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It gets easier, Greenbean.

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I'm alone again.

I'm sitting on a log in front of the bonfire, staring into it's flames which lick the air as the smoke climbs higher and higher. Funny how smoke is more free than we are. I don't remember home. Or family. Or even me. What's my favourite colour? What's my coping mechanism? Do I even have a family?

I try to remember something... anything at all. Yet there's nothing. Just general knowledge of society with no memories to connect them to.

My family won't care that I'm gone. I doubt they've even noticed. I curse myself silently for forgetting about them, as if I could have held on for longer because maybe if I'd tried a little harder, I could still remember their faces. What happens if it was my parents that put me in here? Why am I of all people, in here? The only girl in a Glade full of boys. There had to be something that connected us all... all I had to do was to figure out what that was exactly.

Someone sits down next to me, breaking me out of the peaceful quiet I wished would last for longer. I turn to find Newt sitting next to me, the fire casting soft, flickering shadows across his face. I sneer at him. I think I'd prefer talking to a cow than to him.

"Hey, Greenbean," he says, taking a swig of whatever was in the bottle of his.

"Lizard," I greet dryly. I don't particularly want to talk to him, nor anyone else for that matter. But, being the first person to show me a smile, I feel like I owe him the liberty of at least making small talk with him. I shake the thought from my head. The mere notion of that disgusts me, what with the way he spoke to me. I don't regret calling him a twat.

He almost chokes on his drink. If I wasn't currently contemplating where the hell I was, I might be inclined to laugh at him. He wipes his shirt free of the drink he'd spilt and glances sideways at me. "I hope that nickname doesn't stick."

"Then you'll be sorely disappointed."

"A newt is the furthest thing from a lizard," he argues.

"Well excuse me if I'm not well versed on frog history."

"Lizards and frogs ain't the same thing."

"Fine," I say, snatching the bottle off of him, swigging some and handing it back to him while he stares at me, his brow quirked with amusement. The cold liquid relieves me slightly of the pain in my head. "Frog-Face it is."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I do dare. It's either frog or lizard, take your pick."

"Neither."

"Both it is," I proclaim to no one in particular, and Newt glares at me before we both fall into silence.

I don't trust him. I don't trust anyone here, especially that Gally guy. The notion that I might not be able to trust anyone ever again dawns on me, but I find comfort in the fact that all these boys have been through the exact same thing. Alone. Confused. Scared. I stare at the wall past the flames, eyeing the vines that crawls up to the top. I wonder if anyone's ever tried to climb it before. Surely they've tried everything? Like going back down in the box or going down in the void it left.

How many people have died? If these Griever things are as bad as they sound then loads of them — us — should be dead. The thought emerges that the likelihood of me surviving is slim to none. I don't even know what my strengths and weaknesses are. Am I smart? I suppose I am, I don't need to ask a lot of questions and can work out the answers myself. Am I fast? Considering I almost made it into the maze earlier, I'd say I'm pretty good at running. Am I strong? I guess we'll find out. I'm not sure how long we sit there in silence before Newt speaks again.

"How're ya doing, Greenbean?"

His question takes me aback. How am I? In all honesty, I don't know. And why does he care? Mere hours ago he had me pinned to the ground and told Gally my death would be entertaining— why should he care? Because they're all family here.

Family.

Something I don't remember having. And boy, do I want one. So, I reply to him as truthfully as I can. "I'm just fine. I'm in a random Glade full of boys and one lizard who prefers being called a frog, I've got not a clue who I really am or what I look like—"

"You've got light brown hair," he says, turning to face me, the fire casting a soft warm glow on him.

"I think I could tell that," I grumble.

"D'ya want me to help or not, shuck face?"

"Shuck face? You lot have some strange insults."

"I take pride in it," he says sarcastically. "We're all pretty strange." I stare at the wall again, the freedom of whatever's past it so close, yet so far. What even is past it? What is civilisation like out there? After a long pause, Newt nudges me with his foot, making me scowl at him. "You've got one green and one brown eye."

