35 Michelle

Those girls won't stop conspiring with each other. I had forgotten about it before Gally pointed it out again, but now I see it. Talking in hushed tones with pained faces, trying yet falling to hide in the shadow of the Walls.

I know Gally said I should get on the inside of this if we are going to stop the power seize, but now isn't the time. So instead I sit staring at them, glaring into the harsh sun. All activities have been told to stop for the day, so that everyone can mourn. No one is really mourning though. Especially not the Builders.

Before that shank was a Runner he was with the Baggers. For a couple months I think, and those Baggers keep to themselves. Nobody really knew him other than those Runners and the klunk-heads who are supposed to be in charge of law and order. Baggers are good for nothing except digging graves and causing havoc.

So, of course all the Builders are doing is trashing both groups. From what I have come to understand, nobody gets along with anybody. Baggers and Slicers are creepy and should be avoided at all costs. Bricknicks are dumber Builders, and Builders are a lower standard of intelligence anyway. Sloppers are even dumber; they can't do nothing except clean up after the dirty Gladers. Cooks always smell funny, and Track-hoes are enjoyable, but for some reason they have a long going rivalry with the Builders. Only three Med-jacks, two of which probably get up to business they would rather no one else see, so everybody was surprised they let Leo in with open arms. Either they get up to weirder crap than everybody thought, or they are desperate for attention from "the plainest girl here".

"What's her name anyway?" I can't believe I'm still listening to the dumb Builders talk to each other. They aren't even the largest.

The other boy shrugs, leaning back on his hands as he feels the grass.

I stand up, marching past them. Don't need to listen to them talk any longer than I already have. I reach my foot forward, knocking the boys arm down and he falls into the grass.

"What's you're deal Mish?" The boy calls out after me as I storm past.

"It's Michelle," I turn to face him as my brow furrows. "Keep my name of your dirty shucking tongue. Her name is Leo, and if we are honestly you'd be lucky to get with a shucking Griever."

The other Builder laughs at the boy, before the one I insulted takes his cup of water and tosses it at the other boy. The first keeps laughing, as I smile. Walking off, I can't help but wonder why I stood up for Leo. I don't even like her, let alone do I have her back.

Especially when she and Dawn keep doing whatever it is they are doing.

I only glance at them from behind me, as I move to walk past the Homestead.

"Nice of you to call them out."

I turn around to see a boy I don't recognise leaning against the Homestead.

"Sorry, who are you?" I growl. I am not in the mood to meet new people.

"Clint," he answers as if that offers any answers. "I work with Leo, you know doing Med-jack stuff. Dave said you weren't as bad as people thought. He was right."

I stiffen my back. "David's been talking about me?"

He smirks, distracted by the sunlight which causes him to squint. "I thought you'd pretend not to care about Dave talking about you. Since you're all distant."

I glare at him quickly, before spinning around. "I'm not distant."

He chuckles at this. Before looking down at his nails. Why does everyone think I have a complex? Give me a single good reason to trust anyone I've met here.

Clint picks a piece of fluff off of his shoulder, before he flicks it off further away. Without sparing me another glance, he turns his back to me to head around the Homestead. Why are all the boys here so odd? David is apparently obsessed with me, Clint behaves like he is above me and everything else, and there's one kid who's been cleaning up blood off of stone for an hour. Like, does he not get that it isn't going to come off?

Maybe I should tell him. Maybe I should go up that tiny kid, with hair curlier than Ella's, and tell him what he is doing is pointless. I can see his face now. After all, he is scrubbing the blood of someone else off the ground, and he can't be any older than Ella.

That boy is not the kind to argue. His pudgy cheeks would puff up and turn redder than his hair. Redder than my hair. His eyes would water and melt down his face, but he would not make a sound. His lips would quiver and shake as he stared me down. No, he wouldn't stare me down. His eyes would meet mine and then they would dart back to the ground, to the soapy suds soaking into the stone, to the old rust stain of blood on his hands. A stain more accurate to the colour of his hair.

He would freeze, because he wouldn't be able to figure out how to run. The only way that would end is by me leaving. How long would I stand and stare at him?

Unlike him, I would look until the itch on the back of my neck is scratched. Although I know it will only cause problems, I want to go over to that boy and tell him what he is doing is pointless. What we are all doing is pointless. Guilt is the stain of blood on the Glade. Not only are all of our efforts futile to clean this mess, but we will always carry the weight of that uselessness.

Because that Slopper boy is useless. Just as useless as I am, and Gally is, and every single person in this Glade. We run like guinea pigs through this Maze with no success. What is the point to this all? To try and survive? Trying and surviving are two different things, and while surviving is easy trying feels impossible. How can we try when there is the blood of a boy spilt on the ground, and Leo and Dawn are conspiring off in the corner, and there were no really consequences for the Baggers who nearly got me killed?

I'm walking closer to the boy, and I don't even mean to be. My feet are carrying me closer and closer to the boy, a bird circling in on its prey. Who does he think he is? Who do I think I am? Why does everything make me so angry all the time?

My fingers clench, white knuckles turning red, turning fear the colour of fury, turning me from drained to passion, smoke to fire. I am alive even if it feels like I am about to combust. Why does life flow through my fingers in waves of heat that make my stomach burn and disintegrate? Do my insides hurt from the heat that waves through me, or the acid that plagues my soul? Does it really matter anyway?

I turn away from the boy, spinning into the pen with the animals. Not into it, beside it, running my hands along the wood and past the animals. Past the pigs and cows alive and waiting, and the few chickens mulling about.

Into the farm and into the room. There is a table, and a knife, and a freezer against the wall. Inside the freezer, grab the meat, red like blood, like my hair and that boy's hair. Red like fury and passion and injustice and the fight to survive. Pick it up. Carry it to the table and there is a knife. A butcher knife with a thick handle and a thicker blade. Into the meat, slicing at the meat and the bone. Splintering it in half, leaving a sliver scratch across the table. Silver like grey, like the cobblestone that is the Walls that keep me pinned up against boys that keep me pinned up against the ground.

The meat is tough and difficult to tear to shreds, and it isn't what I had expected it to be. It isn't what I wanted. I wanted everything to shatter in my fingers. To prove that I actually to wield power and potency. Instead, all I have been able to prove is that I can barely chopped up a piece of meat into nothing, let alone could I take on an angry boy. I am no angry boy. I am angry.

It's quick but I turn around throwing the butcher knife towards the door behind me. As it creeks open. The hilt of the knife hits the door, falling to the ground, as a boy peeks around the other side to stare at me.

He's taller with dark hair and skin only lighter by a few shades. He looks at me and cocks an eye. Why is everyone here so cocky in every sense of the world?

"Shut it," I begin.

He scoffs, looking over at me. "I could report you to Alby for breaking into my meat locker. What did that rack of ribs ever do to you?"

"Nothing," I roll my eyes at him as he continues to stare me down. "What? Would you just get on to reporting me already?"

"I'm not going to," he says simply. "Just don't go messing with my stuff again."

I drop the meat, not onto the table but onto the ground. And then I step on it as I move over towards him. Luckily my boot is thick, because I can feel the rubber slipping against the meat on the clean ground. Thankfully the ground is un-sanded planks of wood. Thankfully that boy doesn't follow me out of his meat locker either.

As soon as I am outside, I see the sun burying itself in the sky.

How long was in there destroying?

Why does that seem to be the only thing I am good at?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh Michelle, how ridiculous you are. I really enjoy this chapter. A lot actually.

Fun fact: I updated the cast list! Please enjoy the new pick I made for Dawn. It feels a lot more accurate, and I was never happy with my choice for her before this pick.

Be happy until I see you next time.