It was too much for him. Just a year ago, he woke up with absolutely no memory of his past, the only thing he knew was his name. The first few days were fine, but after George and Stephen had died, he had sobbed and cried hysterically. Every night, he would have bad nightmares of George and Stephen's deaths, sometimes simple ones with George getting stabbed or Stephen's body hanging in half.
But other times, it got worse when he had voices in his head. Most of them were Stephen's, telling him how he wouldn't be dead if Newt had not suggested going down through the hole. Newt would wake up on those nights in a tight ball, clinging on tightly to the thin blanket that barely provided any comfort and screaming. He would try to suppress his sobs, but Alby or Minho would would have already been woken up by his screams, a comforting arm slung over in feeble attempts to calm the boy down.
Newt could tell his constant nightmares and screams had an effect on the wellbeing of all the Gladers, especially Alby and Minho. He caught Alby pouring his cup of ginger-slash-alcohol into the stew during dinner, then clanking his spoon into the empty cup. Another day, when all the Runners gathered in the Map Room to draw out their sections, Minho fainted when he was about to leave for the Homestead and couldn't go running the next day.
Newt felt guilty for all the trouble he had caused, and he was frustrated that he had no idea how to get himself out of this nightmare. He was certain it was impossible. 12 months, and not even a single hint and hope that they would be able to escape. He had witnessed two of his fellow Gladers die in just two months, and he could no longer bear the pain of it, especially with the thought that he was the one who caused Stephen to die.
The small bug-like creatures that crawled around the Glade scared him too. The Gladers had called them Beetle Blades, and Newt had no idea what made them come up with that name. WICEKD. That was what was printed on their backs in a dull shade of red, as if it was written with blood. The little creatures scuttled around, sometimes watching them from the ceiling of the Homestead.
Watching? More like spying. But what bugged Newt for the longest time was who they were spying for. The people who put them here? The thought itself was sickening. Newt could almost imagine a bunch of adults crowded around screens, cackling menacingly whenever a Glader got injured.
Newt hated every single day in the Glade. And what is easier than simply killing himself?
It wasn't hard. A stab in his chest with one of the many sharp knives that lined the weapon room would kill him. Or he could hide out in the Maze and wait for a Griever to come find him at night. No. That would be too obvious. Alby would know, and he would come find him even before the Grievers would come out at night.
He stared up at the thick ivy-covered stone walls surrounding the Glade, carefully planning his suicide. He would climb until halfway up the wall. Yes that would be high enough to kill him. No one would suspect anything if he went into the Maze. He was a Runner after all. And all Runners had their specific Sections to explore. Great. Even Minho wouldn't know.
Newt scribbled a note to leave to the Gladers. For Alby, for Minho, even for Gally. A note of apology to the friends he made during this short 6 months. An apology for not being a leader, for giving up halfway and leaving the responsibility of taking care of the Gladers to Alby. Newt slipped the note into his pocket, before leaving the Homestead with a heavy heart, his backpack feeling heavier than ever, despite the lack of food and water. Better not to waste them if I am going to die today anyway.
All Runners were to report back at the Glade by 5 just to be sure that no one would be trapped in the Maze overnight. There was a two hour period between the Runners' return and when the Doors closed for the night. At 4.30, Newt made his way to the deepest part of the Maze, far away from the Doors. The ivy hung thick and dense, perfect for climbing. Newt dropped his backpack, grabbed one sturdy ivy branch and tugged on it, testing its strength. He pulled himself up while finding footing in the walls, the unevenness making great stepping holes.
Slowly, Newt climbed up the wall, hauling with all his might to prevent falling off even before reaching the middle of the wall. He turned around, glancing at the hard concrete floor 20 feet below him. He gulped at the frightening thought of actually dying, but he reassured himself that that would be much better than having to live in the Glade, not knowing about his future. It's fine, Newt. Alby is well capable of taking care of the Gladers. Minho will be fine. He's a great leader. He can take care of the Runners.
Newt hung onto the strong ivy branch with one sweaty hand, his other reaching into his pocket to get the note. Goodbye, Alby. Goodbye, Minho. Thank you for being my friends. Newt closed his eyes, picturing the peaceful life he would have, one without constant worry and fear. He leaned back, resting his entire weight on the ivy. Newt slowly loosened his grip on the ivy, feeling himself slowly slip down the green branch, before releasing his grip totally, his heart pounding fiercely into his chest, waiting for the impending death, his hastily scribbled note still clutched tightly in his fist.
His feet hit the hard ground first, the sudden impact sending waves of pain through his legs and up his spine, before the rest of his body crumpled beneath his weak legs, the sudden sharp pain making him lose consciousness quickly. Not far away, he heard someone call out his name. It isn't anyone, Newt. It's just your blood rushing through your ears. There was a light tap on his face and a tug on his arms, but he could no longer tell reality from imagination as his vision blurred and distorted as he blacked out.
A/N: So just to take a break from this (hopefully) angsty chapter, I really apologise for some similarity between HWF and this fic. HWF is written by my friend and we actually discussed (rather casually) about the series of pre-thomas events. It was really coincidental that the chapters with George and Stephen's deaths in HWF and this fic were posted around the same time (and we were honestly really amused by it). This is the last chapter that the events will be similar, and things will start to get a little more different from the next chapter onwards ;)
Thank for spending your time to read both HWF and Subject A5, and for giving us so much encouraging reviews ^^