One of my earliest memories was of a maze of pale green walls. The corridors never ended, no matter which way I turned. I was running, my feet bare, my paper-thin gown flapping around skinny foal-like legs, and the demons kept on coming. Id run the maze before, because I always knew which way to turn to find the little clear plastic box. Id run, and run. Lungs aching, throat burning, my feet slapping against the smooth floor, and the sound of scrabbling claws chased me down. I made it to the box, every time (Id learned later, there were others who hadnt) and once inside, Id yank the clear door closed. The demons didnt see the box. They saw only me, the wraith-like little half-blood girl. They would launch themselvesclaws extended, jaws wide, eyes ablazeand slam into my box, sending shudders rattling through my bones. Theyd snap and snarl, hook their teeth into the box and gnaw at its edges, desperate to get to the feast huddling a few millimeters away. Flooding, the Institute had called it. At first I was afraid, and I learned how to run. Then I was angry, and I learned how to fight with my fists and my element. Then, I got even. I lured those demons into a corner and ambushed them, killing every last one. After countless visits to the maze, after weeks, years, Id started liking it, and killing became as natural as breathing. It was what I was good at. What I was made for. What I lived for. Copyright Pippa DaCosta 2016.
