Hey, thank you for reading my fanfiction. This is my first fanfiction written here so constructive criticism is much appreciated. This will probably be a couple of short pieces about Newt's death (I am most certainly not over it).
Disclaimer: I an unfortunately not James Dashner or a film company so don't own The Maze Runner. Enjoy!
Gone But Not Forgotten
Newt's P.O.V
In one final moment of sanity I cry out, desperate.
"Please Tommy. Please."
Then my mind once again submits to The Flare.
Something cold and hard invades my body, causing my breath to hitch painfully in my throat. It feels so wrong, so, so wrong. Fear clouds my mind, my stomach clenches tightly. Am I dying? Faintly, as if far in the distance, I hear Tommy shouting, screaming even, my name over and over, so, so close to me, yet it seems as if an abyss is between us.
My rapidly fading mind wanders vaguely why, until, in my last moments of consciousness, of reality, of life, that there is the smooth, cool handle of a knife, my knife, jabbed harshly through the flesh and bone of my chest. I panic, my throat closing against me as I scream for Tommy, for Minho, for anyone to come. No. Not now. Not here. We are so close.
Yet still this eerily calm part of my mind tells me that it had to be, that I could not, cannot, survive this.
I fall.
I don't want to forget.
I don't want to forget any of this.
Any of it.
Not ever.
No.
No.
No.
Minho's P.O.V
My mind is aching, overburdened with the pain and torture of the last few minutes, but I can't, I won't, concentrate on that.
I sprint, faster than ever before, desperate to get to Newt and Thomas before the worst happens. A few meters ahead of me, clutching the light blue vial of what will save Newt for the time being, until we find a cure, Brenda runs, hair swirling wildly around her, and skids swiftly round the corner a few metres ahead of me to where Thomas and Newt should be. I hope with all me heart and soul that she has reached them in time.
Dimly, as if in a dream, I hear her sharp gasp ring out suddenly. My stomach drops.
All I wish for is that Newt and Thomas are alright.
I need them to be alright.
Half dreading what I will find if I round that corner, I sprint ever the harder, desperately clinging to the fact that if there is the slightest sliver of a chance that I can save Newt, I will take it. I will always take it. Always.
I skid round the corner.
My mind vaguely registers a dark shape huddled the floor, a knife sticking starkly out of his chest, not breathing.
My stomach falls into the abyss.
I hardly register the warm, salty droplets spilling down my cheeks and dripping onto the damp material of my shirt.
I hardly register Gally sprinting up beside me and his soft gasp of shock laced with pain.
All I care about is the fact that Newt, Newt, the glue, the one person who was there for us always, the one who would never give up on us, is lying there, dead.
We have failed him.
I have failed him.
I drop silently to my knees beside him, chest heaving painfully with each gasping breath, not noticing the fact that Thomas has stood and walked off.
I just sit there.
I watch Newt's face, staring blankly out, looking almost peaceful.
My heart aches and more tears swim out and down my cheeks.
Not Newt.
No.