Labyrinth

Chapter 9-

Labyrinth- C9

No sooner have the three of us scarfed down some cooked maze-animal with a pretty awful-tasting marinade (sorry, Trace. You're cool and sure, there isn't a lot to work with here, and I probably could never do any better... but your food sucks) before we're on the road again, all mentally humming the corny country-sounding song within our heads. Or maybe that's just me.

Mitten's whiskers twitch yet again as he ambles through another corridor, his pace balanced so that none of the three of us slip off. The scenery around us goes from white to black as the enormous cat trots us into a charcoal-colored cavern. "Is anyone else getting tired of the monochrome?" I mutter.

"There's nothing we can do about it, Collins. The author happens to like things black and white," Trace responds with a small shrug. I have no idea what she means by that, but somewhere in what seemed like a different dimension, I think I hear a wall shatter.

As I'm looking at the walls, I notice one streaked with a suspicious-looking substance that could be very bright-red cherry pie.. or the blood of someone who couldn't bear being alone with their thoughts. I shiver involuntarily, partially from the cooler temperature in this section of the maze and partially from the thought path I'd just ventured down. /If I hadn't found Jake and Trace, that would've been me/, I realize. Then my mind sheepishly recalls, /Actually, without Jake, you'd be dead./

The temperature's suddenly offset with the slight pressure of a warm hand against my shoulder. "Cold, Shorty?" Jake asks, and I can hear the small smile in his voice (we're in the same order as yesterday, since Trace has to 'drive' and I'm worried about falling off Mitten's butt).

"A little," I answer, "Hey, about what you said yesterday.."

"You mean what we estimate was yesterday?" he interrupts sardonically. I don't spend long on my internal debate as to whether or not he's trying to pull me off the topic.

Rolling my eyes, I continue, "Yes, what we estimate was yesterday. Did you mean what you said?"

"About needing sleep?" he asks, referencing a totally-irrelevant-to-my-train-of-thought-right-now remark he made before we got some rest.

Yet again, there is an eye-roll. "No. Don't be a smartass, Jake, you know what I mean."

"Then be specific."

A thin mouth and frustrated eyes train on the back of Trace's head, since my facial features are invisible to Jake right now. But the annoyance bubbling inside me doesn't block the sound of Trace's slightly-fangirlish, quiet squeal.

I don't know if it's because I have an audience or if it's because I'm fed up with him, but finally, I let out a huff of air and fire back, "Fine, then! The comment you made about me never being worth the effort to you, no matter how I look. What, is there a problem with me? Did you even mean what you said, or were you just trying to make yourself look like a douche that could have any girl he wanted?! Seriously, what was even the point of saying that? And don't even /think/ about trying to cover it up, your blushing gave you away." I piece on the last bit as he opens his mouth (probably after formulating a supposedly-clever reply). By now, I've craned my neck around so he can see my glare and feel the shame of being the object of Martha Collins's ridicule.

"Um, Short-" he starts, but I cut him off again, with the most pointless shit that could be used in an argument, simply playing the part of a congressman filibustering when making a law.

"I don't even know how you can toy with girls like this, you asshat! Like, really? REALLY? And then you give someone we barely know a reason to start drama?-"

"Shor-"

"Don't you 'Shorty' m-"

"MARTY. IN FRONT OF YOU."

His use of my actual nickname is what catches me off-guard.

But just as I whip around to face whatever's in front of me, there's a flash of white... before everything goes black.