Burned - Newt x Reader - Part II

43. Haunted

Age: 18

The water was getting hotter. The kettle already started shaking, that high-pitched whistle getting louder.

I just stood there, staring at it, trying to keep my mind empty...don't think, don't think, don't think...until suddenly the whistle snapped into something else.

A scream.
That scream.
Their scream.
Sector C.

I rushed forward and grabbed the kettle way too fast.
"FUCK!" The boiling water splashed over my hand.

I dropped it into the sink and shoved my hand under cold water.

"Come on, (Y/n)... this is reality, this is reality.."

A sound behind me.

I flinched. My hand shot straight to my gun, half-drawn before my brain even caught up.

"Whoa...easy."

Jenson was just... standing there.
With a cup.
Looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Which.. I.. kinda have..

He lifted his free hand slowly. "Just wanted some goddamn tea."

My breath was shaking. I forced the gun back into the holster. "Sorry. I just...sorry."

His eyes flicked around the kitchen, then to my hip. "Are we expecting someone here? You in trouble?"

"No. No." I swallowed, drying my hand on my pants.

"Since when are you carrying a gun inside?"

"I must've... forgotten to take it off."

He stared at me for another second, then reached past me to grab the kettle. "All right..." he mumbled still frowning.

~~~

And so it went on.

I felt cold all the damn time. Not even the third blanket Janson tossed at my face helped the shaking.

He didn't question my flinching at first, or the way I kept zoning out. And when he did, I blamed it on the hormones.

I couldn't get it out of my head.
Those pictures.
Those screams.
Those faces.

The doctors. Most of them didn't even flinch. They just... kept working like it was any other day.
Only two looked down, like they couldn't stand their own reflections in that glass.

Janson stood there as well, watching, arms crossed. After a few minutes he looked down too..but only for a few seconds. He wanted the cure. No matter what.

I felt sick. All the time.
My brain stayed locked in survival mode. Always listening, always tense, always braced for something to explode behind me. I tried not to cry. And I managed at first.

I decided to do the one thing I could do best.
My job.
Get out there. Hunt those damn cranks. Use the constant fear and anger as fuel. Use the hyper-awareness, the instincts always there.

I fought. Killed. Day after day.
Blacking out mid-fight.
Again and again and again.

It was the only time my mind wasn't in what I saw in Sector C. Because if I was fighting for my life, I didn't have to think about theirs.
About the torture. About that burning smell.

One night I snapped back to myself when I was already in front of the apartment door. I dont know how I got there.
Sweaty. Covered in blood. Exhausted. My black uniform torn open and my helmet probably lost somewhere in the desert.

When I flipped the switch, the room lit up and Janson was already standing there. Grey pants, loose shirt, messy hair, gun raised.

When he realized it was me, he exhaled and lowered the gun.
"Jesus, it's night, (Y/n)" he muttered, rubbing his face.