by Katie May
Is the...?
Is the cat trying to lead me somewhere?
There’s not a lot I know—and less I understand—about the supernatural world. I know it exists, for one, and I’m suspected to be a part of it. I know that this region of the United States is led by the elusive, dangerous Council. I know that William is an enforcer for said Council.
And I know that monsters exist.
Is it completely out of the realm of possibilities that a cat can have coherent thoughts? Not particularly. For all I know, he’s as intelligent as me.
Can I trust him?
I remain standing, understandably wary. And then I immediately feel ridiculous for being afraid of a cat. A freaking cat.
Mr. Scruffles releases a pathetic meow, and I sigh, relenting. Using the cat’s eyes, we maneuver the maze-like basement. The first half of the journey consists of nothing but grimy stone walls, leaking pipes, and flickering lights.
It is only when we turn at a fork in the hall—left—does the scenery change. There are various holes in the wall, each one the size of a modest closet or small room. All that remains of the doors are broken, rotting wood and charred bits of undefinable material. What appears to be a table is now nothing more than a pile of assorted debris, ravaged by vandalism and time. We stop at one of the largest rooms, and my heart ratchets up a notch.
“Is this...?” I begin, venturing a tentative step forward at Mr. Scruffles’s pressing. “Is this where your owner lives?”
It doesn’t resemble a prison cell—though, I’m not an expert by any means on what one is supposed to look like. Chairs are scattered around the room facing a small, static-filled television. A simple cot is pressed against the far wall, and on the opposite side, a toilet and sink sit.
“I don’t know if I can be in here,” I whisper, fear gripping me in an iron claw and refusing to release. What if the owner comes back and sees me in his or her space?
The cat rolls his eyes upwards, a decidedly human gesture.
I should go. I really should go...
But my bladder protests otherwise.
Before I can reconsider, I push down my panties and relieve myself in the toilet. I notice, somewhat amusedly, that Mr. Scruffles turns around the second I pull down my underwear. After I’m done washing my hands in the rustic sink, I perch myself daintily on one of the wooden chairs.
“Thank you,” I tell my new friend as he climbs up onto the table and presses his face into my hand. His whiskers tickle my skin, and I can’t stop the instinctive smile that pulls at my lips.
Now that I’m no longer in agonizing discomfort, I can focus on other stuff. Namely, my gnawing hunger.
As if on cue, my stomach growls, the noise drum-shattering loud. My cheeks instantly go up in flames as I remove my hand from Mr. Scruffles and touch my stomach.
Gracefully, the cat jumps off the table and races toward the open door. Once more, he releases a loud meow to indicate I follow him.
What the heck am I doing?
Trusting a cat?
I heard stories about how prison can make you lose your mind. Is that what’s happening to me?
I don’t know what possesses me, but I obediently amble to my feet and follow the cat down the twisting passageways.
As I walk farther, I note that the tunnels extend into large rooms. Some appear to be recreational halls while others still look to be dining rooms. Desks and tables are knocked over more often than not, and papers are practically plastered to the damp floor. Mold covers the walls, the stench nearly as pervasive as the smell of urine and blood.
Mr. Scruffles leads me to the largest room I have seen so far in the Labyrinth. Table after table are placed in perfect lines in the middle of the room. Against the far wall, a separate table seems to glimmer with bright light. As I watch through his eyes, transfixed, a collection of entrées appears.
Magic.
The food doesn’t look appetizing—stale-looking bread, a glob of brown and red meat, and decaying bananas—but it’s a feast to my growling, gnawing stomach.
“Thank you,” I whisper, bending down to press a kiss on Mr. Scruffles’s tiny head. I swear the cat leans into me like a flower straining toward the sun.
Scrunching my nose at the not-so-pleasant scent of the food, I scoop first the meat and then the bread onto my plate. I opt not to eat the banana—I survived this long, the last thing I need is to be killed by food poisoning.
Mr. Scruffles jumps onto one of the far tables, and I move to sit beside him. At some point, I must’ve pulled myself out of his head, for darkness once more monopolizes my vision. Using only my hands for guidance, I spear some of the meat onto my plastic fork.
The taste is... tolerable. It isn’t the worst food I have ever eaten, but it’s definitely not the best. The spicy tang of the meat is countered by the dryness of the bread. To drink, they only provide water in small paper cups.
“It’s not bad,” I tell Mr. Scruffles seriously. He makes a somewhat incredulous scoff. Maybe I have a future career in reading cats—I swear I understand him better than most humans. “Seriously, it’s not awful.” I giggle, pulling apart chunks of bread and feeding one to me and then one to Mr. Scruffles. “Once, at the Compound, I had to go a whole week only eating celery and water. That was awful. I think I prefer this junk to that.”
The cat nudges my hand, demanding pets, and I comply easily.
“I never had a pet before,” I continue, voice sounding far away and distant even to me. “Tay—that’s what everyone called her, at least—had a cat she would bring in. Fluffy. He was a pretty white cat. Actually, it might’ve been a she. Anyway, Tay would bring the cat in to visit me. I liked Tay. She never participated in the...torture sessions. Of course, she didn’t do anything to stop them either.” I trail off, my hand stilling on the cat’s head. I could be mistaken, I usually am, but it almost feels as if the cat bristles at my words. His back hunches, and an ear-piercing hiss escapes. I bop his head playfully. “Shush.”
