Ptolemaea | Henry Creel

Say It Again

I had awoken into a nightmare, I realized.

The black void was gone, but my reality was no better. When the lid of the tank had been lifted I stood there, surrounded by guards and doctors and scientists, all calling out to me but I could not hear their voices. My hand shot to my chest as though my palm would guide the air into my lungs. It didn't, and so I stood there gasping for breath until black spots filled my vision and my knees threatened to buckle beneath me.

Hands came from all directions, forcing me out of the tank. Voices I didn't recognize called to me, the lights flashed overhead. Everything happened all at once. I couldn't breathe. Oh, god, I couldn't breathe.

Years worth of terror and longing and endless desperation flooded through me all at once. The contrasting emotions pulled my brain in far too many directions, stretching neurons to their breaking point. My existence was a raw, gaping wound and every doctor dug their nails into it. Is this what it is to be torn apart?

"Get out of the room," A voice shouted over all the chaos, cutting like a knife through my panic. "Everyone get out!"

Just like that, the hands on my body disappeared, and I was permitted to cave in on myself. My bleary vision finally focused, and though my body trembled and my lungs begged for oxygen, I managed to cling onto a semblance of sanity. I dug my nails into it, fought with every inadequate breath not to let go.

Brenner was by my side a moment later, and just like that the room was deserted.

"What happened, Sixteen?" Papa asked, reaching down as if to help me off the ground, "What is it? What did you see?"

His hand met my arm but it may as well have been red hot. As though I'd been burned, I rose to my feet and staggered away from him. "He's alive," I whispered, partially to myself. The more I had time to process it, the worse it became. Hatred laced every syllable of every word as I spat, "He's alive and you knew it the whole fucking time."

Papa didn't look the least bit surprised. His face remained impassive as ever, a stark contrast to mine. "I assume you're referring to Henry," He answered cooly, "You're far too predictable, Sixteen. I warned you not to think about him, but of course, you ignored me. This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you couldn't handle it."

"Oh, god." I turned away from him and bit my tongue, doing my very best not to lash out. But I was filled with such anger and so little grace. Perhaps in a different life, I had more self control. Unfortunately, I only had this one. "You have to be fucking joking. Do you even hear yourself?"

"Yes. Quite clearly, in fact," He replied, eyes cold and empty as ever. "It's best that we talk about this once you've calmed down."

I fought to keep my legs in place as my every instinct demanded I do something. Hit him, kill him. They both seemed so satisfying. "I am sick of your lying and your condescension and your half-truths. I'm predictable? Give me a fucking break. How can a person have so little self awareness?"

He took the words without flinching. They lingered in the air, letting us both stew in it for a few moments more. "Let's not throw stones into glass houses, Sixte--."

"--Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I demanded, taking a few steps closer, "Because you should be. All of this is your fault. Every single fucking problem I've had in the past five years is your fault. What happened to Henry was your fault. You have to be guilty. I can't--," a shuddering breath fell from my lips "--I can't be the only one."

Finally, the faintest hint of emotion crossed over his face. Brenner's ability to make me feel so, incredibly small seemed to worsen during our time apart. "Always the victim, Sixteen. Aren't you?"