Hi guys! Again. Let me apologize in advance for this, but you knew what was coming anyway if you read the description. But yeah, this was really sad for me to write. Enjoy...
Many things happened in that single, life-changing moment. A shot rang out in the small room and echoed off of the dreary, gray walls. The rotting, disgusting Crank that had held the gun suddenly collapsed to the floor, a long knife jutting from his chest, and soon, his blood pooled on the floor around him. Instantly, Newt knew Minho had thrown the knife. No one else had accuracy like that in their throws.
Newt wasn't sure what to think in the moment. What had just happened? Was everyone okay? Did he really hear a gunshot? If he had, did the buggin' Crank miss? He really hoped so. He didn't know what he would to if he lost another friend to another horrible creature like those Grievers.
He swung his head, his eyes frantically searching over all of his friends to find assurance that they were all okay, that the bullet didn't hit any of them. As Newt searched, he gained more and more confidence with every person he looked at. Minho. Fine. Aris. Unharmed. Frypan. As safe as ever.
But he could feel his blood turn to ice and drain from his face as his gaze finally landed on Thomas. It seemed like Newt's own expression was mirrored on Thomas's face. The teen was paler than usual. But that wasn't the worst thing about it all. The worst was the look of complete and utter fear in the teen's eyes. Newt had never seen it before. Usually, Thomas was the strong and encouraged one. That was gone in this moment. Replaced with that looked that pained Newt more than anything else. Newt slowly moved his gaze down, trying to convince himself that Thomas wasn't hurt, that the look was just a scary figment of his imagination.
Any sort of assurance he was looking for vanished when he saw the wound in Thomas's stomach. It was horrible. Slowly, blood started pouring out of it, seeping into the blue fabric of his friend's dirty shirt.
Thomas started to sway where he stood. Newt ran toward him, his mind still in shock. He caught Thomas, one had on his back and one on his chest to steady him. Newt dropped to his knees, lowering Thomas to the ground. The sudden, fast impact sent a jolt of pain through his knees, but he gritted his teeth and decided to ignore it. He had to help his friend right now.
Newt wasn't thinking clearly. His mind was numb from how fast things a had progressed in the last minute. One moment, they were all standing there, fine and unhurt, then the next, his friend was laying on the floor, bleeding out right in front of him.
He frantically looked around the barren room for anything that might help Thomas, maybe something to help stop the bleeding. But the only thing he saw was small brown table, nothing on or in it. It had no drawers or anything, which meant there was nothing there to help Thomas.
He glanced back down at the badly injured Thomas below him. He was extremely pale and slick sweat beaded on his forehead, above furrowed eyebrows. His breaths were shaky and uneven. Newt, unable to find any other option, reached behind him and ripped a long piece off of the back of his shirt. He hesitated, saying something to Thomas.
"I'm sorry, Tommy. This is going to hurt pretty shuck bad."
Thomas said nothing, just swallowed weakly and looked at Newt with fear in his eyes. But Newt could see a hint of courage in them too. There he was, the Thomas he knew. He really hoped that this wouldn't hurt Thomas as much as he thought it would, but he knew better. He placed one of his hands under Thomas's head, and wadded the strip up in his hands in the other. He pressed the cloth to the bullet wound in Thomas's stomach. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, no doubt trying to keep his pain from showing. But still, some sort of strangled moan escaped his lips. He stiffened and clenched his fists. If it was even possible, he was even paler and sweatier than before. The pain must have been excruciating.
Newt felt sick. He hated seeing his best friend like this, weak and vulnerable. Usually, Thomas was the strong one, the person who encouraged the rest of them. But now, Newt had to protect and encourage and be strong for Thomas. He tried as hard as his mind would let him to convince himself that Tommy would be okay, that everything would be fine, he would just somehow heal and they could all get out of the Scorch, safe and sound. But really, as hard as he tried, he knew that his friend wouldn't be okay. Thomas was dying, right in front of him.
Without any warning, tears started falling down his eyes started burning: he could feel every single, salty tear. He didn't wipe them away. He left them to dissipate in the air. And he used them to bring his to motivation.
The strip of cloth in his hand had already been soaked through with his friend's blood. Newt threw the now useless cloth to the side and pressed both hands on the wound, not caring about the blood flowing over his fingers. This time, Thomas cried out in pain. He didn't even try to hide it.
Newt was kind of freaking out right now; he felt nothing but helplessness and sadness. He bit his lip and shifted his position. He moved the hand that was under Thomas's head more more toward the place where his head and neck met.
He was about to tell Minho to find him another cloth or something for Thomas's stomach when said teen began to move his mouth. Newt stopped and strained to listen, but he heard nothing. Thomas's mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. His pained eyes met Newt's, and Newt knew that worry showed in them, and he didn't try to hide it.
"I'm scared, Newt," Thomas croaked weakly, his voice raspy and shaky; it sounded like he hadn't spoken for a long time. His breathing was ragged and uneven. Newt blinked, keeping back tears. He swallowed, then spoke.
