{Invidia - feeling or showing an envious resentment of someone or their achievements, possessions, or perceived advantages.}
y/n's pov:
Last night, I had a dream. It wasn't the usual terror of gore and violence that would flood my brain - the repetition of seeing those I care for in their last moments, and then their inevitable and brutal demise.
For a long time after Jorge was killed, I would routinely dream that on the night he died, it was me holding the gun, and that I was the one who chose to pull the trigger. In the dream, I would laugh, and shoot a man I had considered family for many years, repeatedly in the chest.
But this dream last night wasn't like that; everyone was smiling, sitting around a table and not only enjoying the food, but each other's company.
Newt was there, with Thomas and Fry. Opposite was Min and Gally, laughing with Dion, Amos and Fi. Harriet and Faye were there too, with of course, Vince sat at the head of the table.
But there were others, too. Jorge, Winston, Chuck, Mary and Alby. When I went to speak with them, they looked at me like they didn't know who I was.
Chuck wouldn't even look at me.
At first, before any of this had occurred, it felt as if it were a pleasant dream. Until it wasn't, and I could physically feel the mare crawl across my chest and infest my thoughts with its guilt and grief.
I woke up in a sweat, dazed and increasingly upset once I noticed that Newt wasn't lying next to me.
I flung my legs off the bed, looking over at the clock to notice the time. 8:30.
Remembering that today was the day the kitchen reopened, I rushed to get dressed, and hurried down to the others.
Upon entering, I saw Fry, accompanied by a massive grin.
"Y/n!" He screeches, running over to wrap his long arms around my torso. He pulls me into a tight hug. "Thank you for this. It's even better than I could have imagined! Have you seen inside?"
I smile. "No, not yet. You can show me around."
Fry and I walk towards the doors of the kitchen, nattering about the rebuild.
"Daymir did a beautiful job with the decor, y/n. She's an artist, I'm telling you." He says, opening the large swaying doors that separated the kitchen and the dining room.
It was, I'll admit, breathtaking. The camp chefs sprinted between the appliances, hurrying to finish the breakfast rush.
"She's done a good job." I replied, looking around the room at the new fridges, oven and sinks.
He points over to the doors on my right. "She's in the dining room if you want to thank her. Everyone is."
I nod. "Is Newt in there?"
Frypan grins. "Yes, your boyfriend is in there, too."
I roll my eyes. "It's a nice kitchen, Fry. Thomas helped build a lot of it, y'know."
He scoffs, washing a bowl filled with strawberries in the sink before him. "Yes, I'm aware of that." He retorts, slamming the bowl down on the counter. "I don't need everyone reminding me of that, y/n. He should be the one to rebuild it, he's the one who burnt it down in the first place!"
I shake my head, sighing. "I don't want to argue with you, Fry. It was an accident, and even if it wasn't, it certainly wasn't personal or malicious."
Fry appeared vaguely irritated. "I'm not saying that y/n-"
