Dry Tears (After The Death Cure)

Chapter 5 - The Bonfire

“What? Marge? His sister?" Gally frowned, his eyes moving from Thomas to Minho.

“That’s what she claims," Thomas answered.

Soon, the news had somehow spread among the other Gladers, who were now gathering around the private conversation, mumbling and discussing this among themselves, with perplexed looks on their faces as they sat around the bonfire.

Everyone seemed to have erupted in discussion, at the same time; to a point  Thomas couldn’t even decipher one clear idea coming from the crowd. He instead sat closer to Brenda and softly held her hand; searching for something to bring him comfort in the middle of the chaos.

Thomas noticed, close enough to hear all of what they were discussing, Marge awkwardly pacing back and forth. It was clear to Thomas that she was confused on whether to join the conversation, as wild as the flames they were surrounding.

Suddenly, Minho, who had remained silent for most of the time, stood up, the shades of orange of the fire reflecting on his body.

“Everyone! Slim it!" all of the voices gradually faded, only letting the sizzling of the fire to be heard. “Geez. Thanks."

Marge quietly appeared by Minho’s side, and all the eyes shot towards her. She only dared to look at Thomas as she started speaking.

“It’s true. We were siblings," she stated, “why would I be lying?"

“You could be a spy sent by WICKED,” Harriet said, her eyes examining Marge skeptically. Thomas' heart sank a little at the thought of this. 

“Come on, she was part of the Right Arm. Trust me, " hissed Gally.

“What do you know about trust, Gally?" Harriet snapped.

“Guys, please," Thomas recognized Frypan’s voice, pledging for peace, before innocently continuing, “I don’t think she’s lying."

A wave of murmurs, roamed the crowd.

“I don’t remember her, though, and I got my memories back," he stated. Silence now replaced the murmurs.

“What about the others who got their memories?" Thomas suggested, “Don’t you remember her?" He scanned the crowd, only finding Gladers shaking their head.

“You might not have had all your memories back, or just simply forgotten,” Minho insisted.

Thomas turned to Brenda, hoping to find a last glimpse of hope. “You worked with WICKED, don’t you remember her?"

Thomas sank hard as he looked at Brenda. Even though his blood had turned cold after what Harriet had said, when he looked at the blonde girl, standing there, arms crossed, looking at the ground, he knew that innocent creature couldn’t be. Not because he didn’t believe WICKED wasn’t capable of doing it, but because he didn’t want to.

He wanted to believe this girl, as he would’ve believed Newt.

“No…" Brenda answered after her hesitation.

Before the tension could get any worse, Jorge stepped out of the shadows.

“Chica, you don’t remember her, for you never met her,"

“What do you mean?”

“This girl was kept in another zone, with the younger subjects," he continued, making Thomas cringe at the mention of the younger subjects, for Chuck had probably belonged there.

“And I know this, señores,” he now turned to the rest of the crowd, “Because I do remember Marge, and very well."

“Jorge," Marge slightly gasped, although no one else seemed to understand.

“I helped this girl escape from WICKED. I wouldn’t have risked my life if I didn’t trust her enough. She is no liar." He stated, clearing the judging looks off everyone’s faces. He then nodded towards Marge, “Nice to see you again, girl.” 

* * * * * 
Different eyes now looked at Marge. Thomas recognized it as a hint of compassion. Mercy. Thomas felt someone nudge his elbow slightly, and turned around to see Harriet, looking at him with wide eyes as she whispered.

“She doesn’t know, does she?"

But her whispers weren’t enough to stop Newt’s sister from thinking something was wrong. The fire’s reflection was not able to hide the pale faces of the Gladers, as they all seemed to realize in unison that someone eventually would have to tell her. Thomas could only hope that it was not to be him the one to talk about it, for the second time of the day.

“I figured out he died, you know," Marge said, looking at no one in particular, “I just wanted to know how…"

Her voice was left hanging in the air, for only silence accompanied it.

“Oh, at least tell me he was immune," she sighed, “I’m immune so, I guess that makes him, too."

“We don’t know, Marge," Thomas dared to say, the lies stinging his throat, “He died fighting."

He felt a rush of relieve pass his body, as everyone seemed to follow the lie. He glanced at Minho, looking for approval in his eyes, but he was immediately distracted by Sonya’s figure, suddenly standing up from the wooden bench.

“Your brother got the Flare and went mad, obviously.  Surprising, I know, considering the fact that millions of others weren’t as lucky to be immune, either. And no; death is rarely pretty." Sonya said bitterly and then left with heavy steps, leaving the words in the air to sink in.

Thomas felt his lungs skip a breath, and he saw how the jaws of the Gladers dropped a little. Frypan even dropped the plastic glass he had been holding, along with its contents.

 Everyone, apparently, had been too hit to even breathe, for the atmosphere was now dead silent. Even the fire had stopped sizzling, as it slowly missed its red dancers. The only slight sound was the one of Harriet’s feet shuffling as she ran behind Sonya.

“Is it … true?" Marge’s voice was fainting.

“Yes, but… but not like that," Minho took charge of the situation, as he sat by her side. Several other Gladers kneeled by Marge’s figure, in sign of support. “Your brother did die fighting. For us all."

“They even named him The Glue, for he united us," Thomas managed to vaguely say, as Marge had hidden her face in between her hands, sobbing.

“Why did she say it like that?" she said, rising her head, spilling tears.

“She’s just upset about it. We all still are," Thomas tried to sound convincing as he said this.

“You should probably walk home, sweetie," Brenda urged her to stand up and Marge cleared her eyes for starting walking, Brenda and other Gladers walked her home, and the ones remaining left the dead bonfire. Thomas found himself alone with Minho, now, staring at the ashes.

“Seriously, though, why did she say that?" Thomas whispered.

“I don’t know, shank," Minho yawned, “I truly don’t get it."

“Marge never did anything to her, they don’t even know each other." Thomas thought out loud. “She couldn’t have been any more insensible. Did she deserve that?"

“Perhaps Newt did,” he replied, “or she’s just jacked up."

“I don’t even think they ever talked to each other." Thomas reasoned.

“She must be pissed by her knife, still," Minho said, rubbing his eyes as he stood up.

“Knife? What do you mean?"

“Dude, I’m tired," that was the only answer Thomas got before Minho’s figure disappeared slowly from his sight, and left Thomas to talk only with his own heavy thoughts.