15 Michelle

When I take my lunch, Gally glares at me. Realistically, it's the only thing he can do effectively. It isn't like we were getting any proper work done. We've just been reinforcing the frame, again, and again, and you get the drill. Those builders can't build anything proper to begin with, which is why my job is basically to clean up after their messes. How they managed to get the Homestead up in the first place blows my mind.

I wish there were picnic benches here. It would only take our whole crew two hours to build five or six, if they were competent. I imagine benches are much easier to construct then buildings, but I still wouldn't trust that lot to do it.

Today, my plate consists of various green vegetables, a piece of bread, and some unknown mush of meat. I'd rather starve than eat any of that, and I can attest to that point since I am already starving. However, I am entitled to my hour break and Gally can't say anything about it.

Although, today is day five. In two days he gets to go back to Alby and tell him to kick me off his crew. So really, I should be doing everything in power to kiss his ass. It's not in my nature to behave like that, and the mere thought makes my stomach curl over on itself. What a low I would have to sink to, if I were to become one of his little shanks.

They are still building, and he still stands there with his arms crossed, because he isn't good at doing anything else.

"Hey."

When I look up, the funny-talker is sitting in front of me. He lays down his own plate of mush, and I can't help but think that it is his turn to spy on me today. I am about to tell him to back off, but he keeps talking.

"Gally's not happy you're talking a break, is he?"

He is glancing at the boy over his shoulder, and when I look around the second-in-command, I see Gally's head whip away from us.

I smirk, taking a bite of the bread on my plate. "So it seems."

He nods, wrapping his hands together as he stares me down. "Don't take anything he does personally, alright? That shank has been off pretty much since the beginning. When he got stung by a Griever."

I don't answer him, taking another bite of the bread before me. The funny-talker continues looks back at me, and raises an eyebrow.

"You talk about as much as that little kid."

I scoff, and almost choke on the bread in my mouth. I swallow it, before I look back at him. "The pipsqueak isn't all there."

"Makes sense." He begins. "Normally when people show up they spent the first week quaking in their boots. You Greenies are the best I've ever seen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I get the feeling he doesn't trust me. Nor do I buy that anyone here trusts me. At least it goes both ways. These boys have dubious intentions at best. Especially since every time I look at one I catch them look away from me, as quick as they possibly could.

"Nothing, nothing." He quickly backtracks, leaning back. "It's a good thing. You should've seen us when we first came here."

I don't care to see it, or even to think about them. They just are people who happen to be sharing the same space as me. Boys who are incredibly annoying. I mean, so very annoying. This boy is no exception. He is trying to talk to me, probably to find out more information about me. His eyes penetrate me as deeply as eyes can. Whatever he is looking for, he isn't going to find it.

"Anyway," he begins, "you lot are adjusting well?"

"Adjusting?" I snort. "That implies that before this there was something."

He knows there was nothing. This boy must've also woken up in an elevator shaft, alone and cold. At least I had other people with me. I don't care to imagine what it was like to wake up in a place, without a face or a name. Surrounded by darkness.

Not because it sounds unpleasant, but because I genuinely don't give a klunk about anybody else here.

"Fair enough." He shakes his head.

Exactly, of course I'm right. I know what I am talking about after all, and I am not just talking out my behind.

I get up, and surprisingly my plate is finished. With the exception of that weird meat. I just leave it to fester in the heat.

"I had better get back to work."

He nods, standing up with his own plate and moving off as well.

Maybe he knows I am not going back to building. If he does, he doesn't let it show, and before long he is off talking to the leader. Of course this whole thing was an attempt at getting information out of me. Why I expected anything different, I could not tell you for sure. These boys that live here are nothing but conniving.

It takes me a few steps before I get into the Deadheads. In here I can breathe. The trees provide shade and protection from the harsh sun. The Glade is a cage, but in here for some strange reason, it feels like the cage is gone, and I am safe. The dense brush blurs into itself, and I can pretend the Deadheads go on and on for miles and years.

In here, it is ease to believe there is nothing trying to suppress or confine me. Trees can hold secrets. I am not sure why I trusted our little group in the woods. It wasn't our coalition, because the pipsqueak wasn't there. To be honest, I couldn't say why I trust any of them at all. As far as I know, they are spying too.

