The Inventor

Chapter Twenty Four; "One minute"

     The second you felt the morphine run into your system you knew something must have been severely wrong. Morphine was never used ever in your time in the glade except when someone was close to death, too far gone to be healed and you at least wanted to make the last moments painless. But it's effect made you feel weightless, your body relieved of pain as you got the bliss of being taken from consciousness. In those last moments before you drifted off you truly did believe that it was all about to end and when you opened your eyes you would be in some space in between life times.

     You didn't get that, not yet, someone was determined to keep your heart pumping. And they succeeded because when you opened your eyes it was the blurry ceiling of the hogsmeade, the windows covered by thick fabrics so the room was dimly lit. The morphine had begun to fade, the drip disconnected from your arm and you could see it dangling to the left. To the right of your bed, there was Newt, two Newts actually because your vision wasn't doing too well.

     You shut your eyes again when a wave of nausea hits you, making you groan in the back of your throat. The bile rose and you flopped onto your stomach to hang over the edge of the bed. Newt quickly moved a trash can below you and kept your hair away from your face while you hurled.

     Everything in your stomach was gone, your eyes watering as you coughed out flem. You wiped your mouth with a towel and nudged yourself back up and sitting. The blanket was tangled around your limbs, one remaining unmoving on the mattress, refusing to help you kick them off.

     You combed through your hair with your fingertips, feeling the grease collected there from days without washing. At least the clumps of blood were gone but your clothes, your clothes were still a mess.

     "Drink this," Newt said, offering you water after a moment of letting you get your bearings.

     You grunted appreciatively, taking your time drinking to better adjust to what you could remember. It wasn't much, you spent plenty of time blurred between consciousness but you remembered the grievers, the screaming and the ghost of pain from where you were stung. You remember the dream you had when you made it back, the hallucination of Minho's blood between your fingers. The red sky was so distorted. But you could recall how it began so vividly that it made your bones itch with anxiousness. Your hands weren't so steady around the jar.

     The changing, the changing was horrid. Was everything before this just blood and violence? Pain and lost misery walking through endless scorching days hopelessly. Whatever family you had out there was dead, out of everything you remembered seeing that. There was no life out there for you, nobody rooting for you to make it out of this place and back to them.

     "What do you remember?" Newt asked, voice gentle but tense.

     You were silent for a moment, opening your mouth a few times to answer and putting the words off. Instead, you ignored his question and muttered one of your own, "Did I stab Minho or was that in my head?"

     Newt hesitated, "He's alive, Nick got over voted, you're not getting in trouble for it."

     You didn't know how you felt about that, there was no hatred toward him anymore. You were willing to put the blame on the griever venom if it meant you didn't have to face the repercussions of it.

     What happened?" You asked.

     Newt looked away, fidgeting anxiously with his hands, "Well, Gally was livid, I wasn't doing so good but it's all fine now, you made it back you bloody rockstar!"

     He put his hand on your leg with a grin, trying to edge some pride from you for your survival.

     "Yay me," You said in a monotone, not all too happy with it.