mazerunners] such fragile, broken things [day one

There is blood on your hands, and it is not your own. You stopped running a long time ago - taking shelter in the quiet place you have found just outside the maze. Now, you are afraid that even if death comes chasing after you, the heavy guilt that's found it's resting place on your back won't shift enough to let you flee. And you don't deserve to, either, because today you killed a girl. Her name was Eden Angelis, and she was fourteen years old with brown hair and blue eyes and she is no longer any of these things.

At first, you tried to lie. It was an accident, you told yourself as you sprinted away from that terrible, shining horn. It could have been anyone, I didn't mean to kill her, it was in my own defense. As you excuses grew weaker, your footsteps slowed. By the time you had reached the edge of the clearing and begun peering into the gloomy darkness, you'd stopped trying to convince yourself you were anything but a monster. Now, sitting on the ground, alone, you do not allow yourself to cry. (What pity do you deserve, the very first murderer of the 65th Hunger Games? None.)

You stare resolutely at your crimson-stained fingers because it is easier than letting your eyelids close and Eden's face appear there, filled with pain. When you lunged toward her, sword in hand, you didn't intend for her to die. It was war - you knew that, and you wanted to be free of it. But the blade connected with her throat and didn't stop and now the harrowing boom of the canon is etched into your mind like a tune you cannot escape. Boom, boom, boom. You can hear it even now, when time has passed and your heartbeat has slowed and between the heavy hedges you're hoping that perhaps the entire world has ended.

Ivana fell, too. As you did your best to leave the world of battle behind, you watched her tumble to the ground and never again regain her footing on the earth. Saffron, you made to follow - but you suspect perhaps the walls of the maze twist and move like something from a fairy story, and now you are quite definitely alone. Usually, you struggle to have company, always. Back at home, you couldn't bare to be without another person for even a moment. At night, once Susan was sleep, you'd climb into her bed beside her. Now, you feel as though you want nobody to look at you again.

Your body begins to shake - great, violent shivers that start shudder through your tiny frame. If your sister was here, she'd tell you to stand up and brush yourself. Her words in your head are clear - "Come on now, Lucy, you need to get yourself together. Chin up." - but you can't bring yourself to follow her instruction. The draw of the ground is too strong and it beckons you to stay, nestled into the leaves and hidden from the arena for as long as you can. Finally, a single tears rolls down your cheek and lands on the bloodied sword you still clutch tightly in your hand.

It's then you are greeted with a silver parachute. It floats slowly down to greet you, arbourne and delicate. Silently, it kisses the ground and unfolds, providing you with a package. You stare at it for a long moment, afraid to touch it - after all, surely nobody would send you anything in light of what you'd just done. (Or perhaps, suggests a more practical voice in your mind, you have just proved to the world that you're putting up a fight.) Tentatively, you unwrap it - a medical kit, an empty water jug, a full jar filled with heavy black tar - and tuck each item into your bag.

"Thank you," you whisper, and then, "I'm sorry." You're apologising for playing at being a warrior, because although you have sword it still aches to know you have stolen a life. You're apologising for making people think that you're worth gifts - because although you want to go home and spend a lifetime with your family, you know it would be in exchange for more death's just like Eden's - unprovoked, unwarranted, undeserving. More children have yet to fall before anyone is reunited with their family, and you are supposed to be brave and valiant.

You pick yourself up from the ground, dust yourself off - the blood still won't wash away - and make an effort to find Saffron and Cerise, because perhaps pretending to be yourself will make you believe you're still Queen Lucy Peverell, in one way or another. When Saffron's familiar face appears - she's dirty and bloodied, but not as much as you - your heart leaps and you cannot stop your step from quickening. "Where's Ivanna?" she asks, and your face crumbles. "Where is she?"

You bite your lip to stop the tears, because today, you know, is the start of so many. "I'm sorry," you say again. A strand of blonde hair, caked with blood, falls and covers your eyes. Even though it wasn't your fault, you have never felt so guilt-ridden. (Each death is a step closer to home, but counting them is nothing like counting stars.)
Not the Queen anymore, are you?



[Lucy receives medical kit, jar of tar and empty water jug from sponsorship.]