six feet under

I. I'LL BE SPEAKING TO YOU

What the bloody hell am I supposed to write ?

I didn't expect that starting a journal (there is no way I'm calling this a diary) would be so awkward. I mean, I'm literally addressing dead trees. At least, we will soon have something in common. Since I'm not a bloody tree, it doesn't take a degree in biology to understand what I mean. Although, I don't know if I should be happy or sad about it, it appears I'm still alive. So I suppose the comparison ends here. I don't think I'll get the chance to become something as precious as a notebook when I finally snuff it. I guess some get to have all the luck.

I left the Berg in the late morning. I wish I'd moved earlier – I'd have had more time to get the further possible from where we landed. But after I watched Tommy and the others walk away towards the Last City, I just couldn't find the strenght to move. It took me about two hours to pull myself together and gather the things I was taking with me. This notebook, of course, and a pen I found at the bottom of a drawer. A little food. A Launcher, just in case. And a knife I stole from Tommy while he was sleeping in this morning.

It's not that I really need a knife. If I did, any knife would do. I wanted to keep this knife – Tommy's knife – as a memory. Most of our weapons were stolen from WICKED's weapon room or found in the Scorch, but I can remember Tommy keeping this knife from the Glade. I gave it to him a few days after his arrival, and he used to bring it out when we sat down together by the bonfire after his runs. He carved small cuts into the handle, and some days (I figured out they were the days he was in a good mood) he carved various shapes, in small detail, a very focused expression on his face. I'd swear that one day, I saw him carving a little star. It's probably stupid but the first thing I did once I took the knife was to look if the little star was there. And it was. I smiled instantly, for the first time in days.

As much as I hated the place, I loved evenings like these in the Glade. Sometimes we were in the mood to talk, sometimes we just sat down in a comfortable silence, each of us running his own buisness. Tommy was busy carving his knife and I was thinking, watching him as he patiently made the cuts in the wood. Before I got to know him, it would never have crossed my mind as an option that Tommy actually knew what patience was. But he was so calm and focused in these moments – they revealed a whole new side of his personnality. That Tommy wasn't only an impulsive, reckless and stubborn shank. Somehow this, a lot more than his evident bravery, is what led me to trust him.

Alright, enough stories for today. Yeah, memories are nice. But they are past. That's not what we are here for. Anyway, I left the bloody Berg and the people that mattered – that matter - the most for me. I walked for what seemed to be three or four hours. I had no idea what my destination was, and I still don't know which path I'll follow tomorrow. I assumed it didn't matter : we all know how my life will end. Even though the place and time remains uncertain, I probably won't get time to go far away from here.

I found a place that surely was a forest before the Sun flares and all that. Right now, I'm sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree. Somehow a place with trees feels safer than the ruins of the closest city, although I could be surrounded by Cranks at this very moment. Wait–

I don't need to write it, do I ? Don't make me write it.

Did the Flare already progress further in my brain or am I just weird enough to talk to a notebook as if it was going to answer all by itself ? Probably both.

It makes me feel a little lonely, I guess. Having no one to talk to. I always thought that no one should fear being alone, because once you find how peaceful solitude can be, you never want to leave it. But there's a difference between driving your friends away because you need some time with yourself and realizing that this time, no one will come to annoy you and ask hey, you okay ? when you obviously are not, or do you wanna talk when you have no idea how to.

There are so many things I wish I told them.

I wouldn't accept telling you about how I was doing, because it'd mean that I knew it myself and I didn't have the courage to admit I didn't. I wouldn't let you take care of me because I was ashamed I couldn't do it myself. And even though I always pushed you away, I am so grateful you tried.

This is one of the many things.

The worst thing about all of this, is that I actually don't know if I would have said it if I was immune. Or if I still wasn't aware that I'm not. I might have grown to feel well enough to finally talk about it, and thank them for everything they have done for me when I felt like I didn't deserve it. Maybe this kind of thing is meant to be realized too late. Or maybe we do realize them in time, but we still feel too vulnerable to actually share it.

It's almost funny to think I spent my whole life - at least, what I remember of it - thinking I knew what pain felt like, and then this bloody world would prove me I never did. Now I realize I was once more wrong in thinking it couldn't get worse.

I think that's why I'm so scared to be lonely, now. Because I know it's getting bad again, and I remember all too well how it feels like.

... Well this is getting bloody depressing. I guess the thing I wanted to say is, I was starting to feel comfortable enough to share that kind of stuff with Tommy and the others - I'm mentioning Tommy first because since he was the last one coming up in the Box, he doesn't know as much as Minho or Fry does. After everything we went through together, he deserves to know. And I believe a part of me wants him to know, too. In the Maze, and then later in the Scorch, he trusted me. I wish I had shown him I trust him, too.

Maybe I can still do it. Well, of course, you won't ever read this journal. But doesn't that mean that what I write there has no bloody importance ? If I write all of this as if I was speaking to you, Tommy ? I guess it doesn't change anything, right ? No, it does change something, but it's only me feeling less alone and less... Well, less talking to a notebook. I know it's weird, but I've got the Flare - so I can do as many bloody weird things as I want, right ? Not being a Munie has to have its advantages.

Right, from now on, I'll be speaking to you, Tommy.

AN : I guess this is what is called The Book of Newt later, but when I started this fic I hadn't read The Maze Cutter and The Godhead Complex yet sooo this really has nothing to do with the extracts we get in those (they made me cry every two pages by the way. Anyone else ?)