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 EVENING SWEPT BY like shooting stars across the night sky, slicing through the darkness like a gleaming knife to a thick blanket of black and distracting my weary mind from the iniquity of my bleak afternoon.
We kept ourselves distracted with each other. The Gladers were magicians of mischievous antics, always having a joke or a quip hiding up their sleeves before unleashing it on whoever fell into the spotlight. It always seemed to be Minho–he was extra funny tonight. He had an arsenal of things to say and nothing could stop him as he playfully jested about everyone in the room, but he never poked too much fun at me. He was gentle with his words, saying if he said anything too mean that I fully had the capacity to kill him–which I do–but he kept me included as he proceeded to entertain us. He and Chuck were like performers, recreating the fight before us with a jesting twist and a heroic tale, gushing about how cool we were and how badass the fight was.
It flushed the guilt away.
In no way do I feel guilty for standing up for myself, but I feel bad for dragging them in. I suppose I shouldn't seeing how none of them regret it, but I can't help but feel guilty for putting my boys in another situation of violence. I'm supposed to protect them.
Most of the evening ticked away with plentiful laughter to keep us distracted from the fact we were forced to skip dinner. Our conversations consisted of memories of Glade, the other subjects in the cafeteria, what we thought the "safe place" would be like, how some of the guards look like they devoured a donut shop, and the mutual agreement that Janson looks like a walking rat-man.
Yet, after the rumble of our stomachs numbed our cores and our throats were sore from laughing too hard, our eyes began to droop and our bodies begged for rest.
Sleep easily took hold of us, sweeping us into a kind darkness where our bruised frames could finally begin to heal.
Of course, not without the cost of succumbing to our nightmares.
However, for myself, I was plagued with both grotesque nightmares and appalling realities, warping my mind into a place where my rest was restless and being awake was exhausting.
So, I unwillingly laid awake.
Curled on my left side, my knees tucked close to my chest, I trailed a delicate finger along the cool metal of the bunk railing. Behind me, cloaked around my frame like a shield, slept Newt. His long arms encircled my waist, keeping my back pressed against his chest and my body molded to his. He was worried about me. I could feel it in his grasp–even while he sleeps.
Today was too much for us. For me.
However, Newt is determined that no matter what I go through, he goes through, too. So, if I'm struggling, he struggles with me. And I don't like that.
