monachopsis - maze runner

chapter 3

Chapter 3
It's Not Right, It's Not Easy, It Just Is

Florence was by no means a morning person. There was an unspoken rule to steer clear of her at breakfast, a rule that was only broken if absolutely necessary, and only by a select group of boys who - through extensive experimentation - it had been determined she might not threaten with a butter knife. So when Alby had to knock on her door just before sunrise, even though he'd done it dozens of times before, he knew he was putting his life on the line. That was almost not an exaggeration.

Florence rolled out of her low bed, managing to find her footing before she faceplanted on the wooden ground, and shoved her hair out of her eyes. Her movements made slow by early-morning exhaustion, she shuffled to the door of her little shack and cracked it open. Alby stood there, fully dressed and looking far too pleased with himself.

"Mornin' sunshine."

"I hate you."

"I know." Alby held up a small knife, tilting his head in the direction of the walls. "You got five minutes." She didn't reply, just slammed the door shut and locked it. Florence staggered over to the bucket of water by her bed, splashing some on her face. She patted herself dry with a small towel, using her free hand to dig through a box of amenities the Creators had been decent enough to send her - there was a woman behind this act of grace, she was sure of it.

Florence sped through her minimal routine in four minutes - she brushed her teeth, wrestled her hair into a ponytail, sparingly applied some fresh-smelling cream from a little round tin, and changed into what had essentially become her uniform over the last three years. Short sleeve shirt, cargo pants, lace-up boots, and a light jacket to combat the early morning chill.

Florence was the only one in the Glade with some - albeit small - variety in her wardrobe, and this was only because she'd asked for it. She and Alby had had a running theory since the beginning of their time in the Glade that they were being watched by the people who'd sent them there. One day, they'd decided to test this by complaining loudly about their lack of certain supplies. They found that if they repeatedly listed items by name, they would sometimes appear in the next month's delivery. Florence and Alby kept this from the others to avoid an onslaught of requests that might get the privilege revoked, and only asked for specific supplies now and then.

Such items included a padlock and key for Florence's hut, upon Alby's request. Florence released one last monstrous yawn and tugged open her door, putting the padlock back in place and clicking it closed. The key was hooked onto her belt loop as she shuffled away from the shack, breathing in the fresh morning air. Beads of dew collected on her boots as she ambled through the grass, setting a straight course for the kitchens.

As she neared the open structure, a faint nutty aroma seeped into the scent of wet grass. A tired smile tugged at Florence's features when she spotted its source - Alby was leaning against the kitchen counter, a steaming tin mug in his hand.

"You're the best," Florence sighed when she reached him, accepting the warm mug of coffee. Alby chuckled, steering her out of the hut by the elbow. The pair slowly made their way towards the sleeping area, their footsteps muffled by the soft ground.

"What happened to 'I hate you'?" Alby quipped, far more awake than Florence and therefore perfectly able to mock her half-asleep words. The girl furrowed her brows, feigning innocence as she sipped her coffee.

"I never said that, what are you talking about?" Alby rolled his eyes and shoved her, careful not to make too much noise as they approached the collection of hammocks. Florence weaved lazily through the hanging Gladers while Alby made a bee-line for their newest. Carefully holding her mug in one hand, she reached down and moved Chuck's overhanging leg back into his hammock - he was a heavy sleeper, so she knew it wouldn't disturb him.