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Congratulations, Greenie.
You're officially a Glader.

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TW: vision

I'm not too sure how many hours I spend with Winston in the Bloodhouse, but by the time he turns to me and tells me I can go for the day, I'm bloody relieved. I've spent the whole day slicing up animals, and at the moment I think I'm about to retch. As much as I don't mind blood all that much, the sight of seeing the light leave the pig's eyes at my hands is enough to make me dizzy.

"You did good, Greenie," Winston says, nodding.

"Thanks, Winston," I mumble, walking over to the sink and washing my hands clean of blood. The thick, crimson liquid sticks to my hands, turning the water a deep red. My eyesight blurs, the world morphing into splotches of red, clouding my senses. The blood isn't coming off. Why isn't the blood coming off?

My heart quickens as I keep scrubbing my hands raw, unaware that there's no more blood left. It's there. It's red. I see it. I keep scrubbing and scrubbing, a tear rolling down my face as the image of a Griever flashes in front of me, bearing its teeth and scratching at me. I want to scream, to sob, but only silent tears fall down my face. The Griever is coming closer, ticking like a clock. The clock that measures the end of my life.

Blood. Grievers. Maze. Death. Trapped. Creators. Glade.

Winston rushes over, snapping me out of my trance, turning the tap off hastily. My eyes flick down to my hands. The blood is gone.

All that's left is my sore skin. Without hesitation or letting Winston ask me whether I'm okay or not, I rip open the Bloodhouse door, my vision swaying through the tears. Cold air sweeps through me, and I exhale, glad to be out of there, glad to be away from the pungent smell of sweat and blood. I stand there, the door swinging shut behind me, breathing heavily as I look out over the Glade, watching everyone do their jobs.

"How'd ya get on?" Newt's voice calls from the trees. I turn to face him, to see that he's covered in soil and mud, there's even some smeared on his cheek.

I snap at him, "You're bloody everywhere, aren't you?"

Newt just nods, an amused smile on his face, waiting for my answer. I notice he pretends not to see the tears streaking down my face, and for that, I'm thankful. I don't want pity. I don't want to be babied. I just want to be left alone. Though, judging by how Newt's presence is still here, I know that him disappearing is not in the cards. It takes everything in me not to sneer at him.

"Just fine, Frog-Face."

"Wish you'd stop callin' me that," he grumbles, jogging up to me.

"I will when Greenbean is scrapped," I tell him, making him laugh at me.

"Over my dead body."

"Careful what you wish for," I say dryly. Newt walks silently alongside me as we make our way over to Frypans, even though we both know I probably won't be able to stomach a thing. I roll my eyes. That's why he's sticking around. Being second in command and all, it's his job to make sure gladers don't drop dead. He's meant to look after us. And I don't think if I were too weak to function he'd be keeping his job.

I'm still shaking from what happened in the Bloodhouse. What did happen? That can't be normal. There wasn't that much blood on my hands, and they now sting from the friction of me scrubbing at them. I discreetly look down at my hands, red rubbed raw. That's going to hurt. In the corner of my eye, I can see Newts gaze flicks to my hands, but then back up as soon as he saw them. He has the sense to not say anything. Good. Even he knew there are some questions you don't just ask people.

After minutes of comfortable silence as I calm myself down, a dark thought swims into mind. "What happens if we were all criminals? If that's the reason we're put here?"

"We'll never know," he hesitates. "Don't think you could have done much worse than steal something, anyway."

"Excuse me? Want to rethink that statement before I prove you wrong?"

"Not like that, Greenbean," he snaps at me playfully. I don't return the notion. "Don't take it the wrong way. I don't think ya would have hurt anyone if we were all criminals."

"I beg to differ."

"I don't."

"I wouldn't hesitate to kill you."

"Thats the most comforting thing I've ever heard," he says wryly. "You don't have the skill to change my mind."

"Our memories were wiped," I contradict simply. "We aren't the same people as we were before the Maze. And I have many skills."

"Like?" he scoffs, setting my teeth on edge. I really do not like this boy. "You've only known y'self a day and yet you have lots of skills? This I'd love to see."

"I'm fast."

"Not as fast as Alby," he counters.

With a smirk, I decide to taunt him. Not like he deserves anything less. "Faster than you."

"I don't count."

"Why not?"

He shakes his head. "Never mind. Point is, we ain't criminals. Y'think Chuckie could have done anything? Lad's barely twelve."

I let out a small laugh, the first one since arriving here. "Probably set animals free and caused a stampede. But I wouldn't overlook him. That kid's got enough sass to kill someone. I don't think he'd have any problem killing you."

Newt laughs at me, his face lighting up. "Take it back."

"No can do. Gally would've definitely killed someone," I say as Gally trudges past us, shooting me a dirty glare which I return without hesitation. I still despise him, though not as much as I did to begin with. Gally, although a nuisance, is completely harmless.

Newt rolls his eyes and scoffs. "More than one I'spect. Alby, too."

"What about me?" Alby's voice says as his body materialises from the trees near us. I shoot Newt an amused look before smirking at Alby, who's confused when he reads my expression. I'm still shaken from what happened in the Bloodhouse, but perhaps if I pretend that I'm fine I'll actually feel it.

