So, we didn't escape apparently.
I still barely know what's going on, but I know more now:
W.I.C.K.E.D. is a real pain in the ass, walking through sand dunes should be considered a sport, and searching for a mysterious rebel group is like searchin...
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THE NEW CLOTHES HUGGED my sore body like a bandage, molding around my scarred limbs and accentuating my tone frame.
A white long-sleeve shirt coated my arms and chest in its breathable material as plain black tights clung to my legs, the waistband reaching my belly-button. Thankfully, they also provided us with much-needed new shoes—a pair of white sneakers adorning my always-moving feet.
They even provided us with feminine products, which is a huge improvement from the closet they shoved us into at the beginning.
But even though I was covered in clothes—I felt naked.
I carried no weapons.
Which is a first for me.
My blonde hair quickly dried, falling around my shoulders in soft waves. The freshly washed bleached strands smelt of the coconut shampoo that I had absentmindedly lathered in earlier.
For once, in a long time, I finally felt clean.
A careful sigh wisped from my lips as I stood straight, still feeling raw with emotions from my panic attack.
I feel slightly better after crying.
But, god, I hate crying in front of others. It feels embarrassing. Teresa didn't mention it, nor did she make me feel bad about it. She just simply allowed me to breakdown and release the trauma I attained from the Maze. Yet, I know I'm not healed—I know the panic attacks will return, same with the flashbacks and eternal remorse.
The Maze isn't done with me quite yet.
"Oh my god," I released a dramatic groan, distracting myself, "Teresa, you're taking forever."
Teresa, who didn't go for her shower until she was sure I was okay, had finished ten minutes ago but took her nice sweet-ass time getting dressed in her stall.
Suddenly, the shower curtain hissed open.
"You're so impatient." She laughed.
The raven-haired woman stepped from the stall, wearing clean blue jeans and a dark blue long-sleeve shirt. Her damp midnight curls laid across her shoulders, beads of water seeping through the fabric.
She marched towards me, adorning a new pair of boots while carrying the filthy remnants of our dirty clothes from the Maze.
I glanced away from the bloody clothes—wanting to avoid another anxious episode.
"I'm eager." I corrected.
"Eager to interrogate our rescuers?" She arched a dark brow at me, a knowing smile tugging on her lips.
