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“Do you lot know what Christmas is?”
It’s Saturday, the twenty-fifth of December. Or we at least think it is. We only began trying to keep track of passing time recently. Seven months ago. The watches attached to our wrists when we woke up here didn’t provide a date, but Thomas (our most recent greenie) thinks it should be around December. So, his entrance into the maze was deemed December twelfth. That was nearly two weeks ago, making today the twenty-fifth.
“Christmas,” Minho says, repeating the near-forgotten word to call forward its meaning.
“Yeah, Christmas,” I say, sitting with my knees tucked into my chest.
“The winter thing, right?” Winston asks, coming back from Frypan’s kitchen with a few drinks, made by Gally.
“That’s the one. I only remembered it a few days ago, it’s not that I remember celebrating it, but I just got a vague recollection of what it means.”
“With- shuck what’s his name? Santa?” Minho finds the word, looking to me for confirmation.
“I think that’s his name, yeah. The old guy who brought gifts around the world, in a red suit, I believe.” I nod, agreeing with the name he recalled.
“Okay, what the klunk are you guys talking about?” Gally laughs, joining us again.
“Christmas, Gally. The winter holiday with the Santa dude,” Thomas says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “It happened a while ago, I think.”
I’ve noticed in my time in the Glade so far that one of our most popular words is “think.” We are all desperately trying to fill in the gaps created by the shuck-faces who stuck us in here.
“Yeah, I don’t think it was something I ever celebrated,” Ben says, absentmindedly running a hand through his tousled hair.
“What do you guys remember or know about it?” I ask, turning from the bonfire to face them, all our faces glowing from the heat of the flame.
None of us speak at first, all trying to search for a fact or piece of obscure knowledge from the left behind memories our abductors neglected to remove.
“I don’t remember it. But I know it was called a holiday," Chuck tells us.
“Holiday,” I repeat, turning back to face the fire.
“Trees, with lights and decorations,” Newt says, anxiously tapping his foot, repetitively.
We all mull that over for a second, seeing if it aids us in finding something we might know about Christmas in the depths of our minds. “Gifts,” Winston says.
“Wrapped ones,” Thomas adds. “With bows, sometimes.” His brows furrow as he can’t find the exact memory he’s looking for, can’t exactly recall it.
Minho’s eyes light up, “My mum mentioned it.”
It’s not often we remember things about the parents we had in an earlier, far more distant life. But, talking about the things we do recall can sometimes help bring those back, vaguely, but still.
“Do you remember what she said?” I ask, offering a light touch on his arm as comfort. It's hard for us to think about the loved ones we used to have, their faces and words are blurry in our minds. Sometimes it's just easier to forget.
“Not exactly. It’s blurry,” he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back in the stolen moment. “I was crying. Something bad was happening. She was trying to calm me down, talking about the good things before the bad.”
“The bad?” Gally asks, taking a long swig from a jar filled with a cloudy liquid.
“Yeah, that’s what she called it. I don’t remember what it was though.” I look up at him, he’s sad. Upset that he can’t place the memory. Seeing Minho like this hurts me, I want to take away all the pain he ever felt, ever might feel. I lean into him, pulling his hand into my lap, holding him close. Holding him together.
“Christmas,” Newt repeats, staring into the dancing flames of this month’s bonfire.
“Christmas,” Minho says, looking at me.
We sit in silence for a while longer, letting the robbed memories and moments touch our minds for mere seconds before they fall away again, leaving us just as confused as to when I brought it up.
“Marie?” Minho asks, squeezing my hand.
“Yes?” I reply, laying my head on his shoulder.
“Let’s make our own holiday.”
“Seriously?” I chuckle, not entirely sure whether he’s truly meaning it or just having a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yea, seriously,” he says, turning his body to face me.
“Let’s make our own holiday.” He stands up, pulling me with me via the hand he still holds. We face the other sulking Gladers, all looking at Minho now. “Our own holiday. We can call it, ‘Glader Day’ and we can do it once a month on bonfire nights.”
“Glader Day,” Winston says, standing up to join us.
“Yes. Glader Day,” I say, joining him in his newfound happiness.
“We can all come here on the twenty-fifth of every month, hang out with each other, talk about what makes us happy in this shucking horrible situation, get drunk with the help of Gally,” he pauses his speech to raise his mug to Gally, who reciprocates, “and just enjoy being with each other.”
Newt and Gally stand up as well, “Glader Day,” they say, raising their glasses.
Ben and Alby stand up, “Glader Day.”
Thomas and Chuck, “Glader Day.”
More of us trickle toward the group from the outskirts of the bonfire, standing beside us, raising their glasses, “Glader Day.”
We all start cheering, knocking glasses into one another, hugging, and high-fiving, chugging drinks, probably spilling more of it than consuming.
“Glader Day,” Minho says, to only me. He stands in front of me, putting one hand on my waist, his glass still hooked in his fingers, and the other on my chin, tilting my face up toward him.
He kisses me like nobody else exists, like we are the only two people in the Glade, in the world. I place my hands on his chest, melting into his touch.
I back up from him and we look around at the organised chaos around us.
We are all messed up, ruined by those who put us in here.
But moments like these make me think that we could be alright, together.