The Start of Wheedling
Skritch skritch skritch.
Norman's pencil hits the paper and quickly circles three more answers. The timer continues racing before him with bright, scarlet numbers flashing before his eyes when he glances over at the black alarm clock. He shifts his attention back to his pressed exam paper, noting only ten more questions to go and immediately marks another answer before he can finish reading the question.
He's used to rushing. Competing against Emma and Ray in tests had always been one of his favorite pastimes in the orphanage. He'd usually best them and get a portion of their dessert as a reward, but he treasured the nights when Emma got a higher score than him, and her smiling face as Isabella praised her was worth more than anything in the world.
Her grin distracts his thoughts, and he loses five precious seconds. He convinces his expression to remain neutral when he notices the members of the Ratri Clan writing something down on their pads of paper as they hover nearby. Any hesitation is immediately noted by them, their analytical prowess pinching his nerves as he buries his blissful memories to the deepest crevices of his mind.
In Dante's Inferno, in the second Bolgia, which-
He circles "flatterers" with a cynical grin stretching into his cheeks. It feels like a punch to his gut as he lifts his pencil up. He mouths the word to himself, the searing beacon of light shining down on him much too hot for any regular child to handle, and he hears the faint crushing of bones outside the examination room, the only sound an uneducated child can produce.
The demons' treatment is consistent. He simply had to learn to praise them with perfection. Any sign of "wear and tear" as Peter sneered would end up with Norman in the belly of a beast. He suppresses a shudder when the phrase whispers in the back of his mind, and he circles the rest of his answers with ease.
He hits the timer with a precise tap. The humans behind him whisper something and announce his time. Norman narrows his eyes at the blinking red numbers as a child screams for someone to stop elsewhere.
At exactly two minutes and thirty-five seconds, it's his best time yet on a three hundred question multiple choice exam. Someone sashays to his side and plucks off the sensors attached to his scalp, ripping off a few follicles in the process. He doesn't wince and instead stands up, allowing the woman to clinically pull off each sensor, her eyes dull and gray.
Norman glances at the monitors next to him, which he recognizes as portable electrocardiogram and a handheld functional magnetic resonance imaging device. From what he can tell before the humans push the cart with the rather small items away, nothing is out of the ordinary. He maintained his heartbeat at a perfectly neutral pace, complemented with only slight spikes on his reading.. His thoughts were focused solely on the exam, and although he wandered to Emma and allowed for a brief reprieve, he already knows he perfected the exam once again, which will cause the Ratri Clan to look the other way.
Footsteps echo behind him on the tiled floor. Taking in a breath, Norman pushes in his rickety wooden chair and then fixes his collar. He tightly presses his forefinger and thumb together through the fabric. Somewhere else, a demon feasts on a wailing child's legs as Norman turns around.
Peter grins at him and gestures for him to follow. Norman abides by his side, ignoring the hungry gazes of the demons following his every moment. They had been leering from the top balcony the moment he started his exam, and he's become accustomed to their presence. They are usually present for each one. They're savoring his intelligence with each perfect score, hardly hiding the drool that slickens their lips by the time Norman finishes.
"Wonderful work as always," Peter remarks, setting his icy hand to Norman's shoulder.
He enters the hallway with the same blank expression. A simple thank you is all he gives. Replying to common courtesy provided by a monster makes his skin crawl no matter how hard he tries to fight it.
He passes deformed children, a sight that no longer harms him. He remembers his first night alone, sobbing into his pillow at the thought of becoming like them and just waiting to be consumed. These children are victims, innocent babies turned into grotesque caricatures of childhood. Humped backs, massive craniums, elongated limbs, it had been all for the sake of experimentation and supper, notions that leave Norman chewing on the inside of his mouth as they pass by another examination room.
Blood splatters on the glass and catches his attention. He almost thinks the scarlet ooze has stained his cheek and he reaches to rub his face when Peter tightens his grip. He no longer winces under Peter's touch and continues to move forward, his own scent intoxicating to the addled demons who whip their heads up from the room just for a glance at him. Some of them still have limbs and scalps clinging to the spaces between their fangs, the heavy scent of tainted blood permeating through the sealed room and into the hallway.
Children moan on the floor. They lie on their sides or amble ahead with adults guiding them to either their merciful death or continued torture. Drool seeps out in puddles, and Norman is careful to avoid stepping in it. Peter slams his boot in the limp wrist of a child when he reaches out to them, the sickening crack enough to cause Norman's cheeks to flush with the faintest hint of red.
"I take it you've been studying even harder. To think, it's only been a few weeks since you've joined us," Peter says, his thumb massaging a tense spot in Norman's neck.
"I'm glad my efforts are satisfactory." He grins, practiced and disgusted.
As Peter sighs, a little girl's head slams against the window. A demon marches forward and licks her clean, her strawberry blonde hair smearing into the blood on his slithering tongue. Mushy, gray brain matter slides down the murky window, hints of her skull piercing the clumps until another savage demons scoops it all up for herself and mashes it into her maw. Norman digs his fingers into his worn palm as the demons utter sickly belches, the shrill shrieks of abused children silenced in their gullets.
"Let's return to your room," Peter says, "while your test is analyzed."
"I'm premium quality goods," Norman replies, his eyes downcast as he passes a shrieking girl held by her arms. He glances at her, finding her kicking the humans with all her might as they drag her towards an experimentation room. Another stabs her from behind with a syringe, injecting her with a pale purple liquid that causes her to immediately go limp, her wild ponytail trailing behind her back as they lug her along. "I think we already know what my score will be, doctor."
"True. Very true." Peter lifts his hand and presents Norman to his room. "Continue your studying. There will be another test in two hours. Then, you may have lunch."
He listens to Peter's keycard slide through the scanner, the electronic beep reminding Norman of an old video game he had never played. His back straightens as Peter steps aside as if challenging him to run and escape. Norman already knows his speed is compromised, that the demons would eagerly devour him if he made one fatal lapse of judgment, and he peers at the dull dark green carpet lining his room, Peter's quiet chuckle hanging over his head.
With a long stretch of his leg, Norman enters and allows Peter to slam the door behind him. His clinical bedroom is nothing is grim compared to the affable aura of living with his siblings in their shared room. A mattress rests on top of a creaking metal bedspring. An oak desk with shiny pens, papers, books, and novelties presses against the right wall. An adjacent bathroom with a glimmering shower, sink, and toilet is possibly the cleanest room in the entire facility.
He sees his siblings race around him in their bedroom. Ray pulls on Emma's cheek. Gilda and Don chase each other with fluffy pillows. Phil pulls at his pant leg and raises a chapter book he had been reading to him, eagerly urging him to finish the next part of the story. So many of his beloved siblings laugh and smile, innocent to their fate that would shatter their innocence.
Crossing over to his bed, Norman touches the tattooed numbers on his neck. He traces their outlines and has memorized the way his skin has raised, coarse and scarred. He wonders if Emma and Ray have the same sensations whenever something grazes those cursed brands.
Yet, he doesn't have time to mourn what was lost. If they are what he makes them out to be, then they'll be fine on their own. He's already given his trust to Emma time and time again as she joins him, gathering around for him to read a story for them all with Isabella beaming at them from the doorway.
Closing his eyes, Norman allows his thoughts to run wild with plans of salvation, alone with only his true self as company. The illusions return to being memories, fading away only to be replaced with calculations and hope. Smiling in the creeping shadows, Norman plots for another day.