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The boy was no older than eighteen when he jumped off that wall; no older than eighteen and he’d already decided that his life was not worth living.
The moment he let go of the ivy, a million thoughts pushed to the forefront of his mind. His friends, the Gladers, the Maze, the Creators; it all swirled around in his head, making an inextricable maelstrom of emotion. Among other things, he felt sadness, anger, fear, and disgust, but most of all, he felt hatred. He felt hatred toward the Creators for stripping him of his memories and of who he was before the Maze. He hated them for taking away his family, if he ever even had one in the first place. He hated them for obliterating any chance he had of living a normal life. He hated all that they’d done to him and the other Gladers.
He loathed the Creators.
And yet, that wasn’t what had pushed him to climb up that wall.
With his days spent running a maze with no exit and his nights spent dreaming of a life nothing like the one he would live, Newt’s hope dwindled. He still laughed with his friends, still ran the Maze, still ate and lived like he was fine, but something began to shift.
At the meetings with other Runners, he would speak up less, his vision losing focus as he got tangled up in his thoughts. What was the point of all that anyway? The Maze had been repeating the same patterns for well over a year; what made anyone believe that it would change now?
During his runs, he’d stop more frequently, leaning against the mossy wall and closing his eyes as he listened to Grievers moan in the distance. A part of him hoped they would just find him and get it over with.
On his off days, he would wander around the Glade, periodically dropping by and bugging some of the others. His main focus, however, was the walls. He would sit on the bench that lay just on the outskirts of the Deadheads, his eyes scanning the walls from top to bottom, then bottom to top. He developed a certain type of revulsion for them, the stone and ivy becoming synonymous with a prison cell. Who would do that to him and the others? What kind of sick person would trap a bunch of teenagers in the middle of a maze and then torture them? What even was the purpose of them being there?
A chasm opened up in his chest, a ponderous weight encumbering him with every step he took. Why did he keep trying anyway? There was no reason for him to keep on going. He was never going to rid himself of the awful feeling that permeated every bit of his being. He was also never going to find a way out; none of them were. He was either going to die in the Glade with his friends, or out in the Maze with the Grievers. Either option only served to make him feel worse.
One day, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
During his day off, Newt found himself walking straight into the Maze, ignoring everybody on the way. He didn’t really fully understand what he was going to do, nor how he was going to do it—all he knew was how it was going to end.
And so, finding a spot with particularly strong vines, Newt started to climb. He didn’t stop until he was about thirty or so feet off the ground, his arms burning from the exertion. He swung himself around to face the opposite wall, his hands digging into the ivy around him, the lush vegetation almost completely swallowing him whole.
His gaze traveled down the wall and to the ground. His world spun around him momentarily, and he almost lost his hold on the ivy. What on Earth was he doing? This was a stupid, stupid idea. What would Alby and Minho think? What would the others think? Would they ever even find him? If not, then what would happen to his body? Would the Grievers-
A faint skittering noise interrupted his thoughts. His head snapped to the source, a small red light bouncing around in the leaves to his left. It stopped a few inches away from his face, the sunlight revealing its metallic body. A Beetle Blade. Of course. The Creators were spying on him, probably watching him since he’d left the Glade. Why wouldn’t they be?
They were probably enjoying seeing him like this, those sick bastards. They were the reason he and all the others were in the Maze in the first place. They were the reason he had watched kids no older than him lose their minds and succumb to Griever stings. They were the reason he had no family, no mom, no dad, no brothers or sisters; they were the reason he would ever even consider this as an option.
“I don't know who you people are, but I hope you’re happy,” Newt seethed through his teeth, trying to throw as much venom into his tone as he could. “I hope you’re getting a real buggin’ kick out of watching us suffer. And then you can die and go to hell. This is on you.”
Before he could think about it any further, he turned and pushed himself off the wall. He fell through the air, ivy tangling and snapping around him before he finally landed on his left leg.
He crumpled to the ground, pain instantly bursting through him. He hugged his leg up to his chest, his body rolling from side to side. Tears dripped down his face, wracking cries pulling all of the air out of him.
The Creators might not have been the reason he climbed up that wall, but they sure were the reason he’d jumped off it.
“I hate you. I hate you!” he yelled into the air, his body shaking with effort. He hoped they were listening, watching how they’d made him suffer, hoping they would see all the wrong they’d done.
Tears started to trickle down his face and soon he was no more than a blubbering mess. He cried and cried and cried until he ran out of tears, his chest heaving with silent sobs. Pain pervaded him to the very bone; from his leg to his soul, everything hurt. He made no move to pick himself up, his head so muddled from agony that he nearly passed out.
Newt didn’t know how much time had passed when Alby had found him. Worry etched into his face, the shorter boy pulled him onto his feet and rushed him back into the Glade. Newt had concerned Gladers swarming him within seconds, overwhelming his already pain-delirious brain.
Alby pushed past other Gladers and ushered Newt into the Homestead; Newt thought he heard him asking questions, but couldn’t bring himself to focus enough to actually understand. He didn’t care, everything hurt too much to care. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes and forget it all.
Next thing he knew, he was in a small room on the top floor of the Homestead, alone—the Med-jack, Clint, had just left to talk to Alby. He was lying on a twin-sized bed, his left leg in a splint and his feet hanging ever-so-slightly off the edge. He closed his eyes but sleep evaded him; all sorts of questions eddied in his mind. Why had he done it? Was his life really that bad? Did he hate the Creators that much? How would Minho and Alby have reacted if he were successful? How would the other Gladers? Would it even have changed anything? Would anyone actually have cared?
Despite knowing that he should feel something—hurt, frustration, sadness, anything really—Newt was sure he had never felt less emotion than at that moment.
He turned onto his side, shifting his body so he wasn’t on his injured leg. He closed his eyes and let that burgeoning exhaustion take over him. It took him to a place far away, a place where big mazes and horrific creatures called ‘Grievers’ weren’t a thing. A place with a family; a mom, a dad, maybe even a sister. A place where he could live a normal life and go to school with his friends. A place where his biggest worry would be about his next math test.
Newt felt a small smile tug at his lips and for the briefest of moments, he was content. Then he stirred slightly, sending a white-hot jolt of pain through him that brought him down to reality. Any happiness he had felt vanished in an instant, leaving behind a hollow feeling of despair. His eyes started watering again, silent sobs following shortly after. He balled his hands into fists and tried to will everything away—the pain, the despair, the deep feeling of emptiness that suffused through him; he just wanted it all to be over.
As he slowly fell back into the murkiness of sleep, one question stuck with him.
Why couldn’t it have worked?