seven [peter ballard]

ch. 15

 Henry Creel

When Henry got up in the morning, the first thing he did was touch the side of his neck. Feeling at the little metal piece that moved beneath his finger tips, prodding at the skin and vein there.

It had been six years. As soon as Dr. Brenner had realized that Henry wouldn't be so easy to control, the device had been stuck into his neck, sucking away little bits of him each and every second. Every hour. Every day.

Henry often touched it to remind himself of all that he could do, all that he would, if it was gone.

He stood up from his bed, the mattress creaking with the movement. It was 5:00 in the morning, the blaring numbers on the alarm clock told him, but he hadn't been asleep since exactly 3:53 AM. There was no sign of fatigue in his movements, all still precision and mechanics, like he was acting. Pretending. His eyes darted to the camera perched high in the corner as he padded across the room, but he didn't have to check to know it was still on.

Henry's bedroom resembled that of a prison cell, which he found fitting, all things considered. And while it wasn't the plain uniformity that all the children's rooms held, it wasn't much better. A bed with a metal frame around it. Next to it, a plain wooden nightstand with only two things on it, a digital clock and a lamp. A desk pressed against the other wall, a bookshelf by the door. He had his own bathroom with a shower in it, and a dresser beside the door to it. A mirror hung above it and inside was exactly ten pairs of the same uniform, and nothing else.

Unless Henry was presently in his room, there was no sign that he even lived there.

He stood in front of the dresser, glancing briefly at himself in the mirror. Although he'd just woken up, there was already something dark and unsatisfied that tugged down in his chest. Something that left him feeling frustrated, something he couldn't distinguish the cause of. All he knew was that it had shown up frequently in the past few weeks, ever since Seven had started showing up frequently.

He'd been angrier than he should've been with her two days ago. It hadn't been a big deal, just some harmless fun. All she'd done was run off with some of the other patients for a few hours.

So why had he spent the whole morning pacing around his room, wondering where she was?

Henry looked at the person that frowned back at him in the mirror, pulling out the top drawer. Could it have been because he spent every waking moment thinking about her, what he would do the next time he saw her and what he would say? All the things he would teach her, and all the things he could teach her if things were different? And then she was just gone?

It frustrated him. She frustrated him.

He didn't yet know why his powers worked on her. It was a mystery to him, like many other things about the girl. But he'd certainly been quick to take advantage of the fact, whatever the cause was.

He looked downwards at the open drawer, the scent of laundry soap lifting into the air. There were two stacks there, one of plain white button-ups, and one of plain white slacks. He pulled out one of each mechanically and closed the drawer. Then he glanced at the top of the dresser, frowning before swiping away the I.D card that read Peter Ballard.

He hoped he hadn't scared her too badly last night. He could admit that the first dream had circled through his mind for a whole day, more of a fantasy than anything else. He didn't know how it had come about, or why it had been so sharp and vivid in his mind, just that he had to use it on her. Make her feel that way, no matter how sadistic the notion might've been. What was worse was that his thoughts had been given the time, the precious, dangerous time, to turn into something darker and more punishing than he'd originally anticipated.