Asylum

Newcomer

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.