Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Arson

The tile wouldn't burn at first. But the mops would, the brooms. My outstretched hand made sure of it. I tensed my muscles and pushed all of my energy forward, arms growing numb as power overtook each and every nerve. The fire spread, crawling up the walls and along the ceiling. Heat radiated over my body as I watched the flames demolish straw and wood, warping the air around them.

It was an enchanting sight, made better by the power in my veins, heady as wine.

I broke with a cry, pulling my hands to my sides and watching for a few moments. The fire now acted on its own accord, crawling through the storage room and eating away at the door. I rubbed a hand underneath my nose, blood staining my skin when I pulled it away.

My nostrils burnt as I inhaled the smoke, signaling that it was time to leave. Still, I couldn't help but linger, no matter how unwise. The destruction was my creation, beautiful in a way that only I could possibly understand. Part of me wanted to sit there and bask in the view. Watch the flames curl around everything until there was nothing.

A shout echoed a few hallways down. My blood turned cold as any and all confidence deserted me and I was pulled from my self-satisfying haze. I ran in the opposite direction, desperately searching for a room to disappear inside. At any moment, I expected a guard to pop out and accuse me of what I'd just done. But no one had seen me. Certainly, no one had seen me.

I hope.

I came across a bathroom a few hallways down. It was completely deserted, allowing me lean against the door and listen without interruption.

As the minutes ticked by, chaos ensued. The shouting of the orderlies, nurses, and guards echoed down the hallway. I could scarcely make out tidbits of the hurried conversation. 'Fire department,' 'extinguisher,' 'the subjects.' Every once in a while, new people would come to assist, running past the bathroom and adding to the ruckus. My heart thrummed like a machine gun as I bided my time, hoping Papa would get there before the fire was resolved.

Almost on cue, the familiar clicking of black, leather work shoes echoed down the hallway. Papa's voice was barely discernible as he threw commands at those around him, tone never wavering. The man was frozen in his calm, collected disposition at all times. Not even the fire could melt that away.

And so I glanced at myself in a mirror, painted a worried expression on my face, and pulled open the door. Like a desperate, confused child, I made a beeline for Papa. "What's happening?" I cried, glancing around at the chaos which surrounded me on all sides. Now, I could clearly see all sorts of staff armed with big, red tanks which they sprayed at the fire. The flames shuddered beneath the white foam, weak but still burning.

He faced me, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his clothing despite the disaster he stood amidst. "It seems as though a fire broke out. Don't worry, we have it handled." His concern almost looked genuine as he observed my body, presumably checking to see if I was harmed. "Please, go wait in your room. Lessons will be postponed until this is all dealt with. Why don't you get some rest, hm?"

"Would you like me to escort Number Sixteen back to her room?" Peter's unmistakable voice sounded from behind me. It took all of my very limited acting skills to keep up my ruse and not roll my eyes. When I turned to face him, he didn't even spare a glance, staring right past me at Papa. Peter's spine was so straight I expected it to shatter at any moment.

No wonder I confused him as Papa's eternal lap dog at first.

"That won't be necessary," I replied, sending another wary look at the scene which unfolded behind me. "It looks like you need all the help you can get. Thank you, though." I faced Papa once more, plastering a frown on my face. "Please, be careful."

He smiled, "I will, Daughter. Now, go on."

I did as he asked and turned heel. Papa returned his attention to the staff, but Peter didn't move. As I was about to turn the corner, blocking him from sight, his gaze caught mine. His face remained impassive, eyes trailing down my figure until it caught on the blood staining my wrist.

My heart skipped a beat. I could've sworn something like accusation appeared in his cerulean irises. He didn't know. He couldn't have possibly known. I'd only found out about my ability to control fire last night.

I didn't dwell on the thought for much longer. I had a task to accomplish and a limited amount of time to do so. I picked up my pace, filled with utter disbelief at how well this had all gone. The universe had a funny habit of fucking me over. Perhaps this was compensation for it all? Or, in a more grim turn of fate, maybe it was just the beginning, and things were about to get much worse.

I chose the optimistic-- possibly naive-- option.

My strides slowed down when I began nearing Papa's office. I spared hesitant glances down each hall before I persisted. Just as planned, they were virtually abandoned. The air conditioning breathed down my neck as per usual, but the pure adrenaline flooding my veins made it much easier to ignore.

I wrapped my hand around the cold metal of the office's doorknob only to discover it was locked. But I had anticipated this. I'd anticipated almost every possible outcome as though my life depended on it. In one way, I suppose it did.

I reached into my gown and fished through the inside of my bra, producing a paperclip. I unfolded the thin piece of metal and inserted it into the lock, applying a bit of pressure and rotating the clip until the pins stayed in place. My movements were hurried and uncoordinated, drawing out the task all the more.

Once again, my mind wandered to all of the memories that remained locked away. Why had I learned how to pick locks?

The tell-tale sound of metal scraping against metal immediately pulled me back to reality. I didn't bask in my success this time and instead opted for hurriedly closing the door behind me. My hands shook with an abundance of nervous energy. Success was dangerously close. I could feel it like a tangible being against my fingertips.

An unsteady breath blew from my lips.

I flicked on the light switch and glanced around at the minimalistic room, deprived of personality. Usually I would sit there and think about how much I hated it, but there were more dire things to worry about at that moment.

I light above me flickered as I rounded Papa's desk. Deja vu's enigmatic chokehold wrapped around my neck. Suddenly, I was in the black wasteland again, surrounded by melting walls and static. When I blinked, it was gone.

My body thrummed with excitement when I knelt and pulled out the drawer in the center of his desk. Just like two days prior, the first things available to me were a few files and the tail-end of a gun. The name 'Henry Creel' marked the top left portion of the unassuming, tan file. I continued shuffling through the drawer until I felt the hard, plastic outer shell of the tape.

My heart skipped beats and my breathing went still. I pulled it out of the drawer and ran my fingers along the spine, gleefully reading the numbers 04/01/79 aloud. I was incredulous. It had worked. My ridiculous, off-the-cuff plan had worked. Last night, the chances of success were almost inconceivable. Now, with the tape in my hand, I felt on top of the world.

That was, until, a voice called from the doorway, "And what do we have here?"

I turned to see Peter standing, flanked by four guards, scorchingly blue eyes bring into mine.

"Fuck."

AHHHHH LMAOO I LOVED WRITING THIS. GUYS THIS ONE IS REALLY FUN!!! Honestly, it's kind of short but the next chapter is going to be FUCKING BONKERS. literally I am so excited to write it.

I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS ONE.

Don't forget to comment :)))))