I resume my strokes, and Mr. Scruffles settles down enough to lay on the table indolently. His furry tail swishes back and forth, whacking against my hand with each thrust.
I have just finished my meal when I become aware of footsteps behind me. If I was anyone else, anyone with perfect vision, the sound might not have been noticeable. As it is now, the footsteps sound drum-shattering loud in the quietness of the room. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, saluting the world.
Mr. Scruffles goes tense beside me, his coarse fur prickling.
“New girl!” a strident voice says from behind me. A second later, large hands squeeze my shoulders.
A ball of terror forms in my gut, churning the contents of my stomach around. I attempt to calm my uneven breathing.
While the voice isn’t necessarily unfriendly...
You can’t trust anyone.
Ducking my head, I ignore the newcomer and stab at my meat.
Go away.
Don’t hurt me.
Please don’t hurt me.
I don’t think I can survive it.
“I heard that you just arrived,” he continues easily. I wonder, briefly, what he looks like. While his voice is low and charming, his appearance could be the exact opposite. You can learn so much about a person through their eyes. Philosophers aren’t kidding when they say that eyes are the window to your soul. In one glance, you can see a person’s hopes and fears, their anger and desire.
Like Kai. He was the only person who didn’t stare at me like I was a tasty morsel he wanted to devour. He stared at me like I was a person, as necessary to his life as the air he breathed. Kai can only be comparable to the ocean. A deep and dark abyss you are forced to sink into in order to understand. You may drown, but death would be worth it.
“Are you dumb, bitch?” the newcomer asks snidely. His words are a slap to the face, and I blanch. “Answer me!” He grabs hold of my hair, yanking my head back. The momentum pulls me off the bench and onto the floor, s
lick with something wet. Hopefully, it’s not blood.
Fear explodes through me, kicking my body into action. I jerk my leg out and strike him in the knee. There are a few places Kai taught me to hit when in a pinch—the nuts, the knees, and the throat.
But without diving into his head, I’m relying solely on instinct. Fortunately, my foot aims true, a resounding crack and pained growl following the kick.
With a gurgling laugh, the man grabs my hair once more, tilting my head to the side. “You filthy—”
A ferocious roar has the man releasing me with a sharp, pained gasp. I remain submerged in my pit of darkness, shaking, as screams reverberate in the once silent room. It almost sounds as if...
As if...
As if a monster is attacking the man.
I scramble onto my knees, hands tightening on the table edge, and push into the nearest mind available.
All I can see is blood. Lots and lots of blood. The man’s face—he’s uglier than I imagined—is horribly disfigured, grotesque, with bloody slashes down both his cheeks and neck.
I push myself out of the monster’s eyes quickly, seconds from hyperventilating.
Am I next?
All I have ever known is pain. Inevitable pain. There’s not a second that goes by when I don’t experience some form of it.
It’s only fitting I would die experiencing the worst pain imaginable.
I feel hot breath on my cheek from the monster, and I squeeze my eyes shut, tears cascading down both my cheeks.
I’m not ready to die.
When no pain arrives, I push my consciousness once more into the nearest mind.
Mr. Scruffles—the mind I find myself in—glances at the disgusting, disfigured body lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor. The man’s face is nearly unrecognizable, nothing but blood, guts, and skin. My stomach heaves and tightens, and I cover my mouth, gagging. The cat turns away to focus on me, slithering between my legs and resuming its contented purr.
My hand freezes inches from the cat’s fur.
Had he just...?
What the heck just happened?
Chapter 6
Nina
I somewhat reluctantly follow Mr. Scruffles back to the cell I had gone to the bathroom in. My pulse skitters in trepidation as I use my hands to familiarize myself with my surroundings.
What had just happened?
It sounds surreal to say that the cat had transformed into a beast and had killed that man... but what other option is there? Someone—or something—had hurt him, and the cat was the only other occupant in the room.
Terror thrums through me as my heart ricochets around my ribcage. There’s a very real threat sitting only a few inches away from me, his tail swinging languidly.
Am I going to be next?
I want to run as far as I can, but I know my attempted escape will be futile. It’s apparent that the cat—monster—has taken a liking to me, practically herding me toward the bedroom. How long will that “liking” last? The last thing I want to do is provoke the creature and shorten my time left on earth.
I sift through my memories for any monster, creature, or paranormal entity that fits the cat’s description. Nothing springs to mind.
Still, despite my fear, I can’t ignore how tempting an actual bed sounds. While I slept peacefully only a few hours earlier, there’s something about an actual mattress, pillow, and blanket that appeals to me immensely. Even staring at it through Mr. Scuffles’s eyes reminds my body how weak and leaden it has become. I pull out of the cat’s head, and darkness presses in thickly all around me.
Using my hands for guidance, I stumble around the numerous chairs until I touch the mattress. It smells clean, the scent almost floral, and it’s softer than my mattress at the Compound.
