Oh, Pretty Woman - Roy Orbison

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          THE NEW CLOTHES HUGGED my sore body like a bandage, molding around my scarred limbs and accentuating my tone frame.

A white long-sleeve shirt coated my arms and chest in its breathable material as plain black tights clung to my legs, the waistband reaching my belly-button. Thankfully, they also provided us with much-needed new shoes—a pair of white sneakers adorning my always-moving feet.

They even provided us with feminine products, which is a huge improvement from the closet they shoved us into at the beginning.

But even though I was covered in clothes—I felt naked.

I carried no weapons.

Which is a first for me.

My blonde hair quickly dried, falling around my shoulders in soft waves. The freshly washed bleached strands smelt of the coconut shampoo that I had absentmindedly lathered in earlier.

For once, in a long time, I finally felt clean.

A careful sigh wisped from my lips as I stood straight, still feeling raw with emotions from my panic attack.

I feel slightly better after crying.

But, god, I hate crying in front of others. It feels embarrassing. Teresa didn't mention it, nor did she make me feel bad about it. She just simply allowed me to breakdown and release the trauma I attained from the Maze. Yet, I know I'm not healed—I know the panic attacks will return, same with the flashbacks and eternal remorse.

The Maze isn't done with me quite yet.

"Oh my god," I released a dramatic groan, distracting myself, "Teresa, you're taking forever."

Teresa, who didn't go for her shower until she was sure I was okay, had finished ten minutes ago but took her nice sweet-ass time getting dressed in her stall.

Suddenly, the shower curtain hissed open.

"You're so impatient." She laughed.

The raven-haired woman stepped from the stall, wearing clean blue jeans and a dark blue long-sleeve shirt. Her damp midnight curls laid across her shoulders, beads of water seeping through the fabric.

She marched towards me, adorning a new pair of boots while carrying the filthy remnants of our dirty clothes from the Maze.

I glanced away from the bloody clothes—wanting to avoid another anxious episode.

"I'm eager." I corrected.

"Eager to interrogate our rescuers?" She arched a dark brow at me, a knowing smile tugging on her lips.

"Yes," I answered bluntly, "The one thing W.I.C.K.E.D. ever taught me was to have trust issues, so if these people are answering questions—then they better be ready for an interview."

Teresa snickered lightly, knowing I used dry humour to deal with the trauma.

Passing me, she paced towards the hamper sitting next to the lockers before dropping our old clothes as well as our towels into it—hopefully never to be seen again.

As for me earlier, I simply just dumped my old combat boots into the trash—wanting to rid myself of any reminders of the war and the Maze.

The only thing I still have with me is my pack.

Teresa brushed off her hands, continuing her pace further down the locker room and towards the sinks while I slowly teetered after her.

"That's fair," Teresa commented, "At least they have tampons though."

"Oh my god, I know! I stashed a handful into my pack if you need any later." I exclaimed with a cheeky grin, tossing my pack over my shoulder.

Teresa chuckled, "Thanks."

We stopped in front of one of the eggshell white sinks; Teresa gazing up at the steamy mirror before using her sleeve to wipe the haze away and reveal our reflections.

And in that brief mundane moment, I realized yet another thing—there were no mirrors in Glade.

No mirrors.

There were some reflections where I could catch a glimpse of a blonde-haired girl with a permanent smirk on her face.

But not long enough to observe her.

So, before me, when I stared into the weepy blue abyss of this strange blonde girl's eyes, I realized that she was familiar.

She was me.

My lips parted, a small gasp leaving my mouth as my reflection copied.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I recognized myself the moment I saw my reflection but I can't believe I forgot. The longer I gapped at my forgotten appearance, the more familiar I became. It was a strange feeling—observing yourself for the first time with fresh eyes and no memory.

But the moment I saw her—my reflection—I knew that it was me.

My eyes were blue, but not like Teresa's.

