The odd one〚Minho FanFic〛

Chapter 10 - Half free day

Harley's Perspective

It was just another day in the Glade, and it wasn't one I mainly looked forward to. Today, my role was that of a slicer, a job I found dirty, unpleasant, and downright awful.

I wasn't sure how I'd handle the task of cutting up animals. The thought alone made me queasy, and I hoped I wouldn't lose my lunch.

Newt led me towards the blood house, and there I encountered Winston, the keeper of the slicers. Newt hurriedly departed as soon as I approached the blood house as if he wanted no part in the job.

Winston took it upon himself to explain the intricacies of slicing and even provided a demonstration.

Surprisingly, it wasn't as terrible as I'd anticipated. I suppose I wasn't one of those easily frightened individuals, but I couldn't deny that it wasn't the most pleasant sight.

I embarked on my first attempt at slicing a pig. It went reasonably well, I thought, but it was evident that this job wasn't my forte. It took me nearly fifty minutes to accomplish what Winston managed in a mere fifteen.

I made a few more attempts, but the slow progress remained consistent. Winston, in an attempt to be polite, commented that I had some skill but suggested that I might be better suited as a cook or med-jack instead. I knew he was simply sparing my feelings, especially considering the pig I had clumsily butchered moments ago.

Leaving the blood house, I couldn't help but smile. It was midday, and Winston kindly granted me the rest of the day off, acknowledging that slicing wasn't my calling and that I had already put in considerable effort.

With a single purpose in mind, I retrieved my sketchbook, and a pencil, and headed to my usual spot.

Flipping through the pages, I saw Chuck with a bit of flour on his nose, followed by Minho with flour adorning his hair, and then Gally sporting purple eyebrows.

I began sketching Minho, so absorbed in my work that I failed to notice the return of the runners until Minho himself spoke up.

"What are you up to?" Minho's voice brought me back to reality, and I hastily closed my sketchbook.

"Nothing," I replied quickly.

"Really? That didn't look like nothing, and your reaction suggests it's something secretive," he observed, taking a seat beside me.

"Alright, maybe it's secretive, but I'm not sharing it with you or anyone else," I asserted, my grip on the book tightening.

"I'll find out one way or another," Minho countered.

"Yeah, keep dreaming," I retorted.

"Oh, trust me, I will be dreaming about what's in that book for sure," he teased, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Good luck with that. I'm going to get some sleep now," I announced, rising to my feet.

"But it's not even 9, and you haven't eaten dinner yet," Minho protested, following suit.

"I don't care, and I'm not hungry. Goodnight," I replied, walking away.

"Night!" he called after me.

After the exhausting day of pig chopping, I felt unusually tired. Since I wasn't hungry and the work had drained me, I decided to turn in early. I slipped into my sleeping quarters, the soft chorus of night sounds from the Glade lulling me into a state of semi-consciousness. As I lay on my bunk, staring at the rough wooden beams above, my thoughts kept drifting back to my sketchbook.

Minho's curiosity had awoken something within me, a desire to share a part of my world with the other Gladers. After all, we were trapped in this maze, and perhaps my sketches could serve as a small reminder that there was beauty even in our confined existence.

With that thought I fell asleep that night. The same thought kept running through my mind every night after. It's been a week so far and the mind maze continued unravelling.

After all, the days seem to blend in together doing the same work over and over again. So remembering these moments and which day it happened on could bring a glimmer of light into our cloudy minds. 

With newfound determination, I decided to unveil my secret doodles. I don't want to show it to everyone. This is not something I want to share with anyone, but Minho had been persistent and he had also proven himself trustworthy, so he would be the first to see more of my work.

The next day, I sought out Minho during a rare moment of downtime in the evening. He was sitting by the fire pit, flipping through one of the books we had scavenged from the Box. I approached him with my sketchbook concealed beneath my arm.

"Hey," I greeted him.

He looked up, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. "What's up?"

"I thought you might want to see more of my sketches," I said, revealing the sketchbook.

Minho's eyes lit up with genuine interest as he eagerly accepted the book. He began flipping through the pages, his expression evolving from curiosity to amazement. My sketches depicted various scenes from the Glade—our shared meals, Minho mapping out the maze as I was fixing up his leg, and the moments of camaraderie around the campfire. The truth was that most of them helped the captivation of Minho. Everything he did near me seemed to be in that little book.

"These are incredible," Minho said, his voice filled with awe. "You've captured the Glade like no one else."

I couldn't help but smile, relieved by his positive reaction. "I thought it might be a way to remind us that there's more to life here than just surviving."