nostalgia ✔️ | tough series bonus

↳ 3.1

〰️

I'M NOT BIG with words.

I think, as poetic and lengthy as it could be, arrangement of letters can never truly represent real feelings. They could come close, but still, I'm not big with words, so they won't. I don't even know how to start this thing.

Well.

My last day in the Maze was, from what I remember, pleasant. It was the day of my first kiss and I came back home to a cheerful celebration. I remember Thomas and Chuck sitting around the fire... Newt and Alby, me and Minho.

("Can you write with more feelings?"

Frankie glanced at Minho over her shoulder and pursed her lips together, "Just shut your hole. It's my thing."

"But you're writing like an emotionless person!" Minho exclaimed with a frown, "I remember Thomas and Chuck. Newt and Alby. Me and Minho. Can't you add, like, what we were doing... How did you feel, or how do you feel now when you remember them now..."

"I already said it right here!" Frankie retorted, pointing towards the paper.

"Huh? No, you didn't. Where?"

"Here: I'm not big with words.That sums up everything."

"But—"

"Ssstt...")

I remember falling asleep with a huge smile, and what feels like a normal sleep ended with my name being frantically called. My senses returned one by one —the pungent taste of blood in my mouth, the painful rope burns around my wrist, and the chill of evening breeze.

As a part of the Council, I had stood on the other side of the Banishment poles three times. Every time I did, I had to push all feelings and memories aside, filling my head with Alby's message when we first established the rules: "We survive on order. Can't have us being lenient to some and let beasts loose."

I tried to keep my klunk together and reminded myself that even though this wasn't right, it had to be done. No matter how shrill their 'please' and 'sorry' sounded.

That day, I finally knew and experienced the amount of fear and desperation George, Kim, and Terrence felt. Fear of death, Grievers, the night, and the changing Maze. Fear of knowing that I would be dead in a matter of minutes if not seconds. Desperate for a second chance, for another day of Frypan's casserole and casually laughing with friends. But above it all was confusion, which later turned into hurt, because those three boys deserved to be banished. Not me.

"Frankie of the Runners—" I can never forget every word Alby (or not Alby, since I know now that it wasn't really him) said "—you've been sentenced to Banishment. The Keepers have spoken, and their word ain't changing. And you ain't coming back. Ever."

And I can never forget the stoic, determined looks the boys had on their faces as they pushed me out, slowly but surely, onto the sacred line between the safety of the Glade and the horror of the Maze. I shouted their names in a pitch I had never made before, but still they wouldn't budge. Not even Minho, whose stupid face usually can't hide his emotions well.

No, he didn't look robotic. They all weren't. They were... It looked like they had been in a Gathering for hours and despite every argument thrown in my favour, Banishment was still the final call. Now that I think about it, their expressions were exactly the same as the one we had on the Glade's first Banishment.

Minho seemed helpless. But still he took a step forward, and I had to shuffle back.

〰️

I DIDN'T HAVE enough time to try and make sense of what the shucking klunk just shucking happened, because a Griever was already sitting on my right, and after that, I was enveloped in pain. I could literally feel its appendages cutting, slashing, piercing, and punching my body before darkness took over like another sleep.

〰️

SOME PEOPLE ASKED me when I retold this story: "Why did you believe W.I.C.K.E.D.'s lies so easily? About the Gladers wanting you gone?"

I didn't.

I spent two weeks recovering in a room of four bunkbeds, thinking and thinking and re-thinking.

I spent hours every day tracing the Griever attack's scars. I closed my eyes every night hoping that this was just a long, bad dream. Only to wake up the next day, still wrapped in another W.I.C.K.E.D. polo shirt.

I have to applause those shanks for their brilliance though, because my entire experience was fabricated, but it felt completely real.

So when Rat Man said, "There's a bad news. You both are infected. You've been showing aggressive, erratic behaviour that endangered both your lives and the lives of the other subjects, and your friends had agreed that they had enough of your acts of insanity. You may not remember it due to the shock of Griever attack and every medical action needed afterwards."

That... made sense.

Do you know that they had footages of me throwing tantrum with knives and of Reggie smashing things with his bare hands? They did. So, no, I didn't believe their lies so easily. Rat Man's story, my memory, their proofs, and my scars perfectly fit each other like puzzle pieces. There was no other explanation as well.

"It is with deepest regret that we must say, we cannot take care of you two any longer. We just don't have enough resources. This Flattrans will lead you directly outside. We hope you find your own kind and live well. As well as Cranks could live."

A woman handed Reggie and I backpacks, filled with a bottle of water, a few strips of beef jerky, and a shucking piece of cloth.

And so I was off to my second Banishment.

(Frankie leaned back after writing the final full stop and reread the whole thing in silence. Painful memories of her past and the bittersweet ones she had with Reggie filled her mind with chaotic feelings.

Reggie... How she missed him. His jokes, his laugh, his brotherly assurance...

That was until she felt two hands wrapped around her neck and something sharp pressed onto the crown of her head. Minho's chin.

"AAWHHH..." Minho cooed, "My baby's gone through so much."

Frankie rolled her eyes in annoyance, "Stop it."

"What? I've heard this story a hundred times, but still... AAWHHH..."

"Let me go, shuckface."

Minho kissed the top of her head, "Never.")

— end of PART III —