I sink onto the fluffy surface and rest my head on the pillow. I hear Mr. Scruffles climb onto the foot of my bed and rest between my feet. In only seconds, his breathing is even and steady as sleep claims him.
Despite my earlier qualms, I find myself drifting off as well. It doesn’t matter that I had just slept for hours in the dank hallway. It doesn’t matter that a monster is purring away at my feet.
I just want to sleep, want to forget everything that has transpired in the last month. It feels as if I had aged years in a matter of hours. As the first pull of unconsciousness grips me, I think about death. My death, in particular.
How many times have I wished for such a relief in the Compound?
Now, death is quite literally breathing down my neck, but the allure is no longer present. I don’t know if I’m capable of fighting it, but I’ll sure as hell try.
I wake up to water being squirted in my face with the force of a tsunami. It enters my nostrils and gaping mouth, evoking unimaginable pain. Twisting, I press my forehead against the now soaked pillow.
As abruptly as it began, the water shuts off.
“Get up, Little Monster,” a cold voice demands. When I remain immobile, I hear the telltale sound of my cage being thrown open.
I mean cage literally.
My cell consists of nothing but gray slabs of stone and bars in front of the only doorway. There are no windows—no sunlight penetrating the suffocatingly small room. Only a cot and pot reside inside my prison. The cot itself smells distinctly of mildew and piss, and the pot reeks something fierce. They’re supposed to clean it out every day, but it has been sitting here for weeks now, overflowing and staining the cement floor.
A moment later, a rough hand fists around my hair, yanking my head back. I just barely manage to contain my yelp of pain, my teeth destroying my lower lip.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he snaps. Instead of fighting, I go limp in his arms. Call me a coward. Call me weak.
I learned long ago that fighting only leads to more pain.
He shifts me so I’m sitting somewhat comfortably in his arms, one of his hands under my butt and the other around my shoulders. I wince as he begins to grope me, but I know better than to open my mouth.
There’s no reason to fight. Not anymore.
Not after Kai left me.
Tears spring to my eyes instinctively, his mere name evoking such a reaction. I stubbornly hold them in, refusing to shed another tear in front of this man. Maybe later, in the solitude of my cell, I will fall apart. For now, I will pretend that my puzzle pieces aren’t jagged and broken, chewed up and discarded. I will pretend that I’m whole.
Maybe I’ll begin to believe it myself.
I slide into his head as he leads me through the Compound. Instead of the torture chamber, he leads me to a familiar room consisting of a wooden desk and two plastic chairs. I’m deposited on one, and he moves to sit opposite me, his legs kicked up and his hands behind his head.
“You’re being watched and recorded,” he says almost conversationally, nodding first to the camera in the corner of the room and then to the wall-length mirror. He leans forward suddenly, resting his forearms on the table. “So tell me, Little Monster, what you know about immortality.”
I awake with a gasp, breath feathering in and out. My heart feels like it is clamped in a spiky vise, bleeding with each consecutive harried pump. The dream replays on repeat in my mind. No, not a dream.
A memory.
Why did he ask me that question? What did he mean? Does it have something to do with my enhanced healing capabilities?
Each question clamors for attention in my head, but I’m unable to settle on just once. A splitting headache forms behind my eyes, and I rub at the sensitive skin with my thumbs.
Was it possible that the facility knew about the supernatural world?
The more I consider it, the more probable it seems to be. It’s no secret that the men and women present suspected I was something other than human. The tests administered and questions asked confirm as much.
But why me?
Why Kai?
Almost lazily, I push my mind into the nearest set of eyes… only to discover that I’m alone.
Where is Mr. Scruffles? I pat down the blankets, but my searching hands come up empty. Panic surges through me, completely unexpected. I’m struck by the intensity of it.
I don’t trust the cat, yet I’m grieving his absence. Maybe it’s because he’d been my first friend in years, not just my first friend in this prison. Maybe because his absence causes loneliness to press in on me on all sides, like a steadily shrinking room. As the walls push in, I begin to suffocate.
Breathing unsteady, I stumble around the room, searching futilely for the missing cat.
Did he go back to his owner?
Irrational tears trail down my cheeks, and I scrub them away.
No crying, Nina. You have to be strong. You’re not going to survive another day if you show weakness.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m not hungry. I imagine it’s only been a few hours since I last ate. Since the monster killed…
Don’t think about that.
I debate my options quickly. I could stay in this room where I’ve been relatively safe so far, or I could take my chances somewhere else in the Labyrinth. The main problem with the former idea is the owner of this room. I have no idea who or what he is and what he will do to me if he discovers me in his space. But if I travel by myself in the Labyrinth...
I’m under no misconception that I’m a strong fighter. Not every heroine has to be one. I know the basics of throwing a punch, but if you were to put me in a fight against a hardened criminal, I would be dead in seconds. That is, if they kill me. I’m not completely oblivious of what can be done to females in today’s society.
Before I can make my decision, there’s a rustling noise to the left of me, and I whip my head in that direction. Deciding quickly, I slide into the newcomer’s mind just as she staggers to a stop in front of the opened door, panting.
