uh

i wanted to write 

murder murder stab stab time (don't ask why i just did)

so i did???? i mean????? it's just newt possibly killing someone who hurt the gladers (cough cough tHOMAS cough cough) because i said so

i need to stop saying 'because i said so' but guess what

i'm not going to.... because i said so

but uh TW: blood, murder, death... and more blood and insanity and suicide and basically don't read this if you're sensitive or easily triggered ok ily

p.s. i actually tried writing descriptively because apparently i like writing murder scenes 

There was blood on his hands.

Not hypothetically. No, not at all. Newt had the red liquid all over his pale hands and he found it hard to breathe. The metallic smell overtook the room that had once smelt of chemicals and whatever they used in the dimly-lit lab. 

Newt hated it. He hated it so much. He wanted to jump out the window and never look back. Not that he was looking, of course. He had his back towards the limp body that slung against the desk, blood smudged all across the once white lab coat. He was staring directly at his hands that were shaking like mad. 

"Mad." The word rolled slowly and disgustingly off his tongue. It didn't sit right with him. What also didn't sit right with him was why he was talking to himself after killing someone. 

Maybe he was going mad.

He supposed that if he were completely sane he wouldn't have stabbed someone over 5 times. He also supposed that a sane person wouldn't stab someone just for the sake of it, though. 

Then again, was it really just for the sake of it?

Newt turned around to face the body once more. The once awfully familiar face that him and the Gladers used to joke about, saying it was almost rat-like now sat, eyes wide open and terror-filled, blood dropping out the mouth. It was gruesome, to say the least.

Newt felt like throwing up at the mere sight. He span around, wrapping his shaking arms around his body. He shut his eyes and exhaled sharply, but he snapped them open almost instantly as the image of the body was imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He could feel bile rise up his throat, but he swallowed it, ignoring the taste it left behind and the panic it gave him. 

He slid to the ground, legs giving up on him, with eyes completely wide now. He hated this. Absolutely hated it. He couldn't prevent the question from popping into his head. What would the Gladers think? Newt was on the brink of insanity, and he wished, begged, prayed, that everything could go back to how it used to be. Waking up with the real or artificial - he didn't know which and preferred not to think about it - sun shining down on the Glade. Being the second in command; always being sensible and rational, not making rash decisions when it came to it. The complete opposite of whatever... whatever monster he was turning into. 

What would Tommy think?

Newt hadn't known he was crying until he tasted the all too familiar salty substance drop onto his lip. Once he realised, he couldn't stop. He doubled over, dropping his hands onto the unnaturally cold tiles and let his emotions get the better of him.  

Maybe this was all for the better. Janson wouldn't be after Thomas anymore now. They could finally be safe. 

Without Newt, of course.

Newt laughed at the irony of it all. A hearty laugh that ended in hiccups due to his erratic sobbing that racked his entire body. He killed Janson so he wouldn't get killed, but he's going to die anyway. He'll kill himself or end up a cannibal. He didn't want to live with the flare. He already had it and he was spreading through his body and- and-

Crash!

He jumped back, heart thumping at the sudden noise. "Shuck." His voice felt raspy and he could barely speak, but nonetheless he felt a hint of content at the idea he wasn't losing the Glader slang in the midst of his panic. 

Newt looked around the room, trying to find the source and the culprit of the noise, before his eyes settled on a beaker that had shattered on the ground. It must've been that. There wasn't much else it could've been. If anyone else was there, he'd be dead already. On further inspection, he noticed there was blood on the tip of one of the shards, and once he realised, he felt a sting on his finger. 

He looked at his finger, and, sure enough, blood was dripping  from the point. It wasn't painful whatsoever. 

What pained him more was the fact that he didn't know what happened. He didn't know if he knocked into something, or if he threw something. 

Newt shrunk himself back up into a ball, and curled his head into his knees. "Bloody hell." He muttered. He hated everything. He hated everything and he wanted to fucking kill himself.

He licked his lips and stood himself up almost as quickly as he curled himself up. He glanced over at Janson's limp body; more specifically at the knife sticking out of his chest. Warily, he made his way over, chewing his lip in an attempt to calm his nerves even by a smidge. He knelt down, and slowly, slowly, stretched his hand out towards the knife, swallowing thickly. 

But he couldn't.

Newt retracted his arm, snapping his eyes shut and declining to the ground once more. 

What would Tommy say?

The question popped into his mind again. Probably an imitation of his own pep talk from earlier, along the lines of, 'Get off your arse and finish what you started!'. Exaggerating the 'arse', as of course Thomas had to mock the thick British accent. Newt managed to crack a smile at the thought but it was gone as soon as it was there. 

Because, the thing is, Thomas wasn't there. 

So, Newt span around and pulled the knife out of Janson's heart.

cry

guess what newt died lolsies