Lamb To The Slaughter ✔️

1

Although I speak, his eyes do not move, he does not acknowledge me, as if I do not exist to him. 

TRAUMA? I write down. But as soon as I write it, I squint my eyes and shake my head. Of course he has trauma. 

The government has been running trials for almost 30 years now. They wanted weapons, weapons no other country had. People. Killing machines. People that could get shot 100 times but still be able to rip somebody apart. Dozens of trials have happened. And dozens of people have died. All besides Atlantic Sinclair.

The only successful subject. The only man on Earth that can not be killed. In my notes, it says he is 25 now. He had been held here for 20 years, until his escape. I didn't work here at the time, I was still in school. But I heard about it. 

Revenge. That's what he wanted. Revenge on the entire Earth for locking him up. He killed millions. Blew up the largest hospital in New York. Wore blood as if that's what clothes were. It took 5 years for them to be able to capture him and bring him back here. 

"How are your sleeping habits?" I question as I sit down on a chair. The silence in the room feels deafening. "And your hunger level?"

I cross my leg and click my pen, hovering it over the paper, waiting for him to respond. 

But he doesn't. His black eyes stare at the floor, his messy black hair paired with his under eye bags tell me I may be able to answer the sleeping question myself. 

I sigh as I realize he is not going to answer me. 

I begin to think of ways to make him talk. I bite my lower lip as I set my pen down. 

"Do you ever miss it?" I ask. Silence follows before I speak again. "How it felt when the entire world thought you were a hero?"

I've travelled the world. I've been to Russia, more specifically during the winter. It was freezing. Yet the look Atlantic Sinclair gives me is even colder. Slowly, so slowly, his black eyes move to look at me while his head does not move directions. His lips are parted slightly, his under eye bags looking dark. 

Before his escape, the public knew of Atlantic. He would be allowed out during crisis' where his help was needed. A few times a year, he got to experience freedom, as he helped better the world. Until he snapped five years ago. 

"A hero," he finally speaks. He speaks bitterly. His voice is deep, deeper than I was expecting. His jaw clenches for a moment after, I see the muscle move. 

I nod, "Yes, a hero. You were a hero to everybody, Atlantic."

He continues to stare at me. Coldly. Goosebumps form on my skin. My heart begins to pound again, as it had been earlier. 

The eyes of a man thats killed millions stare at me. 

"That part of me is long dead," he states. 

I force a deep breath. My heart is pounding and I wish it weren't. I press my hand against my chest, waiting for the pounding to lower. 

"But it seems you know that," he tilts his head and says, finally turning his head toward me. "Or else your heart would not be beating that fast."

My eyes widen a bit. I had forgotten about his hearing, how he can hear everything. 

I force my eyes away from his. I can't look at them a moment longer, it feels as if I would turn to stone.