Her gaze was vibrant and electric, a blend of blues that beamed like sapphires and mid-summer skies.

My eyes were a steel blue, glistening with hazel undertones as a muted blue consumed my irises like a painter does a canvas. They were wide with curiosity but swirled with a sharp glimmer—a stony façade.

My face was pale with lasting anxiety but round with youth. I had high cheekbones and a round button nose, similar to the features Thomas had. My cheeks were sunken with exhaustion which emphasized my own sharp jawline sitting below my round lips scabbed red with the sores of my anxious nibbling.

A yellow halo of blonde hair fell around my face in long layers.

The front pieces were shorter, reaching my chin and framing my round face as the rest cascaded down my back and shoulders before stopping at the bottom of my ribcage. But my roots were an earthy brown—my real hair colour.

Then, I observed my features a little closer.

"Slintheads..." I whispered with a scowl, Teresa sending me a quizzical glance, "They really thought I was a natural blonde when my eyebrows and eyelashes are literally brown."

Teresa snorted.

"It suits you, I would never question it." She said with a smile, "You're pretty."

I froze, my eyes flickering to her kind gaze as a giddy warmth flooded my frame—and suddenly, I was a shy and awkward teenage girl that just didn't know how to take compliments.

"Thanks." I smiled with a bashful shrink before playfully punching her shoulder, "You're pretty, too, man."

Teresa chuckled, smiling earnestly, "Thanks."

I smiled sheepishly, turning my gaze away quickly so I could further analyze myself in the mirror.

My skin was tanner than when I left the Box, casting light sun-kissed freckles to trail across the bridge of my nose. They were hard to spot beneath all the scrapes and scratches I attained from the Maze—I don't think anyone would actually notice unless they were really looking at me.

As I looked closer I could see the scars from my early days in Glade.

In the center of my neck stretched a small white line where Ben had pressed the knife to my throat. And above my eyebrow was another white scar from my first night in the Maze.

Great, my body has scars that tell stories. Now I'm gonna end up being that crazy old lady that kids berate with questions like "how did you get that scar?"

Human experimentation, little Johnny, human experimentation.

"It's weird," Teresa said, her eyes still glued to her reflection, "Looking at yourself when you don't remember what you look like. It's like looking at a stranger."

I nodded, my eyes piercing my own, "I might not remember, but she...she's familiar."

Teresa smiled softly, her sharp eyes flickering over her reflection and soaking her image in as she nodded gently, "Very familiar."

It fell silent between us. We each were just so consumed by our reflections—studying the way we look and who we've been this entire time without actually knowing. Teresa's right, this is weird.

"Alright, we should go," She said, pulling her gaze from the mirror, "The boys will start to worry."

Teresa turned and began walking towards the exit, while I remained stuck in place, staring at myself just a little bit longer.

Sadness crept through me as I inspected my reflection.

I'm young.

I'm just a teenager.

Everything that's happened, everything I've seen and gone through has been when I was merely a child, barely even grown out of the baby fat still clinging to my cheeks.

If there's anyone I'm sorry for, it's her—me.

I didn't deserve the Maze, I don't deserve the horrors and trauma that come with it. I deserve to be in school, learning new things and laughing with my friends—I deserve to be a kid.

We all do.

"C'mon, slow-poke!" Teresa teased from the exit.

I deadpanned with a semi-playful scowl, "Don't rush me, woman, I'm having an identity crisis."

Teresa released a small chuckle from behind. I watched her in the reflection as she leaned against the doorway, allowing me the time to gawk at myself.

Which I did for a little longer.

Gently, my fingers grazed my cheeks, the reflection mirroring my ginger movements. My hands drifted over my scars and fresh scrapes, my gaze following my fingers as I sheepishly looked at myself through my long, dark eyelashes.

And slowly, my hands crawled to my eyebrows where I released a sigh of relief.

"Thank god—I have nice eyebrows."

