The Devil's Pit

by Naomi Martin

  None of them lived with the torment and fear that has been part of my daily existence for most of my life. None of them tried to help. They all stood by and let Trip and his toadies make my life a living hell. I pass by another open doorway and see a few of the people who had been standing in that hallway, watching Trip bully and beat me, and had egged him on. They hadn’t taken part in the bullying, but they’d certainly loaded that gun for him.

  I narrow my eyes at them, and I don’t mean to, but the classroom erupts into white hot flames, incinerating everybody inside almost instantly. I reach the end of the hallway and push through the doors, stepping into sunlight so bright, it renders me blind for a moment. I throw my hand up to shield my eyes and it’s only then that I see the men in black tactical uniforms rushing at me, weapons at the ready.

  I throw up my hands to send a burst of flame at the men coming toward me when a hard blow catches me across the back of the head. I stagger forward and fall to my knees, my head spinning and my vision wavering. I move to get back to my feet when all of a sudden, one of the uniformed men clasps a silver collar around my neck, securing it with a loud click. I draw upon my power, filling my body with it.

  But when I go to release that burst of power, to burn everybody close to me to ash, I’m jolted by a blast of the purest agony I’ve ever known. It feels as if the fire I sought to release is rampaging through my veins instead blowing outward. Nausea wells up within me and I turn my head, vomiting all over the boots of the man who collared me. His friends laugh hysterically, but his face darkens with an expression of disgust and outrage.

  “You nasty little shit,” he growls.

  The man balls up his fist and drives it straight into my face. I’m still so numb from the backfire of my power, I barely even register it. All I’m aware of is my head snapping back and my mouth filling with the taste of blood.

  And the last thing I see is the man’s sneering face as his fist bears down on me again.

  Chapter Five

  Present Day…

  Elliot

  The second I see her walk from her cell to the chow line, everything else around me falls away and I sit there, completely riveted. It’s almost like there’s a spotlight following her every move and I can’t seem to take my eyes off of her. I try to look away, try to look at anything else—I even try looking down at my tray of unappetizing garbage—but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. It’s like my eyes are magnets and she’s a big piece of metal or something.

  As I watch her walking across the common room, I’m suddenly filled with the idea that I know this girl. I’m certain of it. I can’t say where or how, but I know her. I feel a strange connection to her that’s intense and vibrant. As confusing and confounding as it is, it’s something I can’t ignore or deny.

  The girl looks over at me and our eyes meet for a second. And in that second, I feel a powerful jolt. It feels like somebody touched a live wire to my skin. She quickly looks away and stares at her tray, obviously trying to avoid looking at me, and I suddenly feel stupid. Like she thinks I’m some kind of a freakish stalker. But I can’t help it. I’m drawn to her for some reason.

  I purse my lips, trying to think of what to do. Ordinarily, I’m pretty reserved. Some might call me shy. Well, they would if anybody talked to me, anyway. I don’t make friends very easily, and the people in this place aren’t overly friendly to begin with. They tend to form cliques, and if you’re not part of that clique, you may as well not even exist. Or, if they do acknowledge your existence, it’s usually to torment and abuse you.

  It was the exact same way when I was in high school, so I’m kind of used to it. I’m used to being invisible. I can see she’s not, though. She’s trying to hide it, trying to put up a brave front, but I can tell she’s scared. Who wouldn’t be? Being thrown into a place like this is disconcerting and scary for anybody. I know it took me a good month before I learned to navigate these waters.

  I finish up the slop they call breakfast and carry my tray over to the bin. I drop it in and feel my stomach churning as I contemplate my next move. Am I really going to do this? This is going way outside my comfort zone and isn’t something I’d ever normally consider doing. But this is how strongly I feel drawn to her.

  I have to force myself to take the first step. It’s slow and halting, but I manage it. And then a second. It takes me about four steps before I’m not lumbering and lurching across the common room like Frankenstein’s monster. As I approach her table, she fixes me with eyes that are like the bluest sapphires I’ve ever seen. And as she takes me in, those dazzling eyes sparkling like polished gemstones sliding from the tip of my toe to the top of my head, my legs turn to rubber. I drop down heavily into the seat across from her and see an odd mix of fear and danger flash in her eyes. She looks like a cornered animal, trying to decide whether to flee or fight.

  I hold my hands up. “I come in peace.”

  She says nothing in return, just stares at me with no hint of a smile upon her face. With no trace of emotion at all, actually. I would almost prefer it if she just told me to screw off and was done with it. I clear my throat, trying to stuff down my own nervousness as I try to appear as non-threatening as possible. Nope. Nothing to be afraid of. I’m just good old, non-threatening, socially-awkward Elliot.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I start, “I just feel like we know each other somehow.”

  Her face finally betrays some small hint of emotion, one corner of her mouth quirking upward in a grin. But it’s a grin with neither humor nor warmth.

  “Really?” she asks. “That’s what you’re going to go with?”

