How I survived in an all boys glade

Chapter Thirty-seven

- bored out of my mind -

The next morning, I wake up with a pounding headache. "God..." I groan, my head throbbing as I slowly try to get out of bed. As I attempt to stand up, for a moment I forget about my swollen ankle, and before I can even brace myself, I collapse back down onto the ground with a sharp, painful groan. "Ow, shit," I mutter through clenched teeth, cringing at the shock of pain that shoots through my body.

After a few moments of regaining my bearings, I manage to get back on my feet, leaning heavily on the nearest chair for support. My ankle protests with every step I take, sending waves of discomfort up my leg, but I push through, determined to get dressed. I shuffle over to my dresser and grab a pair of beige cargo pants and a black tank top. Slowly and carefully, I slip into my clothes, wincing as I try to avoid putting too much strain on my injured ankle.

When I get to my shoes, I realize that the swelling in my ankle is too severe, and there's no way I can fit my foot into one of them. Frustrated, I settle for putting on only one shoe. I grab the bandage from my desk, but as I try to wrap it around my ankle, I pull too tightly and wince in pain, the sharp sting making me curse under my breath.

Just as I'm struggling with the bandage, I hear a soft knock on my door.

"Come in!" I call out, trying to keep my voice casual, but it catches slightly as I tug at the bandage again, making the pain flare up. "Ow," I mutter, cringing as I pull too hard.

"Hey, love," Newt's voice comes in softly, and I turn to see him walking into the room. His eyes soften as he takes in my struggle. "Need help with that?"

"Please," I reply gratefully, handing him the bandage. He moves closer, taking over and wrapping it gently around my ankle, being careful not to hurt me further. His touch is surprisingly soft and soothing, and I can't help but relax under his attention.

"How are you feeling?" he asks as he finishes wrapping my foot, stepping back to assess his work.

I shrug, my lips curving into a small smile despite the pain. "Could be better."

He smiles back, though there's a hint of concern still in his eyes. Then, he helps me up from the bed, his arm sliding around my waist for support. I feel my heart flutter at the gesture and can't help but feel my cheeks warm slightly. I look up at him, grateful. "Thank you, Newt."

"No problem," he says softly, a smile still tugging at his lips as he supports me toward the kitchen.

As we approach the table, I hear Theo's voice, bright and cheerful. "Hey!" He calls out as he spots us. He looks over at me and gets up from the table. "I'll go grab some food for her," he volunteers, already heading toward the food supplies.

Sitting down with the others, I look around, my mind still restless from being stuck in bed. 

"Sooo...?" I ask, trying to push away my frustration. "What's the plan for today? Where do you need me?" I ask, eager to do something, anything, to feel useful.

Alby, who had been standing behind me, speaks up, his voice firm. "Where I need you is in your bed, resting."

I sigh, my frustration evident. "Oh, come on, Alby," I whine, pouting just a little. I can't stand being stuck in one place when there's work to be done.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Alby says, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to rest and recover from your injuries."

I roll my eyes but know there's no point in arguing. He's right, even if I hate it.

After breakfast, Newt helps me back to my hut, where I collapse back onto the bed, my body still aching from the night before. At least my head isn't pounding quite as much anymore, but the pain in my ankle is a constant reminder of how much I still need to heal.

"You stay here, and I'll be back later to check up on you," Newt says as he helps me settle in. I give him a half-hearted nod, muttering, "Fine."

He chuckles softly at my response, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of amusement and affection. As he leaves, I can't help but sigh deeply, knowing I'm stuck here for the time being.

Looking around, my gaze lands on my sketchbook sitting on my desk. It's the one thing I can focus on when I feel restless like this. Slowly, I manage to get up, limping over to it. I grab a pen and eraser, carefully making my way back to the bed. But halfway there, I almost trip over my shoes, my balance faltering. I catch myself with my right hand, but the sudden movement sends a bolt of pain through my wrist. "Fuck!" I hiss, clutching my hand as the pain radiates up my arm.

Taking a deep breath, I sit back down against the wall, trying to ease the pain in my hand before starting to sketch. Drawing always helps clear my head, even if I don't always know what I'm drawing. Today, though, the memories from the maze flood back to me—images of the Grievers chasing me, the fear in my chest, the chaos of it all.

With each stroke of the pen, I try to capture the overwhelming panic I felt that night—the way the creatures loomed, menacing and relentless, and the stark terror I experienced when I saw one for the first time. 

As I draw, I can almost feel the weight of the moment again, but somehow, it brings a sense of relief. Even in the midst of pain and uncertainty, this—drawing—makes me feel like I have some control.