OBLIVION [Thomesa]

twenty nine

Please answer this before reading, or else you'll burn in hell. (I'm joking. Am I?) How many Gladers are left in the book at TDC? Both groups combined? Please answer. Thx.

The end is coming, I'm really killing all five.

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The flowers were dead,
rustling softly against his thigh as he walked.
Newt stared at them regretfully,
as the paper petals turned to dust and broke apart across his black jeans.

Breathing heavily, he stopped halfway across the bridge,
gripping the railing tightly, and leaning forward.
His eyes were intense, his jaw tense,
as he pulled the frigid night air deep within himself,
deeper and deeper and deeper he breathed,
and every inch of blackness rubbed off on his tainted soul.

He didn't mind; taking the darkness onto himself, allowing the air to be clean again. And when he finally breathed it back out, through rough and barely parted lips, it floated freely, the warmed air a pure billowy white cloud blossoming from his mouth.

He stared downwards off the edge of bridge, considering for a moment with his fisted fingers a dozen feet above the black water.

He uncurled his hands from the flowers, and for a few seconds they stuck to his hands,before they reluctantly fell from his palms,
gently drifting on the breeze down towards the silent dark river.

It wouldn't do to give dead flowers to a dying girl,
he thought, as he stared at them floating ghoulishly on the surface of the swirling ink below him.

They fluttered limply, back up at him,
tattered ends of scarlet petals shivering
like bloody fingers silently quivering.

A half-deflated balloon bounced above his head, it's string trapped between his other hand.

Sighing,
he decided to keep the miserable thing.
He bought them a week ago.
For Macy. They looked like her . . .

He meant to go to visit her the next day.
Before the pain started up in his heart again,
as it did so often,
and he tried to drown it with a bottle and his fists.

He woke up the next week,
with no memories.
No recollection.
Only a pounding headache aching through him,
tears soaking his thin pillow,
and seven new scars stretching angrily across his sore body.

Nothing really mattered anymore.
Not to him.

The flowers were dead.
Along with his heart.

He paced back in forth. Back at this place, he swore to leave forever. Back after only six painful months. He planned to be go away before they ever had a chance to see him.

He didn't know what he would do if he saw them.
Saw her.

He's probably beg her to let him stay,
He'd probably lose control and fall to her feet.
To ask her if she's okay, if she's gotten better.

If he could do anything,
Just to hold her glance once more.
Just to be a drifting thought in her mind again . . .
He'd die.