Kya Carter
I made a mistake. I wish I could say it was an honest one, but the line separating pure honesty and tainted reason is blurry. It happened when I was 14, and all I think about is the moment – the incident – that changed my life. And believe me, I have a lot of time to think.
I'm in a place called "Asylum." Not even the Asylum...just Asylum. I don't specifically remember how I got here. Was I blindfolded? Drugged? It was a blur of confusion and frenzy that probably only made my case worse.
Here at Asylum, everyone is different. Some excuse - thievery or murder - is the excuse the Asylum owners use to pick us up and "rehabilitate" us here. In reality, this is a prison to keep us hidden from the world. Once we were born, we were cursed with markings that defined us. They're like tattoos, except they don't stretch or fade or wear out. Instead, they grow with you. Some of them even change color, move, or spread depending on what ability you have.
You might be confused on what the term "ability" means in this case. Some people call them powers, others call them witchcrafts. I call it a burden that I'd rather get rid of before it gets out of control again.
What crime did I do to get here?
Murder. I think it was an accident. I certainly didn't mean to kill my parents – I would never do that intentionally. But it happened and it's my fault. It's my ability's fault.
"Kya, it's your shift," a warden tells me, cutting me off from my meal in the lunchroom. "Watchtower number five." At Asylum, we're assigned jobs characterized to our needs and powers. I, for instance, take the midnight to morning shift at watching the courtyard for suspicious activity. Why? Well, I don't sleep. I have insomnia. Almost all of us have something else wrong with our heads besides special abilities.
"On it," I assure, tying back my hair. I keep it long to hide my markings on the back of my neck. There are blood drops that form every time I use the darker side of my power. These markings aren't the main ones I bore, but they're the ones I hate the most.
Watchtower duty is one of the various jobs to take on here. And, get this: we get a paycheck. Beneath the cold floors of the lunchroom and rehab classes, there are stores and parlors and cafés. We take on responsibility responsibly if we want to frivolously spend money. I take a daily shift, so I make around 15 dollars a day.
I climb up to the top of the tower in the dark night, clinging to the cold ladder rungs. "Hey, Leo. It's -"
"You're shift," he cuts off, finishing my thoughts. Leo Hernandez is the world's #1 most likeable human being on earth. And did I mention he can read minds? Oh, also: he has turrets. So, whenever he has an episode with certain people in the room, it gets messy. Disreputable thoughts plus Leo's unhinged mind reading equals disaster. "I think I grew a few grays waiting for you. Oh wait," he calls as he descends the ladder fireman style. "That's you."
He says this because of my hair. Its normal color is deep brown, but there are strands of silver in it. The markings are a skin mutation from our abilities, and consequently, we also have hair and eye mutations as well. As for eyes, mine are an exceptionally pale gray. In fact, they are almost white; rimmed with the darkest of blues.
As I settle into the seat, the air chills my pale skin. There's no use in trying to get warm, because it's not like there's a reason to. I get comfortable and nestle into a blanket and for what? So I can sleep? Good joke.
But despite my condition, I've always felt more awake at nighttime. Maybe it's my body stomping its foot down even harder on the idea of sleep, by taking the normal resting time and making it my normal "go" time. But if I had to pick between getting rid of my insomnia and my powers, it would be the latter. Nothing good has ever come from them and nothing ever will.
I hadn't used my powers since the incident, and within a week I committed the crime, I had been transported to Asylum. I'm 17 now. I've restrained myself from practicing my curse for three years. I'd like to say that it kind of just...faded away from being tapped into, but I still feel it coursing through my veins. In fact, I feel like the longer I go without using it, the more it'll build up. It's like a weak dam with a single hole. Once the water starts to crack the barrier, it only gets worse and worse. I fear that once I pop the top on my bottle of power by accident, it'll only spiral out of control.
But if I pop the top of my bottle, what kind of accident would provoke it? The honest accident I wish I made? Or the one with darker intentions?
