I'm Made Of Wax, Larry, What Are You Made Of? - A Day To Remember
I don’t exist.
Well technically I do exist. But I’m just mass. A lump of destroyed flesh, an outlet for secretion of waste, a bottomless pit that needs to be fed, a mind that has caved in on itself.
My name? I don’t remember it exactly. I do, but it doesn’t matter here. Numbers matter. People don’t. I do know that I’m a Wentz. I know that because that’s what I remember people calling me the most. I know that because of my father and mother, because of my brother, my cousins, my friends. They call me a Wentz. They say that because since I’m a Wentz, I can save them. We can save them. Two Wentzs are better than one.
Everyone thinks the Wentz and company are more than what they are. More than human. More than fate and destiny and death. We can defy anything, any rule, any guideline. Any person.
But we can’t. I can’t. No one can. But they, they believe the lies that we fed them. Why? Because we’re Wentzs. Because we’re the elite of the vampire world. Because we’re perfect.
If we’re so great, why the hell are we being kept against our will? If we’re so great, why in God’s name has Andy reverted back to his animal-like nature? Why is he crouching in the corner, shoulders hunched, ready to attack and kill at a second’s command, their command? If being a Wentz means so much, why is Pete looking like he’s about to break. I can see his face, the way it’s set in stone. Grim. But he’s the oldest. Pete tries to do his best, trying to be brave, to be a hero. But he’ll fail. They all fail. There’s no…happy ending. I laugh at the idea of a happy ending. Death is a happy ending. But I don’t want that. No.
I’ll live in this hell for as long as possible. Pete can’t stand it, though. He’s plotting something, right now. That’s why he’s pacing across the room. His footsteps slapping loudly against the concrete, thinking.
I know they are going to kill him. But I don’t say a word. If I say something, he’ll stop plotting an escape. They’ll know someone warned him. They’ll figure out it’s me. And guess what? I don’t want to die. Dying is the last thing I want to do.
Pete, along with Joe and Patrick, try to protect Tabatha and me. It doesn’t work. Not when Tabatha is continually being Joe’s ah…what do they call it? ‘Reproductive response experiment’. Another word for trying to mate them like animals with the threat of death as a reason to get it on.
Honestly, Tabatha is a trooper. She’s stronger than I am. The only reason why Joe is alive, nonetheless.
Tabatha is the strongest of all of us. Stronger than me at least, she’s the most fertile. That’s why they chose her. She’s trying. Joe is trying. Neither of them are trying to make a baby. Not because they’re young. No, they’re all twenty something, I'm younger. At least I think.
Age is relative.
Tabatha and Joe are smart enough to know that as soon as Tabatha is pregnant, they don’t need Joe, as soon as Tabatha has a baby, they don’t need her. They have a new person. An innocent. One who can be raised to do whatever they want.
One who can rule the world for them.
I don’t know why they keep me around. I had a round with some nameless bloke. I’ve seen him before; probably at…a school. I can’t remember the name. It was so long ago. But I was in the experiment and when he touched me, I screamed. With each finger pressed against my flesh, I screamed as if someone were scalding me. I thrashed around. I killed him.
I killed that boy who touched me. No one tries to use me in that experiment anymore.
I don’t even care that I killed him. I didn’t think about it. I just…did it. It was my instinct. I only go by instinct. And for now, my instinct is to sit and look pretty. To smile and not frown. To stare blankly at the wall, at a person, at a brick. For hours, days, weeks, months. No blinking.
I can do it. I have done it.
I scare them. Why? I don’t know. I’m more afraid of them than of anyone on the planet. I scare Tabatha. I see the way she looks at me. Patrick can’t even look at my face and Pete…ever the protector, tries to talk to me. Get me to say something. Anything.
I’m a recluse now. I don’t speak. My thoughts are choppy because I barely think. No, that’s a lie. I think a lot. That’s all I do. Think, contemplate, observe. I know that the people behind the concrete wall are staring at us. At Pete. At me.