"Hey, hey, look at me, Tommy. You're gonna be fine, you hear me? You're not going to bloody die yet."
Newt was moving his hands, trying to figure out what to do with them. They went from pressing the still-bleeding wound to holding Thomas's head to cradling his pale, cold cheeks. It was a frenzy of motions, and before he could do much more, Thomas stopped him by speaking again.
"Stop," he whispered. "You can't,,, can't do anything else."
"No, Tommy. I won't stop!" Newt could hear the desperation in his cracking voice. He was determined not to let his friend die now. He spoke again, but this time, he couldn't put anymore determination in it. He just couldn't. He felt too hopeless.
"You're one of my only friends in this whole ruined, shuckin' world. You can't die. Please, Tommy."
This time, it came out more of a plea than anything else. There were no word to describe what he was feeling at this moment. Anger, desperation, sadness, desperation, hopelessness, helplessness, loss, even more than that.
"We need you."
Somehow, Thomas managed to crack a small smile at that. He looked like he was going to speak again, but he started coughing. It was a horrible sound, raspy, and it sounded like Thomas's throat was being ripped apart as he coughed. Blood began to trickle over his friend's discolored lips as his coughing fit ended. Newt pulled up his sleeve with his shaking fingers and wiped the blood from Thomas's lips, smearing it down the pale boy's cheek.
"No you don't. You, Minho, Frypan. You guys can take care of yourselves." Those few sentences seemed to take up most of Thomas's energy; he seemed to have given up on trying to hold himself steady and stay strong in Newt's arms. Now, Newt could feel tears streaming down his cheeks again. It almost physically hurt him to see Thomas like this.
Thomas was getting weaker by the second, Newt could see it. He was almost gone. He couldn't help but realize that he could do nothing to help his dying friend, and the reality crushed him.
Thomas's eyes began to close and Newt grabbed his hand. With his other, he shook Thomas's shoulder, probably harder than he should have. He squeezed the boy's cold hand desperately.
"No,Tommy! Hey! Look at me; don't close your eyes! Stay awake!" Newt was almost shouting by the end, as if the louder the command, the more likely stubborn Thomas would listen. Thomas weakly turned his head toward Newt. Newt saw a single tear slip down his bloody cheek. The boy tried one last time to smile.
"Th-thank you. For being my f-friends." New knew that Thomas was addressing all the Gladers, but at that moment, he didn't care, it didn't register.
With those weak words, Thomas's eyes slowly closed and his head fell to the side on Newt's arm. His hand went limp in Newt's. Thomas exhaled one last time, and his body went limp. Newt stared in shock. His brain automatically began to tell him that his friends wasn't dead, Thomas hadn't been shot, none of this nightmare had happened. But then he took in the blood, the limp body of his best friend in his shaking arms. And Newt broke down. He let the tears come without barriers this time. Newt shook the boy, willing him to come back, to get up and make one of his witty comments. To not be dead.
"Wake up!", he screamed, gathering the boy's body closer to him. "Come on,Tommy! Come on! Wake up! Please!"
At that last word, Newt's scream became a despaired whisper. He became weak with realization. His best friend was dead. Tommy had be shot right in front of him; he died right in front of him. He slowly lowered his head onto Thomas's chest, his tears falling onto the dead teen's torso. Newt sobbed even harder. His friend's cold body lied in his arms. His sobs became ugly, and the tears kept coming, relentless. Newt didn't even try to stop them. He rocked back and forth on his knees, still holding Thomas close to him.
"Please don't be dead, Tommy. Please.", he said through his sobs. Newt's words were empty, and he knew that Thomas couldn't hear him. But he felt like he had to try one last time.
Tears blurred his vision when he opened his eyes again. Soon, he felt someone come kneel beside him. Without looking, he knew it was Minho. When the boy spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. "We should bury him, Newt."
With tears still falling down his dirty face, Newt nodded. He didn't speak, for fear of saying something he might regret. He just stood up, taking his friend's limp form with him. Minho followed suit. Newt would bury Tommy, but not in the Scorch. He would find a place where his friend might have liked. He knew soon that Minho would lead the others out of the cursed room, pain and weariness evident in his every movement.
After that, Newt would follow his friend, Tommy in his arms. But before he did something, he felt the need to say one more thing to Thomas before a final goodbye. He looked down at his friend's form below him. At least now he looked at peace, not in horrible pain like before. Newt hoped that Tommy was in a better place now. He forced a small smile.
"Thank you." Newt whispered.
With that, Newt stood up, Thomas in his shaking arms. He began to walk, following Minho, who had begun to lead everyone else out, like Newt had known he would. He tried to act like he was fine, that everything would eventually be fine. But he knew that nothing would be the same, or okay, ever again, not without Tommy.
Cue the sobs. This almost physically hurt me to write. I almost cried. Thomas and Newt are my favorite characters, and I tortured them both! I'M SAD FROM MY OWN STORY! Anyways, please comment what you think of this, and good bye for now...