Back to the Maze

Chapter 7 | Newt

Can she even see herself? There are bags under her eyes. She's shaking uncontrollably. What makes her think her condition is going to help me feel better about mine? "How long have you been here?" She doesn't answer me. She only continues to cover me with a blanket. I watch her carefully, making sure she doesn't whip out a knife and stab me with it. How can I trust her if she won't even answer a simple question?

She looks up at me with large, green eyes. They almost look familiar, but only for a second. "You need to sleep. I don't know why this is happening. I don't know how we are here. I've been here for a while, alright? But I still don't have answers. I only know slightly more than you do, but only from the experience of witnessing something that made me feel fear that seems almost humanly impossible. I hope you won't have to feel the same, but he could be coming for us soon... Well, it."

"How am I supposed to sleep now; that was a lovely bedtime story. I don't think I'll be able to get it out of my head," I sarcastically respond.

"I'll protect you," she grabs her large knife, in which she was pointing at me moments ago, and leaves. I don't even know where she goes. Honestly, I don't care. This is crazy. How could I forget my entire life? Everything I've ever seen, heard, done, felt? Gone? I try my best not to cry, I wouldn't want that girl thinking less of me than she most likely does. Vomiting and sarcasm are not the best first impressions...I don't even know her name. These thoughts race through my head as I slowly drift from consciousness. Maybe I will wake up, and this will all be just a dream.

It's about noon when I rise from my nap. I can tell because of the temperature. It's hotter than it was earlier. I look at the wall beside me.

Twenty nine markings.

Is that her victims? Does she tally all of the people who's memories she erases. She leads them into her death hut to sleep, only to wake up with there noses at the point of her machete. I slowly turn my head to the door, expecting her to be standing there, but she isn't. Although that thought seems a little over the top, it's not impossible. I leave the house, stepping out into the warm sun. My arms branch out as I stretch, and I bring my hands behind my head.

"You okay?" I hear her say behind me.

My arms fall to my side. "Yes." We both suffer through a long pause, "What was your name, again?" I'm not sure why I said "again". She never told me it in the first place. I guess the sentence sounded less awkward that way.

"Kenzie. Don't expect anything else, that's all I remember. I don't want you to get your hopes up, thinking that you'll happen to obtain new memories as time passes."

"As time passes? Honestly, how long have you been here? And have you happened to take any innocent lives?" I mumble the last part.

"Does it really matter?" She stabs the shovel that she was using to dig up what seems to be a garden into the ground.

"Are you saying 'Does it really matter' to how long you've been here or-"

"...what do you mean? Like kill people?"

"I don't know," I shrug my shoulders. She seems a bit small to kill anyone. Now that I say it out loud, it does seem kind of ridiculous.

"No, at least, I don't think I have. I've wondered if maybe this is prison. Kind of like...I did something wrong and now I'm paying for it. It would have to be murder. Placing someone in here; it's worse than a death sentence."

"Why do you say that? I mean, of course we're alone and scared. We can't remember anything, but how is this worse than death itself?" I ask, genuinely confused.

She steps closer to me, but slowly as she speaks. "Once you've made this your home, once you start to thinkin', once you've lost all hope - come talk to me. You've not been here a day, Greenie." She seems offended.

"Greenie?"

"It..just came out. I don't know. It felt natural." She begins to dig again.

"Please, just tell me what's going on. You said it yourself, you were in my position once. How long ago? Are you the only one here?"

She flinches at my last question. "One month. Yes, I am alone." She says without turning to look at me.

"Who, or what, is coming for us?"

"The Harrow," she spins around, wiping sweat from her brow. She waits for me to ask another question.

"What's that?"

She smirks, probably because she knew I'd ask, "You'll hear him tonight. You'll hear him every night."

I grab the shovel from her, "You shouldn't be doing this yourself."

"I have been, what makes you think I shouldn't be doing it now?"

"I'm here," I look at her from the corner of my eye, "We both live here now. And who knows, maybe more people will come soon."

"I like your optimism. I need to go check the Box. I think I saw crates in there."

I hear all of the racket she's causing behind me. She obviously found the crates, and is dragging them out of the Box. "Finally." She says loudly, but without shouting. She probably wanted me to hear, so I turn my head to see what the fuss is all about. She holds up a piece of clothing, "Laundry," she says with a huge smile planted across her face. I could've sworn it stretched from ear to ear. I lay the shovel down, and join her at the lift. "Once a week," she passes a crate up to me, "the Box brings supplies up." Box... "It's usually food, or animals, which I'll make into food later on." She passes up another crate.

"Do you ever get to choose what comes up?" I ask. I realize how dumb the question is after it escapes my lips.

"I don't see how I would be able to," she hands me another crate, yet continues to stare at me as though she were thinking about it.

"Oh, no. Don't even act like you think that's a good question. No sympathy for me there I asked a stupid question," I laugh, but then I realize she's being genuine.

"We could send a note," she shrugs as she raises an eyebrow at me.

"You know what, let's send them a note. But not about supplies. We can tell them exactly how we feel about this whole bloody escapade, and tell them to shove our love letter right up their-"

"That's not going to get us beds."

"You think they'd send us beds?" I question.

"Or at least the supplies to make them. Maybe hammocks."

"I don't like how hammocks crook my neck, though."

"Beds it is." She rolls her eyes at me.

"What? I mean, if I'm being honest..."

"Beggars can't be choosers," she smiles, but I can tell she's hurt. She's been here a month. In a way, I think she's found happiness that she's not alone anymore, but she's still stuck with the sadness that she shouldn't be here in the first place.

We finally have the box cleared out, and all of the crates stacked up in neat piles. She grabs a small pocket knife out of one of them, and rips one apart to collect a chunk of wood from it. She begins to carve.

Pencil and paper

Beds

"What else?" She asks.