I know that They are watching our moves, or my non-movement. I know that They are trying to figure out what Pete is planning. Or maybe They already know. I know that someone is setting up the next ‘experiment’ for Tabatha and Joe.
I know that someone is changing the dosage in ‘medicine’ that they are pumping into Joe. He gets six needles a day. He’s hooked. It's worse than the weed. He’s a drug addict even if he doesn’t want to be. I can hear him now. Moaning for it. For whatever drug they’ve got him strung out on. He knows it’s time for another dose. But I know they won’t give it to him.
Because they are observing.
He’ll scratch until he bleeds and Tabatha will try to clean him up, but he’ll push her away. Because she’s not helping, because he’s disgusted with himself. He’s angry and scared. He’s tired and weak. Depressed and desperate. He wished he could’ve killed himself like the others. Because they knew that once they took over, the world just wasn’t for them.
Mentally, I shook my head. I can feel their eyes on me now.
I know that they’re watching for movement that I will not give them. I want to know why I’m here. Why they need me. Why they need us. The vampires. The other superhumans.
Because they were never this smart. This strong. This observant.
But the humans, they’ve changed. Adapted. Evolved.
They see things we don’t. They manipulate us. They torture us. They kill us.
Because it’s us and them. Humans are our masters.
The Humans did this to us.
And now. I’m not a name. Just a number.
Who am I? I don’t exist. I’m not human nor animal. Not blind nor dumb. But silent. Erasable. I’m a number. I am known as 01249. It’s tattooed on the back of my neck, visible through my wild brown ponytail. I am a Wentz. My name…my name is—
“Piper…” Pete whispered. I hadn’t seen him looking at me. “Please, Piper. Please say something.”
I stared at him. My dull brown eyes blank. A smile plastered, immovable, on my face.
“PJ,” Pete knelt in front me. “Peej, please. Say something.”
“Pete, she hasn’t spoken in four months” Tabatha sniffled, rubbing her nose. She pulled her legs toward her chest, resting her chin on her knees as she stared sorrowfully across the room at Joe. He was shaking, his jaw slack, eyes wild and bloodshot. But in his stature, one could see his need to hide himself. The way his arm covered his eyes, his legs and shoulders pressed against the wall. He didn’t want to be seen, especially not by the beautiful eyes of Tabatha McGaverd.
“We’ve been here for six months, Pete,” Tabatha hissed.“She’s done with this.”
“No, she’s not,” Pete snarled, gritting his teeth as he stared at me. So faithful. So trusting. So foolish. “She’s going to snap out of this. She’s going to be fine and I’m going to get us out of this!”
I wanted to shake my head, to yell at him to stop talking. But I could not. I refuse to put my life on the line for him. I would not so foolishly throw my life for another’s. I refuse.
With my smile still intact, I turned my head and tilted it to the left, staring into the brick where I knew they were watching.
Watching, observing, and listening.
I turned my head back toward the scene in front of me, Pete had moved away from me. So instead, I watched Andy, who was breathing heavily in the corner, his breath coming out as snarls. His shoulders hunched and braced, his hands against the concrete floor, his eyes feral and dangerous. Poised to strike, ready for the command. The whistle.
He’s been trained. By them. The Humans. The captors. I heard his screams, I don’t care to know what they did. But they took him away for two weeks. When he came back, I didn’t recognize him. Pete cried when he saw him, Tabatha screamed, Patrick pulled me behind him, Joe held Tabatha. I stared, curious.
He used to be loyal to his family and friends. Now, he’s a prisoner to them.
Patrick is the same, but with more...tolerance. He agreed with every choice, but despised bigotry. But now, because he was on the side being opposed, slowly but surely, he’s turning into a person who believes solely in his own kind. Vampires. But he’s too soft to do anything but agree with Pete.
Unlike Tabatha. Tabatha is a skeptic. She questioned everything, everyone. No matter what the motive, good or bad, she would question it. That’s why she’s marked for death. She’s too smart, too inquisitive. Too wise. She’s also a bit closed minded. She doesn’t understand anything, nothing important. Because everything has a reason, a plan behind it, a sole purpose. Nothing is spontaneous.