  I shake my head, feeling myself physically deflating. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You’ve been sitting over there staring at me for, like, twenty minutes,” she says. “And the best you can come up with is some lame pick-up line?”

  “Pick-up line?” I cock my head, genuinely confused.

  “‘Hey, don’t I know you?’” she chuckles to herself. “It’s a bad, cheesy, terrible line you’d hear some idiot blurt out in a bar.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve never been to a bar,” I counter.

  “My point stands,” she replies. “You could have come up with something better in all that time you were staring at me like some creeper.”

  She turns her attention back to her tray, picking at her breakfast with a sour expression on her face. She tears off a piece of the blueberry pancake and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly as she pointedly ignores me.

  “Okay, so what would you have led off with, then?” I ask. “Since you’re the social expert and all.”

  She looks up at me again and her expression darkens, visibly bristling. I can see that she’s putting in a lot of effort to make herself unapproachable. It’s a classic self-defense technique, and one I’ve seen employed many times here in the Pit for the three years I’ve been here now. It’s one I’ve even used myself. Not that I had too much of a problem with people approaching me.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you can go now,” she spits. “I don’t need you or anybody else staring at me like I’m some fucking zoo exhibit.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Go,” she spits. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  I can feel the eyes of everybody in the common area turn toward us and it’s like a physical weight is pressing down on me. I hate being the center of attention at any time, but never more than when somebody is reading me the riot act. It adds a layer humiliation and shame to my already substantial level of social discomfort.

  I lean forward, though, not ready to walk away. There’s something about this girl that’s compelling me to act so far out of character that I’m surprising even myself. I guess there’s some part of me that realizes the other kids in the Pit are going to laugh and make fun of me regardless of what I do, so a little extra embarrassment doesn’t really matter one way or another.

  I just need to find out why this girl compels me the way
she does. I need to know why that feeling of familiarity is so strong and so persistent. The moment I saw her, it felt like a small sliver had been stuck beneath my skin; a sudden and constant irritant that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

  “Listen, I say—”

  “No, I don’t need to listen. You need to listen,” she hisses. “I told you to leave me the fuck alone. How much clearer do I need to be?”

  “I’m sorry, I just wanted—”

  “Are you simple?” she snaps. “Are you stupid? Do you not understand what I’m saying?”

  I hear the laughter in the common area behind me as well as the whispers. It makes my cheeks flush red as my face grows warm with embarrassment. I get to my feet and turn away. Compelled by her or not, there is apparently a limit to the humiliation I can endure. Good to know.

  With my head down to avoid the glances of those who are laughing at me, I stride across the common room and take the stairs two at a time until I get to the second tier, then hustle down the walkway to my cell. All the while, I’m chased by the echoing voices of the people down below, shouting and laughing at me.

  I cut a glance back down at the common room floor and see the mysterious dark-haired girl looking up at me. She’s wearing a strange expression on her face that almost looks apologetic. But when our eyes meet, she quickly turns away. Grumbling under my breath, I step into my cell and flop down on my bunk. I stare up at the ceiling, doing everything I can to get that nagging feeling I’ve had since I first laid eyes on the girl to abate.

  It doesn’t work. Five minutes later, that feeling only seems to increase. Though, admittedly, it might be my own curiosity fueling those flames. I don’t like not knowing things. I seem to have this incessant need to solve puzzles and answer questions. There is little in this world that drives me crazier than not having the knowledge or understanding of something to answer my questions.

  With a loud sigh, I reach over and turn on the small radio that sits on the nightstand next to my bed. It’s one of the very few luxuries we’re afforded in here—music. And that’s only because the staff here thinks it keeps us more docile. Music soothes the heart of the savage beast, and all that.

  But I’m grateful for at least that small consideration, since life in here is an endless string of monotony. Every day is the same routine: wake up, shower, eat, sit around, talk to friends if you have them, eat dinner, then go to bed and be locked down for the night.

  The only variations to my schedule over the past three years have been avoiding having the crap kicked out of me or recovering from having the crap kicked out of me. I’m not much of a fighter, never have been. I prefer using my brain over my fists. Which has always made me an easy target for bullies and people looking to keep others below them on the social ladder. Because there always has to be somebody below you, right? Some people certainly seem to think so.

  As Bach’s Cello Suite Number One in G Major floats out of the speakers of the small radio, I close my eyes. I try to will that nagging sensation away, as well as the humiliation that continues to make my face feel so warm.

  I was stupid to have tried to talk to her. A girl like that—as beautiful as that—is not going to be interested in talking to me. They never were on the outside, so why would it be any different in here? Yeah, we should all be banding together in a collective outrage about what’s being done to us. The fact that we’ve all been ripped from our homes and stuck in this place, in violation of our civil rights with no legal recourse, is something we should all be screaming about. Something we should all be fighting.

