Monster

(A/N): There are some suicidal and possibly triggering thoughts in this. If you are triggered by this, please don't read this story! I respect you and I hope that you will take care of yourself. This is me helping you :)

I can't sleep tonight,

Wide awake and so confused.

Thomas lies awake in bed, staring at the grass woven hut's ceiling. They had just gotten to paradise and were supposedly safe, though none of them could feel truly "safe" anymore. There was an unspoken truce that everyone was plagued by nightmares, and no one complained if they were woken by fast-paced breathing, a scream, or sobs. It wasn't how the world worked anymore.

Everything's in line,

But I'm bruised.

The inhabitants (the immune) had all mostly settled by then, everyone getting to their assigned jobs quickly. Harriet was in charge as well as Sonya, with the occasional help from the remaining Gladers (which was a very small number). Neither Thomas nor Minho wanted to. They'd had enough of leading for a lifetime. Thomas didn't feel like everything was normal, though, even though everything was. That was the problem. It really wasn't, but they were trying so hard to make it seem like it was. But it wasn't, and nothing would change that but time.

I need a voice to echo,

I need a light to take me home,

I kinda need a hero...

Is it you?

Ever since that devastating event that took Newt's life a year ago, Thomas was weak and broken. Imagine a window that you throw something at. First, spiderweb patterns appear. They might seem cool and artistic, but really, they were dangerous, and they'll keep fracturing. By the time the next ball hit, the window would break into small pieces. Shattered. Broken. Gone. Useless.

That's how Thomas felt. He walked around like a zombie, with slurred and robotic movements and speech. It was obvious he wasn't getting enough sleep. The Gladers, Brenda, Jorge, and Group B (remaining members) all noticed, but they knew better to disturb him. He'll come to them when he was ready.

I never see the forest for the trees,

I could really use your melody,

Baby, I'm a little blind,

I think it's time for you to find me.

Despite what they thought, Thomas had no plans to go to any of them. Now, when he talked, his smiles were forced, his gestures fake, and it showed. They had all been subtly getting closer, he knew, trying to befriend the hero and the one who got them here.

Thomas didn't feel like a hero.

He wasn't a hero for Alby, who was an (unsuccessful) sacrifice. He wasn't a hero for Chuck, who died to save him. He wasn't a hero for Winston, Jack, and the other Gladers that died in the storm and the scorch. He wasn't a hero for the cranks just waiting, no, begging for death. He wasn't a hero for immunes that died from the explosion. He wasn't a hero for Teresa who died in his arms, sacrificing herself for him. He definitely wasn't a hero for Newt, who he had killed with his own hands. Or rather, with that gun. "Please, Tommy, Please." still echoed in his head.

Can you be my nightingale?

Sing to me

I know you're there

You could be my sanity

Minho was the only thing that held Thomas up. And that's why he vowed to never tell Minho that he killed Newt. He knew it was selfish on his part, considering Newt was Minho's best friend and Minho was still coping with the fact that he was a crank, possibly dead from the flare already. And he was. Just not from the flare. Thomas knew Minho would hate him forever if he told him he killed Newt, so he didn't.