Ptolemaea | Henry Creel

Reimagining

November 1979, five hours before the massacre.

"What if this was a mistake?" I whispered. The words filled my bedroom, ricocheting off stucco ceilings and tiled walls. They sounded much heavier than I intended. Greeted by nothing more than a hesitant sort of silence.

The mattress groaned beneath Peter's weight as he turned to face me. In the darkness, his face was barely visible. "A mistake?" He repeated, as if tasting the words on his tongue. "That implies that this wasn't intentional."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"What if we get in trouble for this?" I asked, "What if you get in trouble for this?"

Somewhere in the darkness, his fingers found their way to my skin. He cupped my cheek in one impossibly warm hand, thumb ghosting over my cheekbone. I don't know why the contact made my heart pound as it did. The moment we shared only minutes prior had been far, far more intimate, and somehow the smallest brush on his fingertips had me reeling.

"I think it would be worth it," he told me. His voice was thick with tiredness, spilling from his throat as slowly as honey slipped from a bottle.

I'd given him sleeping pills, after all.

My heart clenched at the thought. "Don't say that, Peter."

"It's true."

"It shouldn't be," the words were sharp, easily slicing through the air between us. "I don't want to be the reason you get tased. And surely you don't want that, either."

"Careful, Sixteen," he rasped, "I might start to think you like me."

I rolled my eyes, "I'm being serious."

"I know." He sighed, "You so rarely are. It's hard not to notice."

I absently brushed at the blonde hairs which had fallen into his face. A low, rasping sound fell from his lips. "I don't want you to leave," I whispered, giving voice to my fears, "And if we aren't careful, Papa will make you."

He stared at me for a little while, and I stared at him. The room was perfectly still. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

His breath was a breeze against my skin. I could feel it lingering in the air, obscuring my better senses and going straight to my head as though it were wine. "Usually I'm the one worrying about you. Not this time, though." Despite himself, he grinned, "It's refreshing."

"You know, sometimes I start to like you and then you open your mouth and I'm reminded why I don't," I turned away from him and smiled into my pillow. I wanted time to stop. I wanted to sit here with him in the dark until my eyes couldn't stand the light anymore. We could be nocturnal, wake with the moon and live our lives wrapped in bed sheets.

"You say the loveliest things," He whispered in my ear.

He gathered me in his arms, warm as could be and horrifically inviting. I melted against him until everything ran slow and saccharine. Lips pressed against my temple, and then I felt the weight of his head as it dipped onto my pillow.

"Peter?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Why can't I shake the feeling something bad is going to happen?"

I waited, but his response never came.

September 1985, Modern Day.

I hadn't ever been fired before.