Your POV
I panted, sweat streaming into eyes. I shook my head, tears pouring down my face. I clutched my sides. Too far. 200 meters. 150 meters. I stumbled. Falling over, tripping over my feet. I land hard on the ground, my hands taking the worst of the impact. The grinding of the Doors. "COME ON, (Y/N)! YOU CAN MAKE IT, COME ON!" Minho's voice cracks. I try to get up. Whir. Click. Click. Whir. My hands are slick with blood. My ankle throbs painfully and my chest screams in agony. Too late. I shake my head, crying. I hear the Griever advancing on me. Too easy. I will die. I accept that. I stifle my urge to crawl towards the Doors. I'll never make it. It will close in a matter of milliseconds. I don't have a chance. I hear screaming, but everything seems muffled. As if my head has been dunked underwater. It's only me and this Griever. 3 feet. 2 feet. It's nearly on top of me. I close my eyes and brace myself. I feel a sharp pain in my gut. My calf. My arm. My thigh. My stomach. It hurts too bad. Blackness. Gone.
I don't even know where my ideas come from. Double update just cause
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The Maze Runner Imagines
Fanfictionwarning: super duper cringey read at your own risk Just a bunch of Maze Runner imagines... All rights go to James Dashner.