Teresa laughed once again as I smiled half-heartedly at myself. Then, adjusting my pack, I turned from the mirror with a lasting look before setting my gaze on my raven-haired friend.

"Okay, I'm done." I grinned.

Teresa snorted with a playful shake of her head, "C'mon, you."

__________

Upon leaving the washroom, a nurse waited for us before leading Teresa and I to another portion of the Sanctuary, which seems to be their Medic Wing.

The two glass doors slid open with ease, revealing a blue sterile room that looks more like an office than it does a make-shift hospital wing. Nurses and people in lab coats flitted about the room, moving from station to station where the Gladers were scattered to be observed and checked on.

Quickly, my gaze skimmed the room, doing a quick headcount of the Gladers.

"Seems we're the last ones." Teresa commented, seeing everyone was accounted for.

"Ever?" I smirked.

Teresa paused for a moment before understanding my reference to the note we found in her hand the day she first arrived in Glade. I snickered like a child as she playfully shoved my teasing frame.

She rolled her eyes with a smile, "Shut up."

"Ame!" A happy voice interrupted.

From the left, bouncing off the examination table after getting his blood pressure checked, Chuck came bounding towards me—his chubby pink face beaming with childlike excitement.

As he skipped in my direction, I almost grew teary eyed.

For the first time since meeting Chuck, the little boy was finally clean. His face, which used to be a canvas of mud and dirt, was washed clear, exposing his pink freckled face and skin. He was dressed in beige pants and a simple black long-sleeve, his chestnut curls standing even bushier and more coily now that he's washed two month's worth of filth off of him.

My mouth dropped open, a smile peeling onto my clean face as I observed the freshly-washed twelve-year-old.

"Chuckles, look at you!" I laughed jovially, grasping the sides of his pudgy face as he chuckled with me, "You're clean, I can see your wittle face! And look at your hair, it's so shiny and bouncy!"

I continued to fawn over him, cooing like a mother over her child as Chuck rolled his eyes.

"I know, I know—I'm adorable. Now get off me, ya weirdo." Chuck laughed, before patting his curls, "I just fixed these bad boys."

I laughed, throwing my hands up in surrender, letting the twelve-year old touch up his beloved hair. Quickly, I glanced over his head—watching as the nurse led Teresa to another examination table.

Then, I glanced back down to the boy, suddenly noticing his bullet graze was stitched up.

"Look at that—they fixed you up, huh?" I poked his left cheek.

Swatting my hand away with a soft snort, Chuck nodded, popping his p, "Yup. They gave me two stitches, and they said it would leave a scar. How cool would that be?"

I smirked, "That'd be wicked."

Chuck deadpanned.

"Can't you say something cool for once?" He grumbled, massaging his temples.

My jaw dropped, "I say cool things all the time."

"Puns aren't cool."

"Says who?"

"People who actually enjoy comedy."

"Puns are classics."

"And they should remain in a museum."

I blinked, my face frozen in bewilderment. I shook my head playfully, saying with a scoff, "You take one shower and suddenly you're too sophisticated for puns. Unbelievable."

This child is always ready to humble me. I thought, slowly inching towards the blood pressure station.

Chuck laughed, clearly amused by my offense as he trailed next to me.

I sat down on the table, sending the nurse-in-waiting a wary look before rolling up my sleeve and letting the nurse slide the blood pressure gauge onto my bicep. Chuck stood at my side, keeping me company.

"So...how are you feeling?" Chuck whispered as the gauge tightened around my arm.

"What are you talking about?" I whispered back, arching a brow.

For a moment, I thought he knew about my panic attack in the showers and was asking about that. It also made me wonder why we're whispering in the first place.

"You know..." Chuck's eyes widened with knowingness as he whispered even quieter, "your period?"

"Oh," I chuckled, "I'm feeling okay."

"You don't need anything?" Chuck asked.

"Oh so, suddenly, you're my friend again?" I questioned playfully, "Weren't you just insulting my coolness?"

