Through Memories

Thomas' Terrible Idea

Thomas is an impulsive guy- as we know lol. -Kat

It had been three months since they escaped WICKED. Three months since over two hundred of them had settled into Paradise.

Three months into freedom, but Thomas still couldn't bring himself to enjoy it.

He was sitting at the cliff edge, his favourite spot- as Minho called it- to sulk. It was isolated from the rest of their settlement, the ledge hanging over the beach. Below him, waves crashed on the sand and rocks. It was barely dawn, the sun's first rays shining over the horizon, painting the sky in a multitude of colours.

Despite the early hour, he had been sitting there for at least an hour and a half. Sleep was elusive to Thomas most nights. Either he was too on edge, adrenaline pumping even though he knew he was safe; or his dreams would be filled with horror after horror, death after death.

He knew his friends had trouble sleeping too. Sometimes, lying in his make-shift hammock, he'd hear Sonya's soft whimpers, or Frypan's shouting. He could see Minho's eye bags had become darker, heavier, his body language and slumped posture betraying his exhaustion; he saw the way Gally threw himself into the job of a Builder again, working himself to the brink of collapse to try to forget; Harriet was much the same. Brenda and Jorge were protective of each other, always seeking the other out, and he knew in their heads there was still danger.

They were all struggling. It was to be expected, of course, considering what they had been through. They all dealt with it in their own ways. One of Thomas' ways was the so-called sunrise sulking.

He needed those few hours to himself, time to...not talk to anyone, not have to do anything.

He fingered the note in his pocket, the one he always carried with him. It was crinkled and rough at the edges, but its surface was soft from all its wear and tear. It comforted him. No matter what he couldn't bring himself to part with it. It was where Newt had asked him to do the unthinkable. That gunshot would haunt him forever, he knew it, the loud bang! would be echoing in his head until the day he died. He stared back at the sun, trying to clear his head.

His thoughts never stopped, the guilt was constant, always a voice in the back of his head, whispering, you could've saved them. They're dead because of you. He didn't think that would ever stop. But, this time, when he was alone with the world, it helped quiet his thoughts, it made life...bearable.

The sun rose higher still in the sky, its golden light bathing his surroundings, and he knew his treasured alone time would be coming to an end soon. They didn't have any huts yet, other than the WICKED built one with the Flat Trans, so everyone slept outdoors, making hammocks and sleeping bags from whatever they could find. Some of the luckier shanks could sleep with the sun shining in their eyes; but most people, including all his friends, got up soon after sunrise.

Sure enough, not twenty minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. Turning his head slightly, he saw Minho slowly making his way over. Thomas kept quiet, looking back at the horizon.

Minho's steps slowed as he got closer, eventually sighing and setting down next to him. Neither of them said anything for a while.

Eventually, Minho breathed out softly, "Bad dreams, shank?"

Thomas just nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

"Me too. I was...back in the Maze, that night we got stuck. Grievers chasing us around. Shuckin' Grievers are still haunting me..."

Finally, Thomas turned to look at him, he looked tired, as was usual nowadays. His hair was a mess, unlike his normally groomed 'hero' hair, his shoulders hunched forwards, his plain sleep clothes were rumpled from a clearly sleepless night.