This isn t the life that I dreamed it could be
I'm staring into the eyes of the shell left of me
And now every decision I make, not good
The pleasure and the pain could simply all be erased
If I choose it to be
On any other day, Thomas would be glad to have a company. To have Minho's company in particular as he was the only person the younger one still felt connected to even though he tried hard to avoid his friend a bit too often. 'Friend'. The word somehow felt alien now, the whole concept of it seemed... off. He had a friend once, and he ended up stabbed and dead because of him, a sweet little child, innocent and with his whole life ahead of him if it wasn't for WICKED's desire to throw another shucking Variable at them. And then was another friend, an old best friend, in fact, but she ended up betraying him in a way he could never fully forgive until it was too late and she was dead, protecting him. And then was another friend, the one he trusted, the one he truly cared about and wanted nothing more but to keep him safe. Instead, he shot him in the head. Plain and simple. So much for their friendship. So much for Thomas as a human being. And now, there was Minho, another friend that eventually will end up dead because of him, no doubt. Wasn't it about the damn time to start and keep the distance? Wasn't it about the time to try and do something right?
'I mean what I mean!' he shouted, though the slurr in his words made it not much worse than a baby's tantrum, probably sounding ridiculous and bordering 'cute' at the same time if it wasn't for just how miserable he became ever since they destroyed WICKED for good. God, he was pathetic, wasn't he? With all the self-pity, trying to drown his pain in a jar of the worst drink on a planet - no offence to Gally on this one, God knows, he tried hard to make the thing taste fine - and sitting alone in the corner. But it was better this way, his solitude allowed him to trick himself into thinking people were fine and forgetting him forever. He couldn't bear to look them in the eye, a murderer of too many people he held dear. At worst days like this one, he thought about leaving the Glade. Just wandering off, starving to death somewhere far away where nobody could see what he'd become, a shadow disappearing as sun sets, a ghost of a bright 'not-quite-sure-if-a-hero-or-just-an-idiot boy' he once was, an image way too distant now, barely resembling the new version of him. 'Everybody around me dies eventually. I kill people, Minho. One way or another, I just destroy them where they stand.'
As much as he hated WICKED and as selfish as such an attitude was, sometimes Thomas wanted their new life to be just another part of Trials. Another Variable to throw at them and see how they'd react, another way for the hateful organisation to mess with their heads. Oh, he dreamt about it way too often, looked around for signs, for anything at all, whispering to himself 'I'll do whatever you want me to do, just let me know if you're here. I need you.' And indeed he did. He needed WICKED to help him, if men and women in familiar suits came now, he'd drop down on his knees without a single thought, pleading, begging them to take his memory away, to help him forget everything that happened, to give him h i m s e l f back. Because forgetting was a bliss, a new start, a blank page to fill in anew with something pure and memorable while the old manuscript burns to never be seen again by a reader or author himself.
Grinning at the way too familiar thoughts now, the ex-runner took another sip of Gally's brew, coughing at the taste and standing up just to sway a bit, his legs obviously failing him and making him cuss under his breath. Leaving the room was obviously not an option anymore, unless he wanted to try and face-plant without ever reaching the door, and it made him angry somehow, so angry it almost felt unhealthy in so many ways. It felt sick, Thomas felt sick, and yet again, in a way he was.
'Oh, you know what? Just stay. You seem to enjoy the company of somebody so broken and destroyed, so pathetic, so why the hell not?' he spat angrily even though it was unfair to make his only friend go through something like this and he was being horrible, trying to wreak his anger on Minho just because he was actually strong enough to stick around no matter what. But at this point it wasn't Thomas speaking, it was his sharp pain mixed with misery and a fog of alcohol, destroying all the barriers, destroying consciousness, destroying everything that this young man tried to hide from everybody, including himself, every single day. The horrible truth that would for sure drag a few of them down along with Thomas. He knew Minho wasn't supposed to know a thing, he knew it wasn't wise to open his mouth now, his rational part screamed and begged him to stop, to slim it, to shut the shuck up, but he was too drunk to care. That was the moment he was telling the truth, and it was up to their Leader to decide just how much he hated the fact. How much he hated Thomas.
'You want to know why 'too', don't you? Well, swallow this: I killed him. Shuck it, Minho, I killed Newt.'
Отредактировано Thomas (2014-12-26 21:36:06)