The Pit

Chapter 3 of 5

3

An hour or so after hearing Nick explain what he'd done wrong- he had no real way of knowing how long it had really been- Brandon began thinking about what he'd done. He'd refused to even think about it in all of that time, in an attempt to calm down. He'd been shivering under the foreboding dread of knowing he had done something so heinous, so vile, he couldn't ever imagine a time where he'd be able to forgive himself. He certainly couldn't entertain the idea of others forgiving him.

By this point, the pit had warmed under the bright, spring sun. Much of it was doused in direct sunlight, the only area not being the far Eastern side- where the gaze of the sun couldn't reach over the monolithic, white-wash wall. This was where Brandon sat, staring at but not actively paying attention to Annabel and Nick sat talking in the sunlight. The light was so bright that they appeared white and fragmented, he couldn't see them as clearly defined because of the dazzling gaze of the transcendent, omniscient sun also laying on them.

He allowed the horrific images of being handcuffed in the night grass to seep back into consciousness again. He recalled the deep, tingling sensation course through his legs at the moment he stopped- shortly before they were grabbed down by the police officer. "Sir, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder, it may harm..." Will I ever remember why? He knew he'd stopped listening to the officer at that point, leaving him with a sound-bite that had become eerily iconic in its repetition. He began to concentrate again, feeling his brow lower and his back teeth clench as he tried to think about where the chase had begun. Think. He knew he ran through a cul-de-sac at some point, running into the middle and jumping over a fence into the darkness away from the solitary street lamp. He'd thought there was a chance of escape, but he only found himself running down a new road, with the police car pouncing from behind the corner a few moments later. Think. His front teeth started to press down as his eyes widened- deep in his imagination. He remembered the blind panic he'd felt as he ran. But where did it start? Think! He pictured a calendar in his head. He'd been caught on a Wednesday. His mental form glided across the week, delving further and further back.

A flash of Monday appeared. Mum making him breakfast, the sizzle of fried eggs in a pan. He felt saliva collect in a pool underneath his tongue, suddenly wondering when the last time he ate was. Think. Mum didn't know about the murder. She was smiling, laughing, joking. So when had been--

"Brandon." It was Nick, who startled Brandon back into reality- flashes of his Mum's face still occasionally flickering into his gaze. He was standing over Brandon, tall and looming. He suddenly felt fearful of Nick- who in his volatile state could easily attack him, with him having no real way of defending himself. The dried blood that encrusted his nostrils and lips only served as a reminder. "I said to Annabel that I recognised you yesterday. And I think I now know why."

Brandon, who had now stood up attentively, eyed Nick with a curious look.

"We watched your arrest on the news, hours before the police invaded our hideout. I realised I was one of you." The last sentence hit Brandon in his core. One of me.

"What else do you remember about me?"

"They say you killed a man via strangulation." Nick's gaze lowered noticeably to Brandon's hands, and then to his own. "Not that I'm surprised, you seem pretty good with your hands. You and me both it seems."

Brandon felt a curious comfort from knowing he'd killed a male and not a female. The same self-serving squeamishness that had stopped him from standing up to a bully when he was in junior school. As mean as Mandy Maine had been, he'd always known there was an undeclared law against hitting a girl. For whatever reason, it was wrong. That had always puzzled him. It didn't matter whether physical confrontation was warranted or even if he knew the girl could take it, he knew never to lay a finger on a woman. There was an unmistakable horror to it. The beaten face of a woman was infinitely more grotesque than that of a man. If he hit a man, he'd be congratulated and revered. If he were to hit a woman, he'd be feared and lambasted.