Night Visions (TMR) (Newtmas)

11

Newt didn't remember much about his past life, but he knew that he hadn't been a religious person. Whenever he tried to piece together the few confusing memories he had, he ended up having the impression that he had been a pretty normal guy who didn't believe in God, or, at least, doubted He had some time for him. Yet there he was, in his room, knelt down and praying.

When Thomas started running towards the door, Newt felt something violent and intense. His whole body activated all the alarms, and started going crazy: his hand itched with Thomas' one's absence, his stomach seemed to plunk and his brain started to furiously pound, demanding that he went after the boy. And so he did. He ran as fast as he could, faster than he had ever run after his "accident". His bloody "accident".

The hobble slowed him down less than it used to, but the second of difference marked the difference. He reached the doors just in time to see them close and leave Thomas out. Newt carefully placed his hand on the cold stone, respectfully, as if he was touching a very antique and delicate relic; he then closed it in a fist, and hit as hard as he could. He bit his lip, blood dripping from his mouth, while he punched the Maze's doors; a cracking sound crossed the air, and his hand started hurting, too. It was a killer, beating ache, which felt almost like his leg had when he had had the accident; yet that didn't overpass his heart's pain, which was much worse. 

In less than a minute, the Glade had lost its leader, a Keeper and a Greenie. In less than a minute, Newt had lost his best friend, his colleague and a boy who was beggining to mean something for him.

It hurt so much that Newt pressed his chest with the broken hand, red and swollen, trying to calm himself. A dark hole had opened there, one that threatened to swallow every single good thing he had managed to do over the last two years. No Glader dared to speak. Not even a loud breath could be heard. Everyone just stood, silent; it felt as if the world had stopped.

Below his hand, his heart beat furiously. Go after them, go after them, go after them; those words filled his veins and arteries now instead of blood. He took a deep, shaky breath, and closed his eyes for a moment, picking up the pieces of his sanity and trying to hold them together. He just had to bear it until he got to his room in the Homestead. Just for a short time.

He turned around, feeling the grass slippy under his shoes, and kept his gaze down, unable to act as the brave leader he should have been. The green carpet was all he looked at as he said, "Everyone, go back to your thing. Frypan, dinner's waitin'. The rest, fulfill your duties and then eat somethin'. I want everyone workin' now." So that, when they come back, everythin's already done and we can focus on welcomin' them back, he thought. He didn't say it out loud.

Without another word, he got past the Gladers, trying to deal with the pain that had begun to slowly take over him. It was physical too, now; his whole torso was about to explode. Newt vaguely wondered whether one could actually die from saddnes or not; his body was apparently willing to prove it.

Newt had never been much of a religious person, again, but when he stormed into his room and crumbled, he started praying for them. Surrounded by concrete walls and a small bed with rigid metal bars as the headboard, the boy sunk his knees on the floor, and tangled his fingers together. How did you start a prayer? He didn't know; he just went straight to the point. 

Hey, God. Or shall I call you Lord? Nevermind. I just need you to do one thing, one single thing, for me. I just need you to keep an eye on Thomas, and to make sure that he comes back alive. That one thing, and we're even. I've always thought that, in case you existed, you would owe me one for lettin' the Creators puttin' me here. 'ts a very, very good moment to pay that debt. I need that shank alive. So please, don't let him die.