demons-and-devils

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. I__ run the maze before, because I always knew which way to turn to find the little clear plastic box. I__ 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 (I__ learned later, there were others who hadn__) and once inside, I__ yank the clear door closed. The demons didn__ see the box. They saw only me, the wraith-like little half-blood girl. They would launch themselves__laws extended, jaws wide, eyes ablaze__nd slam into my box, sending shudders rattling through my bones. They__ 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, I__ 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.