A Little Piece of Heaven

Newt P.O.V

I can't take it. I can't do this. The thoughts came as a shock, even though he'd been thinking it for a long time; a surge of panic started in his chest, spreading throughout his body like wildfire, until the Glader was shivering from more than just the cold. He was running, his feet pounding on the maze floor, eyes surveying the area around him. Observing. Looking for a way out. Was there even a way? If there was, surly the Gladers would have found it after all this time. Newt glanced up at the walls as he ran, so tall and intimidating and threatening, looming over him. He began gasping, his body wracking with silent sobs that so often choked him these days. And then he was on his hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut, the whole maze seeming to churn around him...then he was on his side, curled into a ball...the darkness was so consuming, taking him over...he didn't have the power to fight it.

Newt awoke with a jolt, his chest heaving as he rolled onto his back to peer up at the sky. He was still on the maze floor; he'd wasted the whole day. Not only that, but the sky was almost dark. The Doors would be closing soon if he didn't hurry back to the Glade, back to the safety the walls provided.

Shuck it, he thought. I just don't care anymore. He's not sure how long he laid there before finally pushing himself to a sitting position, gazing up once more at the maze exterior. The ivy wove its way neatly half-way up, the grey surface of the wall cracked in places but otherwise smooth. Slowly, Newt rose, turning in a complete circle as he took in everything. He'd seen it a million times, but yet it was like he was seeing it for the first time, like a newborn opening his eyes after so long of being blind. What had happened? Why had he just blacked out like that?

He knew his face would betray his fear if anyone was around. But no one was. A cold sweat tricked steadily down his unusually pale face that was smeared with dirt, and he actually whimpered as he backed up, pressing his back against the wall. He had to get back. Or he'd be stuck out here for the night.

Maybe it is best if I don't. Maybe I should stand here until the buggin' grievers come and claim me as their own. He had to stop thinking like that. If he didn't return, what would become of Alby? And Minho? Those two were his best friends out of everyone, although he loved all the Gladers. Wherever his family was, if they were even still alive, he didn't care—the Glade was his home now, its occupants his real family. Newt gulped, the lump sticking in his throat. He was dehydrated beyond belief, just realizing it for the first time. He tore his backpack open, grabbing a water bottle and upending it. He drank greedily, finally discarding the empty bottle and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

Newt strode forward, reaching out to touch the ivy. He grasped it in his hand, tugging it; it'd hold. Slowly, he began to climb, not daring to look down, afraid he'd chicken out. It was almost peaceful in the Maze; he heard the doors rolling shut in the distance, and knew it was too late; it was all silent, and Newt knew the Grievers would come for him unless he finished the job himself.

He reached the top of the ivy, gaining the courage to look down. He was so high up, a little over half-way, and he took a deep breath.

I'm sorry Minho. I'm sorry, Alby.

And then he jumped.