Newt

Fall

It took some time for Newt's plan to become a reality. There weren't enough boys to elect any leaders yet, but as more boys came, the need for organization increased.

Winston was Keeper of the Slicers. That wasn't a very difficult decision. The kid was delighted when more boys were sent up with a love of knives. Freaked the klunk out of Newt if he was being right and honest.

Some new shank who called himself Zart offered to be Keeper of the farming parts. He wasn't very nice to talk to, but the kid had a green thumb like Newt had never seen before. Alby elected him Keeper even as a Greenie and no one argued.

It took some convincing, but Alby final let Minho call himself the Keeper of the Runners. It was an obvious choice to Newt, but he kept his mouth shut about it. Alby also decided that The Glade needed a leader more than it needed another Runner. He began staying back and keeping an eye on everything, helping out where he could, instead of running. Made perfect sense to Newt, but it pissed off Minho for some reason. Pretty much everything did. That slinthead wore a scowl like he wore his own skin.

Newt tried to find joy in all the changes. The other boys seemed to be adjusting well enough. It wasn't the changes that bothered him. They were his bloody idea after all. No, it wasn't that.

It was the darkness: the darkness inside of him. Newt still battled with it every buggin' day. He tried to tell himself to stop being a sissy, but he couldn't seem to shake the sadness that tainted his mind. He lost the feeling of excitement that he used to get from running. The maze didn't even scare him anymore, not really. His lack of fear scared him more than the bloody Grievers themselves.

Once, he forced himself to wait until the doors started closing to run back, just to see if it would raise his pulse.

Nothing.

He sprinted back, jumped into The Glade and walked calmly past the other boys who had been waiting for his return, ignoring their shocked stares. He wasn't even out of breath.

As the days passed, the depression strengthened. He stopped talking to the other Gladers. If he wasn't running or recording in the Map Room, he was alone in the woods. He slept in his own room in the homestead, woke up before everyone else and made himself food. Alby tried talking to him about it once, but Newt brushed it off. Later, Minho questioned him, rudely, but with concern in his eyes. Newt turned him away. Even bloody Winston asked him how he was feeling.

The last thing Newt wanted was to be The Glade's favourite mental patient. Their concern only made things worse. He just wanted to be alone. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

It happened on what seemed to be an ordinary day. Newt wasn't exactly sure what changed inside of him, but he woke up that morning and just knew. This would be the last day. He was going to end it. He was going to kill himself.

He woke up extra early, forced himself to eat breakfast and ran out into the maze before the others. He didn't want the boys to have to see him do it, couldn't scar them like that.

After jogging far enough into the maze that no one would find him for a good long while, Newt stopped to catch his breath. He hadn't really planned this far ahead. Now that it was time, he wasn't sure how he wanted to go.

He pulled out his knife slowly, staring at it with hollow eyes. It was one option. Wrists would be too slow. He could stab himself in the chest, or slit his own throat. Those thoughts turned his stomach, though, so he put the knife away.

His eyes fell to the ground as he shook his head. Too much of a girly shank to even kill himself. Pathetic.

As he brought his head up, he noticed the walls, or more importantly, the thick, strong ivy lining them. Alby had climbed the wall before. It was possible. Newt didn't quite mind the idea of falling. It sounded liberating.

With a twisted sort of determination, Newt grabbed the ivy, heaving himself up. It took some effort, but he managed to find a foothold and work his way up. It was a slow and grueling process, but he wasn't in a rush. This was his last day. Why rush the inevitable?

With trembling arms, Newt finally pulled himself over the top. He collapsed, every part of him shaking from effort and fear. Real fear this time. He couldn't tell if it was fear of falling or fear of living.

The wind was strong this high up. As he forced himself to stand, Newt took a second to observe the maze. It was impossibly large. Thousands of bloody passages stretched far past his line of sight. His vantage point wasn't as high as he'd originally thought. Hopefully that wouldn't be a problem.

Newt tore his gaze from the horizon and looked downwards. The concrete seemed so far away. Its cold stone seemed almost welcoming after everything he had been through. This wasn't the worst way to go. Better than being stung by a bloody Griever.

As he stared down at the ground, he focused on his hatred of the maze. The strength of the emotion surprised him. He hated The Glade. He hated the people who put him here. He hated himself for being too weak to do anything about it.

A tear slipped from his eye, tracing a path across his cheek before falling from his chin to the concrete below. Newt watched it go, and suddenly the hatred was gone. It was that simple. Fall. All he had to do was fall.

Newt closed his eyes and leaned over the edge.