I believe differently.
Joe's breath was heavier, I glanced at him, still smiling. He looked terrible. Broken.
They would come for him soon and the pain would stop. He would sleep and Tabatha would cry.
I kept smiling as my eyes turned back to my pacing brother, Pete. So brave that he was foolhardy. So chivalrous that it nearly killed him when he couldn’t open the door for one of us. So stereotypical, so little room for individuality.
I shook myself mentally again, trying to let my mind stay on the past at least for a few more minutes.
I turned to Joe again. He wasn't really anything anymore. He used to be kind, thoughtful. A little like Pete, but still different. The same intensity of loyalty, but he only felt for close ones. Pete cared for every good soul in the goddamn world.
Who was I?
I’m not loyal to anyone but myself. I am not brave. I’m not a skeptic. I am not tolerant of anyone that goes against my beliefs. I am me and myself alone. I’m not there for a group, nor do I feel any sense of togetherness with the rest of my family.
Instead, I live for myself and myself only. No one else matters.
My name was Piper Jocelyne Wentz. I’ve been here for six months and I can feel my smile beginning to falter.
A man with a largely receding hairline and a round belly pressed his hand against the glass, staring into the room with the five young adults, analyzing their every move, watching for change, listening to their speech. Behind him, a thin woman with a severely tight bun and white lab coat stood beside him, scribbling down the words as he murmured them.
“Number 01249 is still showing reclusive actions…unjustifiable…stoic…run mental diagnostic. Again.”
He sounded frustrated, his brows were furrowed. What was it with that smile?
“Next Wednesday, testing for emotional stability, memory and brain function. I want her under a CAT scan. No torture.”
The woman was nodding furiously as she took down his words. He let his hand brush against his chin, and thick hair met his fingers as he stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Dr. Cattell?” The woman asked, her pen finally stopped touching the page, but still hovered over it, just in case.
“Yes?” the doctor answered wearily, “What is it?”
“She’s showing signs of Schizothymia and possibly she might even suffer from—”
He cut her off roughly, “Impossible. Her reasoning skills are far greater than I think we give her credit for. Is she detached and formal? Yes. But she has a high general mental capacity. We can test that can’t we?”
“Of course we can, Dr. Cattell but I think that—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he cut her off again, rudely, “We'll give her a psychosis exam. She might be suffering from Psychoticism.”
“Check her levels of Monoamine oxidase, if they are low then we can find out exactly what she has. Dr. Harris did you write that down?”
She was busy nodding her head instead of writing and jumped slightly at the chide as she rushed to write, nodding and repeating the words quietly to herself. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Interns" under his breath.
“What about the others? Especially number 81011?”
“Ahh…who?” Dr. Harris asked quietly, ashamed.
“Oh, for God’s sake, the boy! The eldest boy!” Dr. Cattell jabbed at the glass angrily. “He knows too much! Thinks too much! He’s plotting and planning! He’s already picked a fight with six of our guards.”
“At least he hasn’t killed anyone,” Dr. Harris said offhandedly.
Dr. Cattell turned and glared at her, “As long as you’re the one who has to tell the general that we’ve lost a soldier to a hostage. They’ll think we have an uprising on our hands!”
“It’s only one boy!”
“If word gets out to the others specimens that there are others like them here, they were try to start a rebellion! It only takes one to start a revolution! He is the one who will do it!”
“What should we do? Isolate him?”
“No, he won’t talk then; we need to hear his plans.” Dr. Cattell sighed angrily, trying to think. “Just keep an eye on him, I want double the guards surrounding him next time he’s out of that cell.”
Dr. Harris nodded, “What type of therapy should we give him to snap him out of this?”
“Shock therapy and animal testing,” Dr. Cattell said without hesitance. “We need to get him to talk, get them all to talk. But I want him first. See how many volts of electricity it takes to make a vampire beg for mercy.”
“And the animal testing?”
Dr. Cattell laughed, “Eh, just…send some dogs at him. Because of human ethics we’ve never really gotten the chance to see how a person would react to rabies under a controlled environment.”
