𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 ᐅ 𝙣𝙚𝙬𝙩

𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Congratulations, Greenie.
You're officially a Glader.

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

TW: vision

I'm not too sure how many hours I spend with Winston in the Bloodhouse, but by the time he turns to me and tells me I can go for the day, I'm bloody relieved. I've spent the whole day slicing up animals, and at the moment I think I'm about to retch. As much as I don't mind blood all that much, the sight of seeing the light leave the pig's eyes at my hands is enough to make me dizzy.

"You did good, Greenie," Winston says, nodding.

"Thanks, Winston," I mumble, walking over to the sink and washing my hands clean of blood. The thick, crimson liquid sticks to my hands, turning the water a deep red. My eyesight blurs, the world morphing into splotches of red, clouding my senses. The blood isn't coming off. Why isn't the blood coming off?

My heart quickens as I keep scrubbing my hands raw, unaware that there's no more blood left. It's there. It's red. I see it. I keep scrubbing and scrubbing, a tear rolling down my face as the image of a Griever flashes in front of me, bearing its teeth and scratching at me. I want to scream, to sob, but only silent tears fall down my face. The Griever is coming closer, ticking like a clock. The clock that measures the end of my life.

Blood. Grievers. Maze. Death. Trapped. Creators. Glade.

Winston rushes over, snapping me out of my trance, turning the tap off hastily. My eyes flick down to my hands. The blood is gone.

All that's left is my sore skin. Without hesitation or letting Winston ask me whether I'm okay or not, I rip open the Bloodhouse door, my vision swaying through the tears. Cold air sweeps through me, and I exhale, glad to be out of there, glad to be away from the pungent smell of sweat and blood. I stand there, the door swinging shut behind me, breathing heavily as I look out over the Glade, watching everyone do their jobs.

"How'd ya get on?" Newt's voice calls from the trees. I turn to face him, to see that he's covered in soil and mud, there's even some smeared on his cheek.

I snap at him, "You're bloody everywhere, aren't you?"

Newt just nods, an amused smile on his face, waiting for my answer. I notice he pretends not to see the tears streaking down my face, and for that, I'm thankful. I don't want pity. I don't want to be babied. I just want to be left alone. Though, judging by how Newt's presence is still here, I know that him disappearing is not in the cards. It takes everything in me not to sneer at him.

"Just fine, Frog-Face."

"Wish you'd stop callin' me that," he grumbles, jogging up to me.

"I will when Greenbean is scrapped," I tell him, making him laugh at me.

"Over my dead body."

"Careful what you wish for," I say dryly. Newt walks silently alongside me as we make our way over to Frypans, even though we both know I probably won't be able to stomach a thing. I roll my eyes. That's why he's sticking around. Being second in command and all, it's his job to make sure gladers don't drop dead. He's meant to look after us. And I don't think if I were too weak to function he'd be keeping his job.

I'm still shaking from what happened in the Bloodhouse. What did happen? That can't be normal. There wasn't that much blood on my hands, and they now sting from the friction of me scrubbing at them. I discreetly look down at my hands, red rubbed raw. That's going to hurt. In the corner of my eye, I can see Newts gaze flicks to my hands, but then back up as soon as he saw them. He has the sense to not say anything. Good. Even he knew there are some questions you don't just ask people.