I scoff at him. Different coloured eyes? "You're messing with me."

"And freckles."

I look at the ground, realising that he's telling the truth. Two different coloured eyes? It's definitely not common — yet another thing setting me apart from them. I won't ever belong here. I don't really find myself caring whether I do or not. Or perhaps I will. I roll my eyes at myself, because how on earth did I draw not fitting in from a different eye colour? Well, I'm definitely an overthinker, I conclude.

"You look around my age, maybe seventeen," Newt continues, swinging himself round to face the other wall and lowering himself down so he's sitting on the floor, with his back against the log. Newt doesn't speak, letting my sort through my thoughts, which are getting clearer and clearer the longer I spend here. There are so many questions unanswered, but I have no doubt they will be answered at some point. After all, they did say that each of them was a Greenie, once. I try to recall everything I can about myself, pick up every piece of information I possibly can.

I'm Alethea. I have light brown hair, one green eye and one brown eye and I have freckles. I look seventeen.

I finally know a little more about myself, even as pathetic as the amount may seem, I draw a comfort from knowing myself a little better. I smile into the darkness and turn around on the log, and sit down next to him, facing the wall. Newt is sarcastic, blunt and honest and yet... something tells me there's a whole lot more going on with this boy than I once thought, which comforts me more than scares me. Alby was exactly the same. Cold at first, but that coldness ebbed away the longer we spent together. I'm still certain Alby and Newt don't like me much, however I'm not too fussed about that. I don't care what others think when the inevitability of death is right outside the Glade.

I don't want to be friends with him. So I don't even attempt at a thank you.

"What was that?" He says, grinning at me, trying to pry a thanks from me. I scowl; even Newt can tell that's not something I probably say a lot, and that I'd have to swallow a lot of pride in order for it to come out of my mouth.

"I didn't say anything," I snap at him. "And you won't get a thanks off of me. Ever."

He laughs at me as I continue to glare at him. "Okay, Greenbean, okay."

Another silence.

"Why can't we leave the Glade?" I ask suddenly, nodding over to the outside of the maze. I understand the part about the Grievers, but surely that's not the only thing stopping us. They would be out by now if it was.

"Didn't ya listen to Alby and I earlier?" Newt says, bringing one leg up and resting his arm on it, drink in hand. His slightly playful demeanour has faded away, and now all thats left is his unwavering voice. "No one's ever fought a Griever and lived to talk about it. Hear that?"

I pause to listen when he raises his finger towards to the maze. A faint clicking can be heard over owls hooting, the fire crackling and people laughing. Then, a scraping sound. It's as if the walls were moving.

"That's the maze. Changing," he continues. "It changes every night."

"That's convenient," I say dryly. So that's the thing stopping them from leaving. Because how on earth could they try to get out when the walls are always changing?

"Did Alby tell ya about runners?" Newt says. I shake my head at him. He twists his body to behind the fire and I follow his gaze. "See that one? Sat by the fire?"

Sat down, drinking a bottle of god knows what, is the boy that sat over the edge of the box when I first came up.

"That's Minho. The Keeper of the Runners. They go into the maze and map it, learn how it works. Listen, the truth is, they're the only ones that really know what's out there. They're the strongest and the fastest of us and it's a good thing too, because if they don't come back before those doors close, then they're stuck out there for the night. No one's ever survived a night in the maze."

They're the strongest and the fastest of us. No one's ever survived a night in the maze.

I stare at the maze, wondering about how it moves, how they track it, how they memorise it. I become fascinated by the premise of it... freedom. It's cruel, putting the exit so close when it's seemingly unobtainable. But I can think of crueler things.

"Do you remember anything else? From life before the Maze?" I ask Newt. "It's too cruel to just put us in here knowing nothing but our own names."

