The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl

6

To say I woke up sore would have been an understatement. I was a crude picture of violent hues, purples and browns and dark greens. Putting any sort of weight on my wrists sent jolts of pain up my arms. Bending was off the table. So I lay in bed, staring at the wooden boards that made up the ceiling, counting my shallow inhales. It was killing me, not being able to breathe in deeply, fully, as though the sudden inability to draw in a proper breath was Gally's way of claiming his revenge again and again.

Clint, being the gallant gentleman he'd proven himself to be, fetched me breakfast---and Chuck. I could see his eyes swim in tears as he regarded me, a mess rendered half-immobile, but I put on my best show for him. I sat up, pressing my lips together to contain the hisses of pain that threatened to escape my lips, and I asked about his plans for the day as I took small bites of my sandwich. To my dismay, Chuck wasn't going to allow himself to be distracted by such trivialities. "When are you getting out of here?" he asked, eyeing Clint, who was on the other side of the room.

"Don't worry, I'm not letting Clint keep me," I said, louder than I needed to. "I'll be up and running by lunch."

And I kept my word---after promising the Medjack countless times that I would be back for daily check-ups, and being sternly instructed that I was to inform him of any headache, signs of fever, and so on.

Chuck accompanied me to the showers. I desperately felt the need to scrub myself clean after the previous day's events, and whilst I did so, Chuck put me up to speed with how the situation evolved during my slumber. Gally had been thrown in the Slammer as soon as he'd woken up, and Newt had been very, very close to joining him. Apparently, nobody had ever seen him so riled up, so furious, so utterly mad, not once since he'd set foot in the Glade for the first time.

Fortunately, Alby had managed the situation. And I was to undergo various trials for the Glader jobs, starting the next day. Chuck reassured me that Gally would not enjoy a short stay in the Slammer, a fact which did not do much to quiet my erratic thoughts. I could still sense his eyes running me up and down, his hands squeezing my wrists.

So I scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed until my skin was pink and the burning of it was worse than the dull aches of the bruises.

I inquired of Newt's whereabouts. Chuck told me he'd gone in the Maze, instructed to put his energy to good use.

It wasn't until I was out of the shower and seated on a birch log that I realised I was longing to see him. I wanted, first and foremost, to thank him---if it hadn't been for him . . . I wasn't sure I wanted to consider what might have happened to me. But there was something else, something I couldn't put my finger on, something that felt a lot like saying you were going home. Safety. That's what he'd become. A safe haven, a protector, the boy who would not have thought twice about making Gally pay for what he'd done.

As the day passed, the sun drawing closer and closer to the Maze, behind which it would soon dip, I noticed the looks in the other Glader's eyes---they were either indifferent or lacked surprise, as though the attack was something that would've happened anyway sooner or later. Most gazes didn't betray concern.

And it wasn't as if I needed it, craved it. It just helped me realise that allies were not something to discard.

Night fell, and after a short visit to the Medjack cabin---which, by this point, I could start calling home, Jeff teased---Chuck and I were allowed to return to our hammocks. There, I found a small bouquet of wildflowers, tied together with a few blades of grass. It is enough to say that Chuck had to beg to be released from my hug.

Trying to spot the stars above through the large leaves, I found myself dozing off as the wind swung my hammock gently. My ears picked up the two voices approaching, but my brain, begging rest, chose to ignore them. It was not until I felt fingers brushing the hair from my forehead that my eyes opened. I found myself staring at Newt, whose fingers were still hovering over my face. He looked, to say the absolute least, mortified. He attempted to pull his hand away, but I caught it, just as fast as he drew it backwards, clasping his long fingers. "Thank you," I whispered before he could speak. "Thank you."

His eyes softened in the pale moonlight that crossed his sharp features. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." I wasn't lying. I was not really sure why, though. "Much better."

Newt swallowed, and I realised I was still hanging onto his fingers. I let go. "Good. Wasn't expecting anything else from our favourite fighter." He smiled, and I found myself doing the same. "Get some rest, Emily. You've got some big days in front of you."

I nodded. "Good night, Newt."

He nodded back, and I thought the moonlight made him look delicate, dipped in silver, despite knowing what he'd done, of the strength lurking within him. "Good night, Emily."

He haunted my dreams that night, and I was surprised to find myself not minding in the slightest.