This was what he'd wanted. Sweet nothingness. To not have to deal with the pain of living anymore. To die. It was all he'd wanted, all he'd needed- and he couldn't even do that right. He couldn't even kill himself succesfully. He lay on the rocky floor of the maze, limp body bruised and broken- leg sticking out at an awkward angle, and bitter tears fell out of his eyes. Please tell me I didn't live, please tell me I'm dead.
Earlier
He couldn't do it anymore. Living- he couldn't. It was too much for him, and he couldn't stand it anymore. He hated the Glade, hated living in it. He, and the rest of the other Gladers, were trapped. There was no way out. Running through the Maze, going through his job, fighting to find a way out- for years. Nothing. It was a prison, and the only escape was death.
His plan was simple: to go into the Maze, acting as if he was just going to be running his section, as if there was any point. There wasn't a way out, and he and the other Runners knew it. He would climb up the bloody wall, and he would jump. He would jump off the wall- the wall of the Maze he knew so well, the stupid prison. And that would be that. And he'd be dead.
It was a brilliant plan, to him. Maybe then even a Griever might come across him and take his body, so he'd never be found- the Gladers would never have to know he'd jumped. Let them think that he'd died bravely, fighting off a Griever, rather than jumping- he wouldn't want to be remembered as a coward, even though he thought he was one.
The day had started off as normal as any other day in the Glade could. When the Maze doors opened, he'd run inside, along with the other Runners, and they'd gone their seperate ways. Newt had stopped moving as quickly once he'd gotten out of eyesight, slowing to a jog and finally, just walking. He'd stood against a wall, looking down at the ground, for several minutes, planning carefully.
First he would eat. The memories of the world he had reminded him of something people who were about to die always seemed to get- a last meal. He didn't have anything grand he could eat, but he had sandwiches, and he'd managed to nab a few slices of bacon from Frypan when the cook hadn't been looking.
He'd eaten slowly, savoring every bite- this meal would be his last, and he planned to enjoy it. When he'd finished eating, he began to climb the wall, the rough ivy cutting his hands and scraping his knees as he climbed- but he didn't mind, soon he'd feel nothing. Nothing at all. He had smiled at the thought, a wave of joy rushing through his body at the thought of just that- nothing.
When the boy had reached the middle of the wall, he decided it was high enough- he was scared to climb any higher, worried that the ivy would peel off the wall like a bandaid, horribly hurting him but not allowing him the death he so yearned. There was another concern- that he wasn't high enough to kill himself if he jumped from here. But he brushed it off, certain that was illogical. Both worries were illogical, really.
He'd closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before he had jumped. He felt as though he was flying for several moments after he'd flung himself off of the wall, and he had grinned, feeling so happy that he'd no longer have to torture himself, living in the Glade and searching for something that didn't exist.
Until a jolt of pain had ripped through his leg, feeling like fire climbing up his leg. He'd let out a shrill scream, his eyes wide with pain. He was certain he was dead as his body, limp and bloody, hit the floor, his head slamming against the floor painfully. He could never feel such terrible pain when he was alive, right?
The realization that he must be dead brought a new smile to his face, even with all the pain he was in. Soon the pain would fade away, and he would too, and he would be nothing. He would be gone. He'd never have to feel any more pain again.
But while the smile on his face faded, the pain didn't. It got worse, if anything. He started crying there, on the floor of the maze, leg twisted in a way it never should and head aching worse than anything he'd ever felt before. He silently hoped that maybe he'd die from blood loss, or brain damage, or anything. Maybe a Griever could come and sting him and he'd die from not getting the Serum on time.
But there was no such luck. He'd lived, and he hated everything about that fact.