"Nothing, Alby. Just taking about how ya run the place," Newt answers for me.

"Any questions, come to me, not this piece of klunk," Alby says, not unfondly, slapping Newt on the back. Newt smiles at him.

"A very tempting offer," I say sardonically, not forgetting how rude he was to me the other day.

"Slim it, you—"

Newt jumps in before Alby says something too harsh, though I am intrigued as to what he'd call me. "Sometimes you're hurtin' more than helping, ya'know?"

Alby rolls his eyes, but then he fixes on something in the distance, making Newt and I turn round to see the source. A figure comes running out of the Maze, drenched in sweat, doubling over and catching his breath. My heart skips; he must be a Runner. "Alright, Minho?"

Minho. Newt told me about him last night, I think. Last night? It feels like I've been here all my life. Well, in a way, I kind of have. I have no previous memories of the world before the Glade... everything comes as a surprise to me. How sarcasm comes naturally, almost an instinct... and how I don't trust anyone. Conversation by conversation, I'm starting to get to know myself more. It comforts me.

I direct my thoughts back to the conversation at hand — another thing I'm good at. Sorting out my thoughts.

Minho's the Keeper of the Runners, I remember.

"Perfect," Minho grumbles sarcastically, walking towards us. His eyes flick to me, noticing my raw hands and his face breaks out into a grimace. "Welcome to hell. Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks. Can't work out who's Satan, though."

"I'm placing my bets on you," Newt goads.

"Funny," I sneer. "I would have said the same thing. What'd you do all day?" I turn to Minho and ask curiously before the will to slap Newt becomes too great.

"Run the Maze. Come back an' map it," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It makes me feel stupid. "Simple as that. Nothin' exciting about it. Probably the most borin' job in the Glade."

The thought of running out in a Maze all day makes me uneasy, and I decide right there and then that I'd rather become a Slopper... and though I'm not too sure what that is, it doesn't sound too pleasant.

Minho eyes someone in the distance and frowns. "None o' the other shanks given you any trouble?"

"Not yet," I say, looking towards the nearest group of boys, still working. Winston emerges from the Bloodhouse and gives me a little wave, and I return it with a nod of the head. These people don't seem too bad. I make a list in my head of all the people I like so far, the people who I can relax a little more around. I don't trust any of them, yet, but I order them in from the ones I trust the most, to the ones I don't.

Chuck, Winston, Frypan, Newt, Minho, Alby; each one for a different reason.

"I told 'em if they touch ya they're banished. No questions asked," Alby assures me. It's perhaps the most agreeable thing I've ever heard him say to me.

"I would've punched them either way," I say simply.

Minho scoffs, "Y'not learn the rules yet, Greenie? No harming another Glader."

"Yep. She did," Newt says, a grin on his face as he looks at me. "Better entertainment."

It's almost like referencing when he said that yesterday is an apology for even saying it in the first place. Alby and Minho look at each other quizzically, whereas my lips quirk upwards slightly.

Perhaps he's not so bad.

❀

"It's a tradition," Newt says, tapping the wall with the machete that he always carries around. I stare at the part of the stone wall, tens of names etched into its surface. I smile. Each name is carved imperfectly, so wonderfully capturing the personality of each and every Glader. Chuck's is mismatched and barely legible, while Gally's is large and so accurately done. Jeff and Clint's are so close together you'd think it was the same name.

I trace the names, one of which has a jagged line through it. George. Stephan.

"And the ones crossed off are..." I don't want to say the words.

"Dead," Alby finishes for me, handing me a knife.

I stare at the wall, looking for an empty space between the names. I decide on the spot closest to Chuck's name. I raise the knife, and instinctively, Newt and Alby take two steps back.

I chuckle, lowering the knife, "That's insulting."

"Can't take any chances," Newt says, holding his hands up in mock defence.

I roll my eyes and turn around, and begin chipping at the stone, dust and rubble flying off piece by piece. It's harder then I thought it would be, and I silently curse my non existent parents for giving me such a damn long name. Once I'm done, I stand back, staring at my name. It's sandwiched in between Jeff's, Chuck's and Newt's.

"Congratulations, Greenie," Alby says, patting me on the shoulder. "You're officially a Glader."

Newt and Alby head off, leaving me standing by the wall. I smile, standing back even further. I'm one of them now. I've got a family.

The sun sets over the Glade, deep purple and pink paintbrush strokes painting the sky in a rich, warm burst of colour, the clouds a deep orange. The last rays of light shine on the wall, over all of our names. Even the ones who aren't with us any longer. They're still here, remembered in this wall. My name is carved roughly, not very deep into the surface of the stone. It stands there, strong and proud, with the other names surrounding it — confirming my place in this world. The last rays of light shine on my name, illuminating it. It's perfect.

A L E T H E A

—
This chapters a little all over the place lmao, but I really don't mind all that much. She's officially a Glader!! Idek why that makes me so happy but it does. Thanks for taking the time to read, vote and comment. It means everything.

~ sophie xx