldn't allow it. I didn't relent, not even for a second. He analyzed my unchanged features for a few moments, and then he sighed, "The guard that you bludgeoned-- do you remember him?" I remained silent. "He's dead. You killed him."

The light above us exploded.

My anger deserted me faster than I thought possible. Pure, untapped grief replaced it by a tenfold. All words died in my throat. Murderer, murderer, murderer. My brain seemed to forget everything else as it chanted without mercy, without pause. Each nerve in my body screamed for relief. I had never experienced an emotion so strong. The tears spilled from my eyes as if a floodgate had burst, drenching the entire world in a salty plague.

Papa acted as a lifeline, rubbing my arm and assuring me all would be well, I would just have to listen to him-- to trust him. And yet, I knew I could never do so, at least not entirely. Still, I nodded and agreed to every word he said.

That was his game.

Bringing me to the precipice of losing my mind, swallowed whole by grief, and then pulling me back. As if he wasn't the one who put me there. Who forced me into this impossible situation that I was helpless to navigate.

I hated him. I hated him with every bone in my aching, broken body. But I also loved him because I had no choice, and resistance would mean death. He only had so much patience. I was past the point of no return, my skin had already been marred, and though I swore I would have rather died than get to where I was now, I owed it to myself not to roll over and die.

And so I allowed him to console me with one thought on my mind.

I would comply with my actions, but never-- under any circumstance-- would I comply with my soul.

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of mind-numbing activities all under the guise of 'training.' Papa would visit me every morning at exactly eight a.m. I was not allowed to speak to anyone but him, not even the nurses or guards who attended to me. I was fed the same bland food in the same white rooms in the same scratchy hospital scrubs.

Papa said I was in solitary confinement, though it ended today. My training was meant to strengthen my 'abilities,' but I seemed to be making absolutely no progress. I hadn't seen the people deemed my 'siblings' since the day of my failed escape, and I remained just as powerless as before.

The only development was the air conditioning.

Or, I suppose it would be my reaction to the air conditioning. It grew louder every morning. I almost thought they were turning it up just to spite me. The unrelenting, deafening billow of air from the cursed machines drove me mad. I hoped that it would eventually fade to white noise, and yet it just came back stronger and more ear-piercing each time.