  But we’re not. We’re too busy trying to re-establish our pecking order. We’re too busy fighting amongst ourselves to decide who’s on top of the social ladder and who’s stuck at the bottom to see that what’s being done to us is wrong, let alone organize enough to do something about it. We’re idiots like that. It’s Lord of the freaking Flies in here.

  We should be fighting for our freedom. Instead, we’re fighting to see who reigns supreme in here. To me, it’s like they’re fighting to be the king of a cat box. Yeah, you’re the ruler, but look around—what is it, exactly, that you’re reigning over? Nothing but crap.

  I let out a long breath and feel the skin on the back of my neck prickling as goosebumps march across my flesh. I usually only get that sensation when I’m being watched. My eyes fly open and I sit up, letting out a startled gasp. Standing in the doorway to my cell is the dark-haired girl.

  “Your name,” she says.

  Taken aback, I stare at her for a moment. “Sorry?”

  “That’s what you should have led with. Your name,” she clarifies.

  I nod, realizing how much sense it makes—and silently kicking myself for not realizing it sooner. My stomach lurches, and my heart is beating so hard in my chest that I’m sure she can either hear it—either that or it’s about to pop out of my body and land at her feet. I take a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly, fighting my insecurities over control of my wits. I win. For the moment, anyway.

  “Right. Sorry,” I say. “It’s Elliot.”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply. “Come on in.”

  Chapter Six

  Raven

  My heart is beating a mile a minute as I perch on the edge of the chair at his desk and we stare at each other in silence for a long moment. He looks at me with curiosity mixed with something more in his eyes, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Elliot is cute. He’s tall and trim, having something of a swimmer’s body. He’s got fiery red hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of jade.

  I can tell he’s intelligent. He’s articulate and well spoken. He’s definitely not like some of the bruisers I’ve seen wandering around and is probably the kind of person who will avoid a fight whenever possible. Not that I think he’s a coward or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. I think it takes a better, smarter person to walk away from a fight than start throwing blows.

  To me, violence should always be the last resort, and I can see in his bearing that Elliot probably adheres to the same philosophy. There’s a gentleness about him, a compassion and kindness I can see. Which makes me feel like an even bigger asshole for how I treated him.

  “Listen,” I finally say, “I just want to apologize. I was an asshole and—”

  He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “No, stop being so nice,” I tell him. “I was a jerk, and you didn’t deserve to have me scream at you like that.”

  A small grin tugs the corners of his mouth up. “You were kind of a jerk.”

  “There you go. That’s better,” I say, and we share a laugh.

  Our laughter fades, though, and we’re left sitting in an awkward silence. I can see that Elliot is still a bit gun-shy about saying something, fearing that I might bite his head off again. I guess I can’t say that I really blame him for it either.

  “I’m Raven,” I tell him.

  A soft smile touches his lips. “Nice to meet you, Raven.”

  I point to the radio. “I love Bach.”

  He looks at me curiously, almost as if he’s surprised I know who Bach is. It makes me laugh.

  “You know I had a life before this place, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Oh, right. Yeah, of course,” he stammers. “It’s just, not many people our age know who Bach is, let alone recognize his music.”

  “My parents were big on taking me to the symphony when I was younger,” I tell him. “They thought I needed some culture.”

  “A lot of the cretins around here need culture, I can tell you that,” he replies.

  There’s something about him that puts me at ease. I wish I would have stopped to think before lighting him up downstairs, and maybe we could have avoided that whole scene altogether. I should have given him a chance. I lean back in the chair and kick my feet up onto his desk.

  “So, how’d you end up here?” I ask.

  “It’s a
long story,” he replies. “How about you?”

  I laugh. “It’s a very long story.”

  “We’ve got nothing but time here.”

  I shrug. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “That’s fair.”

  Over the next couple of hours, we both share our stories. When he talks about setting fire to his bullies and his school, I’m shocked. He really isn’t somebody I would have expected to do something like that. It just goes to show that when you’re pushed too far, anybody can snap. That we all have a monster living inside of us, and it can be unleashed in the blink of an eye.

  I know that I’ve done some terrible things. Things I’m not proud of. I’ve hurt people. Killed them. Done things I never thought I would do, or be in a position where I had to. But it came down to survival. It was me or them. And I’m not going to apologize for making the decision to save myself. I shouldn’t have to.

  And neither should Elliot. I can see that he’s beating himself up about it all. I can see that he’s racked by guilt over what he did. As he recounts his story to me, it’s clear that it’s tearing him apart inside and I feel badly for him. He shouldn’t have to carry that weight.

  “You need to stop that,” I say.

  “Stop what?”

  “Kicking your own ass for what happened,” I tell him. “They forced you into that position, Elliot. You warned them, and they kept pushing you—”

  “I should have had more control over my powers,” he interjects, sounding miserable.

  “Yeah, and you should be able to fly, walk on water, and turn yourself invisible too, right?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he says.

  “About as ridiculous as you thinking it’s your fault that you let your powers get away from you,” I press. “Especially when you were still learning about them.”