Good Grief (TMR fic)

Chapter 51

He's still asleep when I stir awake, a headache still throbbing at my skull. I'm glad for the eternal murky twilight the Glade now lives under. I light a match as a shallow attempt at comfort, but even that blazes agonizingly brightly.

I watch it burn down to my fingers and then extinguish it with a puff of air. Detangling myself from Newt, who apparently likes to cling to me in his sleep, I swing my legs off of the cot.

Now that I'm awake and more rested, being in the enclosed room is starting to bother me. Newt will understand.

I take a deep breath when I slip out of the Homestead. The grey skies - or ceiling, I guess - coupled with the tense, waiting silence of the Gladers, create a peaceful atmosphere, even if it is a little ominous.

I wonder if it really was Gally who attacked me. It must have been, but it doesn't make sense that the Maps would have still been smoldering if he attacked Alby before entering the Homestead. Something doesn't add up.

I head towards the barn, meaning to glance in the area Gally – or whoever it had been – had been lurking. As I pass the chicken coop, however, something catches my eye. It's a dark red color near a lumpy black object.

Curious, I go to examine it.

At first I don't recognize the dark fur, but then I understand. It's Bark, Nick's dog. They had left him in the barn. He's in pieces, dried blood coating the grass around his body.

The Grievers are not kind enactors of judgment.

I don't know how long I stand there, just staring at what is left of the dog, trying to absorb the sight of the blood and death, trying to understand. I know what happened, but I need to understand myself.

I would have killed Ben. It would have been my fault that he died, his body bleeding like Bark's had, but due to the knife in my hand instead of the Grievers.

Who am I? I'm a kid, but I am willing to kill. I'm not afraid to stare at the destroyed body of a dog, and, while I don't like seeing Bark like this, I'm not sure I truly feel upset. Better him than Chuck, or Thomas, or... I don't know, any of the other boys. Like Dave, the Track-hoe who kept me company when I was weeding the potatoes.

And yet, I'm afraid that I wouldn't mind much for them, either. Better Ben than Thomas, better Bark than Chuck. Where do the comparisons stop? Better Minho than Newt? Better Newt than me? Would I really be okay with them dying if it meant that I lived?

I'm scared that the answer is yes. I don't even know how I feel about Newt, really. He matters more to me than the others, but... I'm so lost. I don't know who I am. How can I feel anything for him when I'm a shell, forged of reaction and choice and no room for emotion?

I force myself to turn away from what's left of Bark.

I'll go find some way to help. I'm dreading tonight, hating the knowledge that this time I'll have to be stuck in the Homestead with the rest of them, cramped and waiting to die.

I need to work to forget what is coming. I need a distraction.

The Builders are subdued, whispers constantly flaring up about Gally, about his mysterious appearance and disappearance last night, how he sacrificed himself to the Grievers while shouting that one of us will die every night.

I don't mind the gossip. It's something to think about while I help with the tasks that I can. The sound of nailing boards makes my head throb, though, and I'm limited with how involved I can be. My headache is better overall, but it's still pretty bad.

I finally settle with prying used nails out of boards so they can be reused. I'm sitting cross-legged on the grass of the Glade, and it's nice to be outside.

"Ash, what's wrong?"

Leave it to Newt to find me within two minutes of waking up, and be able to tell I'm upset instantly.

I look up at him, and don't answer. I don't know how to. He smiles a little and extends his hand. Whether out of habit or because I doubt my interactions with him, I don't take it when I stand, and his smile drops slightly.

"Deadheads?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe not up the tree, though. I've had enough of that for a while."

I don't have energy to laugh at his joke, so I just walk with him towards the trees, leaving my boards and pile of nails behind me.

We sit by Robbie's grave, the earth damp but comfortingly solid.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I found Bark."

Newt tips his head curiously. "What do you mean, found him?"

"The Grievers got him. They tore him to pieces. Is... is this what you find when boys get stuck outside overnight?"

Newt sighs a little, looking at the crude wooden cross with "Robbie" etched into it. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's just a smear of blood."

"Oh."

We sit in silence in the endless twilight, just waiting. Newt is waiting for me, maybe, but I don't know what I'm waiting for.

Maybe I'm waiting for this nightmare of a world to end. 

~~
A/N: Angstttt 

Also, welcome to "Ash monologues about her lack of humanity." I tried to edit out most of them, but she still does this fairly often from here on out in the trilogy. XP