“Isn’t that…just a bit…I don’t know…cruel?” Dr. Harris asked in a small voice.
Dr. Cattell turned away from the window and looked at the woman in her mid-thirties. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, “Listen to me. This is an experience that most psychologists and doctors have never, even in their sickest and most morbid, but secretly desired dreams get to think of. We have people to test anything on.” He turned her back to the glass, “See that boy? The blonde?”
“We’re pumping diseases and drugs into his system every week. All sorts of drugs. Medicinal and recreational. He’s losing his mind. Next month, smallpox. We get to test smallpox.”
“But why?” Dr. Cattell laughed again, “Why? Too see what happens to these other life forms. These…these creatures are magical, beneath us, fairy tales. They’re barely human, barely real. We get to play God…for as long as we want.”
Dr. Harris still looked skeptical but Dr. Cattell’s next phrase erased all fears, “They almost destroyed the world. One of them almost brought the destruction of the world. Repeatedly. The Black Death. Them. Malaria, their doing. Yellow Fever, Scarlet Fever, Cholera, Ebola. My God, woman, they are trying to exterminate us! We’re doing the world a favor!” Dr. Cattell shuddered. “We’re doing the right thing. Study them and exterminate them. It would be wasteful to let all this research die, would it not?”
Dr. Harris stared through the window, contemplating. What if her baby girl developed a disease because of them? She feared them. Her eyes hardened toward the oldest boy. “I will personally see to the therapy, Dr. Cattell.”
He clapped her on the shoulder, smiling widely and leading her toward the door. “You see! All in the sake of research! They’re worse than animals! Don’t you worry about a thing, Dr. Harris; we’re doing the right thing. Now let’s get some coffee.”
He stopped suddenly and turned back toward the glass; something caught his eye. The blonde boy was shaking rather uncontrollably, foaming slightly at the mouth, ripping his skin and bleeding horribly. He rolled his eyes. “Oh, Dr. Harris, before the coffee, clean up that boy’s arms and give him a dose of whatever used needles we have around here. He needs something, Just give him any old needle, he won’t notice the difference.”
With a half-smile, Dr. Harris nodded and left the room but not before calling, “I want two sugars in my coffee Dr. Cattell! Don’t skip the cream, either!”
Dr. Cattell chuckled and left but not without one last glare at the vampires. He shook his head, his heart tugging painfully in his old chest as he saw the pained look in number 81011’s eye. The look of failure and defeat as he held back the blue haired girl who tried to comfort the blonde. For just a second, he felt wrong and unsure if he was supposed to be playing the role of God.
But then the thought of his increasing bank account by the hour and the fact that they threatened his grandchildren, brought his thoughts swiftly back to the ones he fed to Dr. Harris.
They were doing the right thing.
He swallowed and quickly left the room, fearing that the big brother saw his face falter from his own façade.
PS: Let's pretend it's 2002, which means Joe is still blonde, if that confused you. Title is by Acceptance. OH IMPORTANT: I went back and took a teensy minuscule bit out of the prologue because I changed my mind a little. Follow me on twitter for updates! twitter.com/ohhaithur
1) who wouldn't honestly?
2-3, 5-9) wow omg thank you so much :D
4) I promise RyRo will not be severely harmed. Happy?
Thank you! :D
Wow, thank you so much! That's one of the best compliments I've ever received! :')
HXC Thanks! :D
ah well you see you love him and he loves you but he used to love megan and megan still loves him. complicated much?
gahh I won't hurt your precious ryro I promise I promise haha
Thanks! It's mine too haha
Thanks! ick, I know the feeling I blank all the time. I'm soooo glad you liked that line! I was debating whether or not to included because it was a tad...I don't overdramatic kind of? but thanks! :D
sdhagfls Thanks! :DDD
fuq yea oliver twist!
Thanks I'm glad! :D
Thanks! More to come, I promise!
The reviews are awesome guys, thanks so much! Plus I'm answering like this because it's more efficient for me.