Trigger warning - implied SA
I pound my fist against the steel door, wincing as my bandaged wrist burns in pain.
I'm alone again. I've been here for four days, and the only people I've seen are doctors who won't make conversation with me and one man, Janson, who seems determined to keep me away from my friends.
My face falls as I slide to the floor, my back against the door. I bring my knees up to my body and rock from side to side, trying to slow my breathing and keep calm. If I get angry then I'll get irrational, and I can't do that here. I've got to keep my wits; stay attentive. I can't trust anyone, no matter how much they say they want to help. That's what Ava Paige said she wanted to do, before throwing us into a maze with blood-thirsty Grievers lurking around every wall corner.
No, I can't trust anyone.
***
Another four hours pass before the door opens. It's the doctor, the one I first met here. He has glasses and a receding hairline, making his forehead appear even bigger than it already is. He nods to me as I get up from the bed and walk along to the medical room down the hall, where the other doctors wait, clipboards in hands.
"The subject appears to be well-rested, we may begin the physical routines," the doctor states to the others. They all murmur in agreement, clicking their pens expectantly.
I furrow my brows together, folding my arms. "Physical routines? What you gonna do, make me run a marathon? Drag me up a sand dune with a dislocated knee again?" I snap irritably. They all turn to look at me in annoyance, like a child who's throwing a tantrum. The main doctor opens his mouth to speak.
"Let's just start with a simple treadmill jog, shall we?" he replies patronisingly. I roll my eyes in disgust.
"My knee still hurts," I retort simply. It's partly true; my bone did dislocate after that shuck idiot kicked it in the Glade, however I'm on a lot of painkillers and the doctors gave me some kind of miracle-medicine, so it is surprisingly mostly healed, but it still aches when I tread on it.
They accept this excuse, allowing me to stall the exercise for another day, but proceed to check my knee. After an hour of injections and prods from the doctors, I'm allowed to go back to my room, where I lay in my bed, nibbling at the dry bread slid through my door on a tray.
My night is filled with restless tossing and turning. I have a small cry at four in the morning, before going back to staring at the faded ceiling. It's peeling at the edges. A spot of mould is growing in the corner, turning the white paint into a soft grey with black pores.
I think about Chuck. His laugh, heart-warming and happy and untainted from grief. His scruffy, curly, brown hair, bouncing around on his head when he walked. His round cheeks, dotted in small freckles. His smile, stretching across his face like that of a child.
He was a child. Barely even a teenager. A whole life ahead of him. And now his body lies in a dried puddle of his own blood, on top of shards of glass in a dark room, metres away from a door he never got to walk through. In the same room where they sat, day after day, watching us suffer, watching us die.
If I ever had a brother, I imagine he'd be exactly like Chuck. A smile painted on his face and light in his eyes. Chuck was my brother. I loved him like a sister loves a little brother, and if I could trade places with him right now, I would in a heartbeat. But that's not how death works.
***
Another day passes. It's the middle of the night, and I miss my friends.
***
The next day comes painfully slowly. I somehow managed to drift off to sleep at some point during the long, cold night, but I'm woken up barely an hour later by Janson. I sit upright in bed, pulling the sheets close to my cold body. I'm very aware of the thin tank top I'm wearing, exposing a large portion of the skin on my chest, revealing a sliver of my cleavage, and no bra. I cling the sheets to my neck. Janson's the one who greeted me, the leader. He has silver hair and a menacing, knowing smile. He has wrinkles lining his eyes and forehead and a dark glint in his grey eyes. I don't trust him at all.
"How are we doing today, Miss (y/n)?" he asks with a slight smirk. I shrug in reply, which I know annoys him. He bares his teeth together in a forced grin, looking like a sinister crocodile. I snort as this image comes into my head, Janson giving me a questioning glare, before shaking his head and sitting himself down on the edge of my bed. I bring my knees up to my chest to further protect my dignity and decency.
"You know, I like you, (y/n). You're different to the others. More... aware," he begins, looking at the way I clutch the sheets to my body. A shiver runs down my spine. "You think before you speak, which is more than I can say about the rest of them that came out of the Maze. You know, your friend Thomas got in a bit of a tiff yesterday. Nearly got into a fight with our guards. Shame you didn't see it, maybe you could've told him to quit being a difficult little jerk."
"Why won't you let me see them?" I ask, eyes narrowed. My voice barely amounts to more than a raspy whisper.
"Well, we just want you to fully recover, you see," he lies. I know it's no use pressing him about it; if he's up to something, I know he won't give it up quickly, least of all to me.
"So once my knee's fully healed, I can see them?"
Janson pauses, reading my expression. He pauses, about to speak, before I interrupt him.
"I don't trust you, you know," I state. He stares back at me with an analytical expression.
"I don't blame you, after what you've been through... I've spoken to the boys you came with. This Gally guy sounds like a nasty piece of work." I shiver upon hearing his name, shooting Janson a wounded expression as I wrap my arms around my knees, rubbing them in consolation. "But let's face it... I'm the only person you know right now. Your friends haven't even asked about you."
I feel cold hurt pang through my chest. "You're lying."
He offers me a sympathetic smile. "Maybe you need more stability in your life, Miss (y/n). We can offer that stability here." He slides closer to me on the hard medical bed. I watch warily as he brings his hand up to touch my left knee, the injured one. I grimace as his cold fingers rub my kneecap in a circular motion. My heart begins to slam against my chest as a million dark images flood through my mind. I plead in my head that Janson doesn't try anything. His fingers stop, and he slowly moves his hand up my leg, towards my lower thigh, and I begin to breathe quicker. He smirks, and removes his hand, slowly, savouring every minute of my stress. I let out a breath of relief when he rests his hand back on his own leg. "You know, maybe you could meet some more girls at our facility, there's a lovely girl who's very obliging, very-"
"I don't want anyone else! I just want Ne-" I stop myself, closing my eyes and shaking my head as I take a minute to block my tears. I clear my throat, eyes still closed, and take a breath. "I just want to see my friends."
"Of course," Janson eventually replies, getting up. "Of course you do. But we can't do that yet. We have a plan for you, (y/n), and for your friends. You should sleep some more. It's not as if you'll be doing much else today."
I roll my eyes as he saunters out of the room. God, I hate that shank.