A MAZE RUNNER TRILOGY
"And one day someone walks into your life,
a total stranger, and they become so important
to you. And while you're only known them such a short time,
you feel you're loved them for a lifetime."
#1 Ranking for #TheMazeRunner
#1...
THE CORRIDOR WAS A BLUR of gray concrete and flickering lights. Fitz kept a firm, guiding hand on Madylin's arm, though the resistance had drained out of her. She walked with a jerky rhythm, her movements disconnected from the reality of the bunker.
Every few strides, Madylin snapped her head back, her blue eyes tracking over her shoulder toward the loading dock, her jaw set, her knuckles white from the pressure of her clenched fists. She was scanning for a threat, caught in a survival loop he couldn't break.
Fitz didn't comment on the paranoia. He simply maintained his steady pace, putting physical distance between her and the boy she had just tried to kill.
Elizabeth trailed closely behind them, her heart aching as she watched the girl. The soft thumps of her boots echoed against the bare walls. She remained silent, though Fitz felt the weight of her panicked, questioning gaze drilling into his back.
They reached the door of the quarters the trio shared. Fitz pushed it open, pulling Madylin inside and leading her straight to the closest cot.
"Sit," he instructed softly.
She obeyed without a word, her knees buckling just enough to drop her weight onto the thin mattress. She stared dead ahead at the blank cinderblock wall.
Fitz knelt on the floor in front of her. "Let me look." He gently grasped her wrists, bringing her hands up into the harsh, yellow glare of the overhead bulb. She didn't pull away, but her fingers remained locked tight. He traced a careful thumb over her shoulder joints, before examining her fists again. "Madylin. Open your hands."
It took a few seconds for the command to penetrate the static in her mind. Slowly, her fingers uncurled.
Four crescent-shaped gouges dug deeply into the soft meat of each palm. Dark blood welled inside the cuts where her own nails had broken the skin. She looked down at the blood as if she had no idea how it had gotten there.
Elizabeth stood by the doorframe, watching Fitz pull a rag from his pocket to press against Madylin's bleeding palms. From where she stood, the angle of the light caught the exposed skin of Madylin's forearms.
Elizabeth frowned, stepping slightly closer. Jagged, pale scarring of needle injections on the girl's wrists and upper forearms, surrounded by faded, yellowish bruising that looked weeks old.
