Ptolemaea | Henry Creel

Mind Games

"Heart rate's now 120 BPM," A blonde doctor announced to the room. Owens and I exchanged brief eye contact. I didn't have to speak to him to know what he was thinking. Putting Eleven in the tank without any preparation or warning of any kind was a complete oversight on Brenner's part. Owens had tried to dissuade him, but we were on a considerable time crunch. Apparently, we couldn't spare three hours for Eleven to regain consciousness after being drugged into submission.

I watched her through a little television located in the enclosed-viewing area of the observation room. She floated in a white bathing suit similar to the one I'd worn, save for the extra equipment strapped to her person. The tank was serene in nature, and looking at her face, I could almost say she looked calm. But her heart rate proved otherwise.

As did the abundance of screens around the room, showing different angles of camera footage from the lab. In bright, red letters on the left corner of each screen was 'May 5th, 1979.'

Through the use of the tank and all sorts of technology I couldn't begin to understand, Brenner managed to insert Eleven into the events of the tape. At first, I watched her. She awoke in the lab with no recollection of how she'd gotten there. Her breaths had filled up the emptiness of her bleached white prison, and I could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and try to collect myself. It was wrong to make her go back there. This entire situation was so, very wrong.

I could only stomach so much of it at once.

"She's rejecting it," Owens muttered, eyes flitting between the television set and the printer beside him, displaying her ever-quickening heartrate.

"Give her time," Brenner said dismissively.

"No, no, no." Owens replied, gesturing towards the television, "We shouldn't have just thrown her in like this. She's gonna drown in there."

"No," Papa replied with a grin, "No, she is going to swim."

My eyes shot toward him, "You care so much about saving time but this is counterproductive. If you hadn't drugged her, we could've explained the situation to her so she wouldn't be so scared. Who put you in charge anyways?"

Brenner sent me a cutting glare, "She was only drugged because she tried to escape. Please, Sixteen, keep your conjecture to yourself."

"Maybe she wouldn't have tried to escape if you all were just honest with her," I countered,
"This could be so much easier if--."

"Well, well," An all-too-familiar voice suddenly sounded from the TV. My words died in my throat as I turned to face the source of the noise. "Look who finally decided to join us... someone's a sleepyhead this morning." I didn't have to look at the screen to know it was Henry-- or Peter, I suppose-- but I couldn't stop my eyes from zeroing in on him.

My thoughts traveled back to the night before. Over the years, Henry had only ever shown up in the very worst of my nightmares. He would wear his blood-stained suit, and his eyes would meet mine with the same azure-colored rage I had spent months trying to forget. He would mock me, hurt me, and laugh as my knees met the ground.

But last night had been different.

A terrible sort of 'different' that made me mourn his cruelty. I recalled the way his breath felt against my ear, warm and horrifically inviting, just like before. All that could've been, presented to me in a dream only for the hard hand of reality to take it all away. His evilness I could tolerate, but his intimacy was unbearable. I grieved the sting of his hand across my cheek, a greater comfort than his fingers combing through my hair could ever be. There was no guilt when he hurt me, at the very least. The same could not be said for when he loved me.