The Huntress Descent

The Labyrinth: Chapter Six

Newt particularly had to drag both of us to the bathroom that morning. He was just as tired as I was. We both were in similar moods – mopey and irritated (from being tired – had I mentioned). My head ached. My body demanded more sleep. Breakfast was a blur, and an hour after it had ended, I couldn't remember what I had eaten. Our mood filled the breakfast rush to the point that Chuck swallowed his food whole and darted away as quick as he arrived. I was so tired, my brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled my skull in a dozen of places. The pain in my chest hadn't left me.

I stood with Newt and the Greenie in front of the Barn House, getting ready for my third training session with a Keeper (Greenie's first). Despite the rough morning, I was excited to do something to get my mind off Ben and the Deadheads.

Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around us. Somewhere close by, a dog barked.

"Clarke, Tommy, are you even listening to me?"

I snapped out of my daze and focused on Newt, who'd been talking for who knew how long. I had tuned out the moment we stopped walking.

"Yeah, sorry. Haven't slept much."

Newt attempted a smile. "Join the club on that one. Look, you probably think I'm a slinthead shank for makin' ya work today after what happened."

The Greenie shrugged. "Work's probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it."

"See," Newt said to me. "At least one person 'ere has the right mind. Like I told ya. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple."

I huffed and crossed my arms. There may have been a small argument this morning again about being dragged out of bed. This time there was less resistance then the first one.

Heat swelled.

My eyes widened and I snapped away from Newt and stared at the ground. I shuffled away and kicked a loose rock across the dusty, cracked stone floor of the Glade.

"So what's first?" the Greenie interrupted the awkwardness. "Milk cows or slaughter some poor little piggies?"

Newt laughed. "We always make the Newbies start with the Slicers. Don't worry, cuttin' up Frypan's victuals ain't but a part. Slicers do anything and everythin' dealin' with the beasties."

"Too bad I can't remember my whole life. Maybe I love killing animals." The joke fell flat. If that was even a joke.

Newt ignored him and continued on. "Let's go meet Winston – he's the Keeper."

Winston showed us around for the first hour (Newt informing us that he couldn't stay for very long, something had come up that he needed to sort out). He pointed out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The second hour was actually spent working with the farm animals – feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Klunk. These words that they had for things were beyond ... crazy. Where had they come up with these things?

The third hour was the hardest. Winston informed us that we'd both be watching him slaughter a hog. There was no such thing as waste in the Glade, so everything had to be prepared for either future eating or future usage. I knew the instant that Winston ended that life of the hog that this wasn't the job for me. I'd rather spend my days ploughing the fields than dealing with animals. They were fine from afar. Not, in my case, to be handled unless there was an absolute dire need to.

***

Winston had allowed for us leave early for lunch. Possibly to let the Greenie to have some air before he ate. The further we walked away from the Blood House, the more the colour in his skin returned. Conversation was something that I hadn't quite got the hang off. I knew in my heart this wasn't me. I knew who I was. That much wasn't taken away. I wasn't shy nor quiet. That what made it harder. Around Newt and Chuck I can almost be myself. There was something about it, like a sheet being pulled from me around their presence. But around everyone else it's like it takes over. I can get the words in my head, but something won't let me say them. The harder I tried the more of a failure I felt like when I can't.