THE MAZE TRIALS ┃tmr love triangle

18

"Even if it means goodbye."

Penelope

I CAN'T stop thinking about last night. It's like a repeated cycle, on and on and never ending as though the only goal is to mentally torture me until I can no longer take it. The intrusive thoughts never give in either, begging me to join them on the other side, saying that I could've changed things. I could've saved Zart or Clint or all of them.

The anxiety doesn't leave my stomach after that, and I'm one of many people who haven't slept since the attack. Jeff and I have worked all through the night trying to help people with injuries, like Chuck who was attacked by a griever. 

It reminds me of treating Alby when he was stung, and how we could no longer do so. However Jeff doesn't let me mope around as I wish to do, as without Clint we're working 24/7 trying to help everyone, while the bricknicks and builders try to rebuild the glade. It's a sad attempt at trying to fix this mess, like a band-aid over a gunshot wound.

The cracks within the surface are finally arising, as though they've been left afloat like a boat long strayed from shore, though nobody wants to reel it in and make the first attempt to change. 

My feet involuntarily bring me back to the spot on the ground by the barely-standing medjack hut, which is just a few planks of wood at this point, in which Thomas is resting. Jeff allowed me to use the last of the serum on him, and he has been going forth between waking up and screaming, to falling back into an unconscious heave which worries me deeply.

Gally has taken control overnight. Of course it was to be expected, but I can hardly look at him with the way he constantly orders me to send Thomas to the slammer. I refuse every time, but he said that when it hits midday, he'll be sent there whether I like it or not.

I suppose that's the catch, isn't it? The glade changes and so do the people. I can't remember the last time I threw peas at Zart when Frypan overcooked our food, or the last time Clint would make sarcastic comments at me for stealing his jacket all the time. I don't think I can even remember the last time Gally braided my hair.

Moving over to where Frypan is sat, I take out some rubbing alcohol and bandages, as we have to make do with what little supplies we had. Fry stares at me with eyes that no longer hold their once familiar glow of welcoming friendliness, but with melancholy tinges of youth. He's just a boy, like how I'm just a girl, and those who died were as young as fourteen, fifteen even.

He doesn't say anything as I gently take a hold of his arm and begin tending to his wounds. I haven't slept in around thirty hours, and by the looks of his dishevelled appearance, neither has Frypan. 

"You were incredibly brave last night, Fry." I speak just above a whisper, as though scared that my words will betray me in the way we've all grown used to after last night.