Run, Boy, Run
Thomas forgot about the encounter.
No, he hadn’t. He may have liked to, but he hadn’t. He awoke again, on the cliff, and brushing it off as a hallucination – he must really be going fucking loopy – he went back to bed, only to wake, screaming. And he shook his head at Minho who had climbed halfway out of his bed to help him, and refrained from going outside in the fear of another hallucination. So he sat at the edge, rocking a little, toes just touching the ground. He was shivering, but he shrugged off all offers of a jacket. He would suffer, because Newt had suffered. And Newt was infinitely better than him. His nails dug into his palm as he reflected back into the dream – Newt’s face, agonised in pain, contorted in hate. He didn’t blame Newt for hating him. He was shaking – not because of the numbing cold, as one might think – but because of that.
He saw Newt every night. And he never would stop seeing him. Newt was a beacon of light, but Thomas had shattered the bulb. And it fizzled out, leaving him in pitch black darkness.
Thomas edged the tip of his crimson shoes (like blood) out of the canopy. Gradually, his shoes became soaked but all he could do was stare. He woke the next morning curled up by the edge, sleeping in an uncomfortable position.
But it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve to sleep well.
Thomas awoke before everybody else. He had got four hours of sleep – lucky, he mused, he usually only got about two – and he felt half dead. But it was a good day. Normally he felt three quarters dead. And he looked it, too.
“You look happy today.” Minho noted. Thomas turned to see him sat up on the bed with a tremendous case of bedhead, his black hair sticking up in clumps. He also looked like he had not slept, if the eye bags were anything to go by.
Thomas smiled. “I am happy. That so much of a sin, Minho?” And he realised it was true. He was the happiest he had been since they had arrived in the Safe Haven. Even though he was sure that encounter with Fate and Death was entirely made-up, it promised something he desperately wanted.
A chance to go back.
To change things. It had a cloying sweetness to it. He knew it could never happen. But he still lusted after it. It held a window of opportunity he wanted - he wanted it so much. He knew he wasn’t going to get the chance to go back – that kind of stuff didn’t exist in real life. Still, it was a possibility he was going to entertain until the week passed and nothing happened.
Minho smiled – it was a real smile, nothing like the grimaces paired with sarcastic comments from before. “I’m glad, Thomas. You deserve to be happy.”
You deserve to be happy.
Thomas could remember the words, written on Newt’s note with careful cursive. He resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut in pain and instead said. “Right, enough sappiness for one day. Get up, Minho.” Thomas flourished his hands with a grin. “The day is waiting.”
Minho groaned, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’m up, man. Didn’t know you were such a stickler for waking up early.”
“Time to start a fresh slate.” Thomas decided. Then, he added with a, dare I say, wicked smirk. “And it’s pay back for you waking me up in the maze at three am.”
“It was six.” Minho retorted, quickly changing shirt. “It’s not that bad, you big baby.”
“Oh yeah it is.” Thomas said devilishly, changing too, brushing a hand through his brown hair. “It was the ultimate death. I had to get you back.”
Minho sighed, and said sarcastically. “And there’s Thomas, the funniest shank to ever be.”
Thomas smirked again, heading out. “Don’t I know it.”
“Don’t leave me!” Minho screeched, brushing off Thomas’ comment and running after him.
Then they engaged in an epic race where Thomas just beat Minho even though Minho swore he had been faster, never mind Harriet standing there as witness to testify for Thomas.
But Thomas kept the encounter with Fate and Death in his mind.
And the days went by.
Day One.
Thomas hung out with Minho for the best part of the day before reading over Newt’s note, crying, and going to bed.
Day Two.
He worked with Gally up in trees. Thomas didn’t know Gally could climb. He read Newt’s note and cried some more before going to bed.
Day Three.
He went through some fighting moves with Harriet and Vince. Read Newt’s note. Cried. Bed.
Day Four.
Ran with Minho, exploring the island. Went swimming. Retrieved Newt’s note from the hiding spot. Read it. Cried.
Day Five.
He just relaxed. He was allowed to sleep as he had not gotten a wink of sleep the night before and spent the day stuck in a nightmare – in a limbo between sleep and a nightmare – reading Newt’s note, crying and finally, sleeping.
Day Six.
He tried hunting. Didn’t like it. Reminded him of the Gladers and the Grievers. The mechanical monsters, blubber and machinery, a mess of legs and teeth, blinking red lights…he cried just thinking about that but he didn’t read Newt’s note. He just felt it, for reassurance. Sleep.
Day Seven.
Thomas woke early. His tired brown eyes, the life long since drained out of them were too serious. Had seen too much. He didn’t bother even trying to tame his hair – even with the lack of sleep, it still got messed up – and just left, quietly, sitting on the cliff right by where he had first met Fate and Death. He wondered if anything was going to happen. Then he felt stupid due to thinking something was going to happen. Still, he stayed. And when he was just about to up and leave, something actually did happen.
For some reason, he felt he should stay.
And he did.
Then, there was the bright flash of light and Thomas faded away…from everything.