Rogue | Group B → The Maze Runner¹

iii.bonus

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● [ iii . the fourth month ]

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FLORENCE STOOD over the pond of the Range, her reflection distorted, but clear enough to see the bruises blooming across her skin.

She had commanded the others to leave her be, Ximena and Rogue and the other interns, though there were few. Ada had hesitated by the door for a few minutes longer, the handle rattling with her shakes. But she was needed, in the aftermath of Jane. She left eventually. As did Florence.

Lise didn't yet know, and Florence was glad of it.

Lise would claim the opposite, but she worried far too much. About Florence's sleep, her food intake, her stress levels. Though, the dawning that Lise's worries rarely extended beyond Florence was something she chose to ignore. 

Besides, it was herself she had to focus on now. Florence drew a shaky breath in and released it, letting the cool air puff out her cheeks as she exhaled. It was fine. The worst was over and what was about to come would never surpass the pain she had just felt. It was fine.

Her eyes were dry, refusing to blink. Each time she did, she saw Jane again—vicious and barbaric—towering over her limp body, fists clenched, blood dripping from her white knuckles. 

Kept open, she took in another breath. Slowly. She held it and counted. One, two, three... exhale. It was fine. It was the same and it was fine. Just the same as doing it to the other girls, the other injuries. It was fine.

She repeated it until she had garnered the willpower to remove the iron rod from the small firepit and hover it inches away from her open wound. She winced as she peeled away the blood-soaked bandage from her side, the adhesive pulling at her tender flesh. The pain was sharp, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay steady. This was something she had to do on her own, something she couldn't rely on anyone else to fix.

Florence's wound had festered, the skin around it swollen and angry and oozing something other than blood. It would not heal on its own, and it would not close. Florence knew this. She knew it had become infected, and the only way to prevent any further blood loss was to meld the would shut. 

The iron rod, heated until its tip glowed red, shook to the stress of her hand. She figured holding it with both would cease the trembling. She was right, but only marginally. She just had to do it. Do it, do it, do it.

She pushed the rod and felt it burn away the rot. 

It was a sudden wave of searing agony. She bit down. She felt the top row of her teeth break the skin of her bottom lip, drawing blood. Florence didn't want to scream, but preventing it was almost as painful as closing the wound itself.