These very thoughts circle around and around in my head. They chase each other to the end of the earth and come rise back to haunt me. I can't escape them. There's too much time on my hands that allow me dwell on them.
Up at the tower, I watch the courtyard; caged in by cement walls, electric fences, and barbed wires. Somewhere down there, I'm sure Elektra is watching the gates.
No one knows hardly anything about Elektra. She's a mystery on legs. I'm not even sure about her last name. And that's saying a lot. I tend to people watch. A couple of loiterers who I assume are nocturnal like to hang around the courtyard and get air. I watch their tiniest movements and listen to the inflections of their tones. I remember their hobbies and observe what they're good at. From there, I give them stories. But to me, Elektra is a mystery. No one knows where she's from, who she knows, or even what her favorite color is. We only know that her ability deals with electricity. I wonder if she's ever killed anybody. If so, why?
In the distance, there's a painful sound of metal grinding on metal. I've only heard this sound twice in my lifetime. Once when I was brought to Asylum, and once when I was in the courtyard; the opening and closing of heavy duty doors. Someone new is about to enter this place.
Naturally, I'd like to call Asylum a nightmare, being that it isolates us from the world, but it isn't too bad here. Of course, that depends on perspective. Here, I can do any activity I did in the real world minus travelling. I have a sure, steady job that gives decent pay. There's three free meals each day. I have a bed and shower in a room all to myself. I can interact with others kind of like me. There's not much to complain about besides the walls of this place.
The only nightmare here is my ability and what it can do to me and others.
Sitting up a bit straighter, I focus in on the entrance of the courtyard. Elektra is aided with extra guards who keep the loiterers away. Snipers loaded with Taser bullets climb the watchtowers, one including my own. "We need this for our job. You can go down to the courtyard and help corral the others away."
"Sure thing." Something I was praised for back at home was my willingness to help. Usually, I only did so if I got something out of it or if it wasn't a big deal. But then I murdered my parents. After that, I've had a sort of compensation mindset – that's what my therapist says. Now, I spread myself thin whenever I can. From helping a girl named Sarah get extra paint, to sneaking Leo some ace cards for his gambling, to taking a lot of time to calming down a schizophrenic.
After I descend the ladder, I rush to the courtyard in eagerness. There's a bolt locked metal door that can only open with a guard key. "You can't go in," one of two guards say.
"Please. I'm going to help Elektra," I promise.
The two guards exchange a glance. At last, one of them swipes a silver card through the slot and enters a pin. "Only because your record here is clean, Kya." Yeah, my record here. Not out there.
Barreling through the door, I push through people and get elbowed in the ribs a few times. It's very rare that anyone new comes here. Elektra was brought in a year after me, and she was the newest that Asylum had to offer.
Who will walk through the gates? A boy or a girl? How old will they be? What experiences will they have to share from the outside world? Will they even want to share them? What are their abilities?
Are they a monster like you? a faint voice in my head questions.
This voice is a mental terrorist. It hardly surfaces in my head, but when it does it guts me in my metaphorical jugular. Before I killed my parents, I used to play with my abilities – the lighter side of them. But once I did the unthinkable with the darker side, the voice started to slowly ooze into my conscious. It isn't a part of my direct thinking, but an alternative part of me. If I use the villainous aspect of myself too much, then I will be entirely consumed by that voice. This is also why it's so important that I keep a restraint on any form of my power: it reduces any chance of the voice becoming permanent.
"Clear a path!" Elektra bellows at the crowd. I herd the people out of the way of the gates, but they just go back in the way when I leave. "I said clear a path!" Elektra yells once more, mint green eyes with veins of electric blue growing wild. "I'll only demand once more before things get ugly. Clear. A. Path."
Still, no one listens. And anybody not listening to Elektra is a first. Sighing, she tosses dirty blonde hair straight down her back, strands of vibrant blue shimmering in the illumination of the light poles overhead. "You asked for it!" she screeches.