I can't tell if it is too late, or too early to care. I have been here for as long as I have ever known, but at the same time I know I have the rest of my life to wait out here. There is no escape, and I know it deep in my stomach. My issue is, I crave the taste of a new world. My lips wish to have one pass through my lips, and my stomach aches for sustenance. I will never be full.

It is hard to believe I will ever eat, if for as long as I have been alive I have been starving to death.

There is a tree in front of me, and in my back pocket I have a screwdriver. Gally wouldn't trust me with a hammer, which makes me wonder why he deemed this safe. This item would make the perfect shank; it is pointed and strong, and I could easily shove it through someone.

I doubt he knows I took it. I whip it out. My fingers grip tightly around the plastic handle, letting it burn into my hand. The plastic isn't cold are hot, but it coexists with my skin. Melting into it like it is a part of me, and I am a part of it.

I am a weapon; I know I am. For as long as I have lived I have not been taken seriously, but here I am. Strong, brutal, and ready to fight. I am not a bomb, like the boys treat me. In a second I could go off, but I am not ticking down to death. This body is cold, and firm, and calculated. It is a switchblade. Push one button and it will go off, but it will be your fault.

The closest thing I have to a switchblade is a screwdriver.

I slice the bark on the tree in front of me. It makes a quick thick line through the middle. My lips curl around the adrenaline rushing into my teeth, and I can't help but laugh.

My fingers flinch, and I cut open the bark again. I make another slice, and another, until the bark is shredded. I let the screwdriver drop from my hand, and with my callused fingertips, I rip the bark off the tree. When I grab it, I pull so hard I fall on to the ground.

I get back up again, as I must.

I continue to tear at the bark. It comes apart in thin flakes, flying back around me as the tree begins to peel off. When I reach the ends of what I have cut, I don't stop. My fingers pry and shake as they attempt to tear apart the tree in front of me.

There is no stopping me.

My fingers burn and bleed, and the light brown bark begins to bleed as well. I reach to the ground, picking up the screwdriver off of the dirt, as I stab the tree again and again. Into it I carve lines and shapes, and nothing and everything. Though I am not aiming to write anything, I explain all that is bottled up inside me. In a way, my body is also a cage, and so are the rules of the Glade.

Here in the forest, there is just me and the power of my screwdriver. Even a sturdy tree cannot adequately fight against me. That is because inside my bones there is power, and that power holds me up off the ground and supports me on my feet.

"What the shuck are you doing?"

When I turn around, there is a boy holding up a knife at me. Though my shoulder are heaving, I know I only have a screwdriver. I know I am backed against a tree, and it is me and a boy. Over his shoulder there is another boy, staring me down.

I let myself back away from the tree, and I raise my hands. I drop the screwdriver from between my raw fingers, before I begin to running.

"Stop!" The boy shouts, but I don't listen as I dart around them and through the Deadheads.

The trees smack against me, and I rip through them as I try to break out of the forest. My feet spring over roots and all the things in the ground that are reaching out to stop me. Unfortunately it seems even the Deadheads aren't safe.

When I reach the clearing, my feet don't stop as I pound forward.

I keep running, and running, until I realise.

There is nowhere for me to run.

They are pounding behind me. When I stop, I kneel on to the ground, putting my hands on my head. Someone collides into the back of me, tripping over my body. I stumble forward, but catch myself. Whoever is behind me, grabs my hands out from in front of me, ripping them behind my back, and lifting me off the ground.

"What exactly am I being arrested for?" I demand, trying to see who is behind me.

There is no answer, only hands that shrug me up.

The boy leads me past the homestead, and past the boys that are building. Gally smirks as he stares me down. When I look forward, I can tell they are leading me into the Slammer. This is great.

The builders are staring at me, and I make eye contact with the boy who saved me from the crashing building two days ago. He puts a finger on his lips, shaking his head at me.

I decide to take his advice.

~~~~~~~~

Oh shit is hitting the fan. Michelle is so drama, and I have attached her moodboard here. This is not going to go well, because of course it isn't. But oh well?

What do you think she is being arrested for?

Tell me until Friday.