Demolished Love | Death Cure

Prisoner

  Ever since I woke up in the Maze, I've had floods of memories. Despite my memory being wiped, they always came back eventually.

  I remembered the day I found out I was immune, seeing my father past the Gone and being taken from my mother, placed on a train to Wicked's headquarters with my little brother.

  We were promised a better life. We were treated like royalty. We were told we would change the world.

bBut that didn't last.

bEverything went downhill. They started sacrificing teens in the Maze. I saw what Newt had to endure, him jumping off the walls, crying and wanting to get out. I saw Chuck, my loving brother, depressed and distant. And it was all my fault.

  But I never had the full story.

  Until now.

  I never thought I would get them back. Not completely. I figured I would go through my whole life with black spots where memories should be.

  But I know that's not the case when images and flashbacks and scents and smells and sights and other sensations flood my mind. It's overwhelming to take it all in, it's almost like a big bang, and then everything is here for me to finally grasp.

  I can see the day Chuck was born, my mom holding him in the hospital bed, my dad by her side as I sit by her feet, peeking over at my brother.

  I can see my first play date. It was with Aris. When he moved in next door. We ate cookies and had a mud fight, which according to my mind, was something we did often. We would run down to the creek after school and take our shoes off, splashing in the small river. Fish would nip at our ankles and our toes would sink into the dirt, which we'd scoop up in our hands and throw it at each other. Our moms would get so mad for messing up our clothes they made us throw the mud at the trees instead.

  I can see my dad teaching me how to hunt. We went deep into the woods and stealthily sneak around, looking for wild animals. I learned how to throw knives and shoot arrows, but we focused on guns. I was good at it. Although most parents wouldn't trust their seven year old with a firearm, I was strong enough and smart enough to handle it.

  I can see my first night in Wicked's headquarters so vividly. My eight year old self cuddled with the blankets on my bed, crying myself to sleep, whimpering for my mom and wishing I could room with my brother. Scared of all the tests they planned on performing on me, mortified of these people watching my every move, petrified of starting a new life with kids I've never met.

  I examine every small detail of my memories, hanging on to it for as long as I can, pure happiness filling me inside as I watch my life play out before my eyes, a privilege I never thought I would have again. I figured my past 16 years were gone, destroyed, forgotten. But they're here, right in front of me. My senses are ignited as I see happy and sad, desperate and joyful, fearful and tired.