Elektra raises a hand toward the sky, middle and index fingers together and pointing at the dark clouds. Sparks of lightning flicker in the night as a bolt shoots down from above and channels itself through Elektra's fingers. She literally just summoned lightning. With the voltage coursing through her body, she rears back as the energy transfers from her hands and through her stomach. Forcefully, she steps towards the crowd and extends her other arm and fingers towards the people.
Thankfully, everyone saw the lightning go to Elektra in the first place and stepped out of the way before she fired a path for the newcomer. I notice that her marks – lightning over the body map of her veins – glow. I wish I could use my power with such assurance. But that requires practice, and practice always includes failing. I already failed when I killed the ones I called parents.
"You sure know how to clear a room," I note, shocked at the fluency of her actions. She did all of that in the matter of mere seconds.
"Keep out of the way, or I'll have to clear you, too," she threatens. Her voice is deep and husky, and I imagine she yelled more than talked in her life before Asylum. Elektra scans me, and over the crowd, she asks, "Do you even have a power?"
I narrow my eyes and look away. I don't have a power; I have a curse. And if she knew what I could do, she wouldn't be threatening me anymore. I can make her lightning bolts look like child's play.
Not soon enough, silhouettes appear in the dark. There are 10 uniform guards crowded around the cuffed individual, who trudges in the center of them all. I can't tell if it's a boy or girl, but whoever they are, they're tall. I can make out broad shoulders, but that's about it. I'll have to wait for them to get closer to the light.
Suddenly, someone rams into me. I almost fall, caught off guard, when Elektra grabs him by the shirt and shoves him into the crowd. But like a human boomerang, he comes right back, coming for me because in everyone else's eyes, I'm a lot weaker than Elektra. "Let me through! Get me out of here!"
"Calm down, there are ten guards out there and snipers trained on you. You wouldn't make it two steps even if I was out of the way," I reason. Another thing I realized about myself that sets me apart from everyone else, is that I can keep a cool head in chaotic situations. That's also part of the reason I take watchtower duty – if there's an emergency, the wardens know I can alert them swiftly and coolly.
The man rolls his eyes and uncaps a water bottle. He takes a swig and goes to spit it at me. The concoction of spit-water almost hits me in the face, but instinct takes over intellect and my powers kick in. Lifting a hand, I stop the water mid-air. Before anyone notices I stopped it, I drop my arm like it weighs a ton and stare at the puddle.
I shouldn't have done that. What if something else happened and that guy paid the ultimate price for it? No one deserves to die – especially not over spitting water at someone.
Looking around, I make sure no one saw what I did. I don't want anyone assuming what I can do and asking questions. As far as they know, I'm a warden's pet with some lame power that lets me watch grass grow in HD or something.
I seem to be in the clear when a shadow covers me. Turning, I see the newcomer: a boy with shaggy, light brown hair that turns blood red on the ends. His eyes are a glowing gold. I mean, they are literally glowing, it's a mutation. His skin is a dark tan and like I figured earlier: he's tall. Leaning over me, he pauses. "Neat trick." His voice is slick and slippery, like one falter could make me fall to my death.
Instantly, I don't like this guy. Something about him sets me off. Maybe it's the way he dresses: straight jeans, a white V-neck, a rope necklace that hangs low, a fancy jacket with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar popped, black gloves that end at the heels of his hands rather than his wrists. Maybe it's the way he shows his marking: a coiling body of some scaled beast that wraps all the way up his arm. It's only partially revealed, and it's like he wants people to ask him about it. Maybe it's the fact that I'm kind of jealous that he looks older and had more time than I did in the outside world.
"Move along," a guard urges, pushing him forward, making his hair swish forwards. "Close the gates!" they shout. And just like that, the walls close with their grating sound rattling my body.
What if, when the guards came in and the gate was open for the last second, I bolted out? What would I do? Where would I go? Who would I see?
"Impressive job, ladies," the guard at caboose congratulates. He writes up two slips and hands them to us. "Hand these to Warden Freya."
Reading the slip, I see a request for the rest of the day/night off and a check number for 100 dollars.
Huh, we should get newcomers more often...