DEVIANT [H.S.]

9 - Punching Bag

As I sit on the cold concrete floor, my mind reels in all different directions, my thoughts not sticking in one certain spot.

I can still feel Harry's fingers clutched around my neck, the pressure of his weight hovering over me. Even with him not in the room, I feel like I'm choking. With each thought of him almost killing me, I sink deeper into my knees at my chest, tiny sniffles and whimpers erupting from my mouth.

I need to learn how to protect myself. Especially if he lashes out like that.

Especially from him.

Shakily, I stand up to my feet, wiping away any stray tears on my face. I can't show weakness here. I can't be weak here. I walk out of the room and go towards the interrogation room, the only place I can think of going right now.

When I pass through the Sphere it's pretty desolate; everyone must be doing something. Once I reach the familiar door, I open it and find Malachi sitting at a stool in front of the control board, the one that probably shot out the laser to destroy my watch.

"Malachi, we need to talk," I say with as much courage as I can muster up in five seconds.

He doesn't look away from the room beyond the glass in front of him.

"Malachi..." I keep on, trying to elicit a response. No luck.

"Malachi!" I exclaim. He doesn't flinch.

What the heck? It's as if he can't hear me, as if he's...

That's impossible. He can't be deaf; I just spoke to him four hours ago. We spoke to each other.

Unless this is his symptom as a Deviant. The toll the Protector formula had on him.

"Malachi..." I say almost in a whisper. Half of me wants to believe he can hear me, the other knows it isn't true. I begin to walk towards him quietly, but the click of the door swinging closed rocks me from my thoughts and his gaze finds mine. A calm but sad gaze. His eyes trail off to the corner of the control panel, where a white board and marker are set out.

He must know how to handle this.

I slowly walk over to the panel and take the board hesitantly into my hands, the marker feeling like a ten-pound weight in my palm. I sit down on the floor so I'm looking up at him. He motions for me to start writing.

Untwisting the cap, I think of where I should start. I could come out and say that Harry almost killed me, or I can keep it to myself until the time is right. I scribble my thoughts onto the white board and then face it towards Malachi.

Does anyone die down here?

Malachi's face shifts from complacent to questioning as he nods once. I quickly erase my question and write another:

How?

He reaches for the whiteboard and marker in my hands, taking them and beginning to scribe an answer. He faces the whiteboard to me when finished:

Many ways. Some I don't care to mention.

I tense up in lost thoughts. That doesn't make sense. I take the objects back from him, erase his answer, and write down a reply:

But anyone can die here, not only Deviants? That's all I want to know.

Malachi moves out of his chair and finds his way to the floor across from me, crossing his legs just like me. He looks ten years younger, his eyes wider than usual and more aware and present. His body is a bit rigid and stiff, but it's probably because he can't hear anything.