Aphonic {TMR;Newt}

[8%]

Letter Seven

Nous sommes devenus le voyage.
Et comme tous les voyages,
Nous n'avons pas fini.
Nous avons simplement changé de direction,
et a continué.

-Prim

_

The next passing week in the Glade was focused on my recovery. The keepers, primarily Newt, were bluntly strict on denying my help whenever I asked if they needed it. They wanted my bruises to be completely gone before I continued to put strain my body. However, Frypan once in a while would let me help in the kitchen in the mornings when he was rushed. There were very sparse cooks around here, so he appreciated the help.

But it was past Mid-Day, and Frypan was on his break. So how I spent my fruitless drained time was writing, sitting with my back to the walls. Sometimes I could climb up the watchtower to write up there, which was much quieter and I was to think much more clearly. On the other hand, Alby doesn't like me going up there all alone. He said, I quote,

'Your tiny butt would slip through the rails before you could even blink.'

It's an ongoing joke on small I am, which I really don't even think I am. I don't know why it's so funny.

"Jesus. Doesn't your hand ever cramp up?" I shot Chuck a sharp daring look. He raised his hands in defense as he wavered his eyes from the paper clamped in my hands.

Chuck and I were go-to partners. He had a quick job by cleaning up after the others, so he usually had some free time to spare. He used it by keeping me company. It was like I was on a schedule really. In the mornings, strangely I wake up around the same time Minho does. I keep him company till he has to go run. Then I spend most of my day with Newt, but he always gets yanked around by other Gladers who always need his help. It kind of get's under my skin, especially if we are having a conversation...but at least I have Chuck. As long as I have Chuck, I believe I'll be just fine.

"No." I wrote down. Chuck smiled, focusing back on his wood widdling. I bit my bottom lip, curiously flickering between him and the wooden morsel lodged in his fingers. I asked him once what it was, but he refuses to tell me until it's finished. I always tell him the same about my letters, so I respect his wishes.

"Can you keep a secret?" I asked. Chuck re-read the words, looking up at me with anticipation.

"What kind of secret?" He asked. I looked outward to see if anyone was around. This wasn't much of a secret per-say, more of an observation I have noticed over the time when I have thoughts. When you think you form words inside your head, and they echo back to you. For me when I do that, sometimes they come out slightly different.

I turned to my latest poem, and let him read it. Let him at least try to. His face contorted into pure bewilderment at the accented letters and codical vowels.

"Uh..." He muttered. "I can't read this. What language even..." He trailed off, eyes widening. "You can speak another language!?"

Immediately I smacked him upside the head with the journal pages, causing him to let out a sharp 'ouch!' while rubbing against the curls of his hair.

"What was that for!" I let out a piercing shush, causing him to zip his lips. "Oh, right. Sorry." I smiled it off, retrieving back my journal.

Between me, myself, and I. I just like smacking them once in a while. Now that's funny.

"That's so cool! What language even is that?" He seemed ecstatic, even more so than I was about it myself.

"French. It gave me an idea."