He almost laughs, shaking his head, his eyes blazing. "That's something you'll learn about the creators. They are cruel. We get our names and that's it. Of course, some shanks don't even get that. They can't remember."

"That's vile."

"It is, ain't it?" Newt says.

I nod my head slowly as Newt and I fall silent once more. I'm thankful for the quiet, and for the fact that Newt seems to understand that every so often I need to pause to sort though everything in my head before I ask another question. I'm glad I'm not being bombarded with answers, however I want them all. I want them now. But I know that they'll be answered the longer I'm here. But how long that is, exactly, I don't know.

"Oi, Newt!" Minho calls. "Get over here, shank!"

Newt shouts something back, and then presses the bottle into my hand with a reassuring nod. "It gets easier, Greenbean."

I stare at him blankly before he leaves, gripping the bottle in my hands. His words do not comfort me in the slightest, though I do hope it gets easier. I take another swig, letting the cold, sharp liquid roll down my throat. I sigh.

A chuckling sounds from next to me, and look to find a tall man, with dark hair and skin, is standing there, a kind smile on his face. I instantaneously relax. Something tells me this guy isn't all bad. "Frypan," he introduces. "Nice to meet ya, greenie. I do the cooking."

I think back to the dinner I didn't eat. "I hope you didn't take any offence. I wasn't hungry."

He laughs. "No, I get it, Greenie. I was like that too on First Day. What's ya name?"

"Alethea."

"Well, Alethea, I wouldn't drink too much of that, unless ya want a bangin' headache tomorrow," he warns with a smile.

"Would that be so bad?"

"Don't suppose so. How're you doing?"

I roll my eyes. "Just fine."

Frypan laughs, his face lighting up, making me quirk my brow. "Great, another cynic. Thought we had enough with Newt, Minho and Gally."

"Prefer that to being quiet."

"Maybe you would, not everyone else. I can tell Gally's already gotten tired of you talkin'. Minho, too, and you haven't even spoken to the shank yet."

I glance at the boy called Minho, currently laughing with Newt. I scowl at the two of them, though neither are paying any attention to me. "I don't plan on it, either. Whoever's friends with Newt most likely shares the same lack of humour."

"You really don't like him, huh?"

"Are we trapped in a Maze?" I counter.

He walks back with me to a small forest area outside of Homestead, a double story building which is where I'm told that a few of the boys sleep, but most prefer to sleep in the hammocks. While the brick nicks are working to expand homestead, it's taking a while, and a couple other gladers sleep in hammocks, just outside. I'm told they're the newest ones. Frypan shoots me a smile before he walks into Homestead, and a squeaky voice grabs my attention as I go to lie down in my designated hammock.

"Hey, you the girl greenie?" a quiet voice says excitedly. Out of the shadows steps a young boy, perhaps not even thirteen yet, who has caramel brown hair, falling in ringlets on his head. I sit down in my hammock and cast him a wary.

"No, I'm a Griever," I say to him. He smirks — clearly he shares my sense of humour. "I'm Alethea."

"I prefer Thea," he says simply.

"I've never had a nickname before."

"Neither have I. You can't really shorten mine, y'see. I'm Chuck. I was the Greenie before you."

"How's the promotion?" I ask.

"Not as exciting."

Then, with one last smile, he goes and lies down in his hammock, leaving me to the many thoughts swirling round my head. I don't get any sleep that night, only thinking about why I'm here, where here exactly is, and how I can help. Newt told me about the Runners... they find the way to get out. They find a way to help everyone.

Amongst the whirlpool of thoughts constantly changing currents, only a few thoughts stand out to me.

I will not spend my time wallowing in this hellhole. I'm going to find a way out. Whatever that takes. Even if it's something as stupid and dangerous as being a Runner — something I don't particularly like the sound of.

—
Thank you for reading! And a special thank you to the people who've voted and commented, it means so much to me!

~ sophie xx