"No, I was insulting your puns. They were horrible. Sorry." Chuck shrugged, "But you're cool."

"Ah, thanks." I said sarcastically, grinning.

It was then the gauge began to deflate, the nurse carefully sliding the blood pressure monitor from my bicep before jotting down my results.

"Okay, you're good to move on to the next station." The nurse confirmed.

I sent them a curt nod before standing, rolling the rest of my sleeve down. Chuck quickly followed, trailing along my side as we paced into the middle of the hallway.

"No but really, you're good, right? You don't need anything to help with your...er—problem?" He asked again, just wanting to help.

A soft smile curled onto my mouth as I placed a gentle hand onto my friend's shoulder.

"I'm good, Chuck. Thank you." I smiled earnestly.

Chuck smiled in return, placing his pudgy hand over mine. He nodded, "Good that. But if you need anything, just lemme know."

"You'll be the first to know." I agreed.

"Or second, depending on the task," A voice interrupted us, a smirk evident in their tone, "Like reaching for stuff on the top shelf."

Chuck deadpanned, playfully glaring at the smirking man standing behind me.

I scoffed with a smile, already knowing who the sassy voice belonged to. Regardless, I turned with a smirk before coming face-to-face with another shit-disturber, mirroring the same smirk.

"And that's all you'll be useful for, Minho." Chuck shot back with a saccharine smile.

I snorted, watching as Minho's dark eyes shot to Chuck, a silent challenge waging between the two witty boys as I took a cautious step back.

"I can also run fast." Minho boasted.

"She also likes me more." Chuck yawned.

"She does not!"

"She does so!"

"No way, shank!"

"Yeah way, shuck-face!"

And as they spiraled into a childish argument about who I like more, my distracted gaze fluttered over their heads—and like a moth attracted to a flame, my blue eyes landed on a familiar blonde-haired boy who anxiously sat at a station by himself.

"Well, let's just ask her, huh?" Minho spat, wrinkling his nose at Chuck.

"Fine," The twelve-year-old agreed, spinning in my dazed direction, "Ame, who do you like more?"

Without paying attention to the question, a giddy warmth spread through my body as a wide smile tugged onto my cheeks, my eyes still glued to the golden boy.

Without missing an unintentional beat, I sighed dreamily, "Newt."

Then, thinking Minho and Chuck were still arguing, I left the group—striding towards my boyfriend and leaving my two friends to gape at my blatant disregard for their petty argument.

"He meant out of the two of us..." Minho trailed on, but I wasn't listening.

I sauntered towards Newt with a little skip in my step. He didn't notice me at first. His earthy gaze was casted downwards as he dragged his palms down his pant legs nervously.

Yet, as I got closer, he looked up.

Suddenly, his anxiety melted away into a smile. Sitting straighter, Newt's eyes lit up as I neared, his gaze flitting around my face before trailing down my frame, then flickering back to my face.

"You look nice." He gulped, a crooked smile tugging on his pink cheeks.

I blushed, shrinking into my shoulders with a bashful smile, "Thank you. You look clean."

Newt sniffled a laugh, "Showers tend to do that."

I deadpanned.

My feet stopped in front of the amused man, my blue eyes melting into his brown eyes as he stared up at me from his seat. Instantly, he reached out to me, delicately entwining his hands with my weak fingers.

His eyes searched mine, openly. His dark brows flinched together, his soft smile turning to a frown.

"You've been crying." Newt said, gently.

My smile twitched downwards, my hands itching to touch my cheeks to feel for any tears or puffiness. How did he know I was crying? I checked before I left. I thought.

"I'm fine." I smiled.

Newt gave me a look, arching his brow like I should know better than lie to him.

"Mhm." He hummed in disbelief. Pausing, he waited for me to say something or even make eye contact with him, but seeing as I stubbornly withheld information of my mental breakdown, he said quietly, "Do you wanna tell me 'bout it?"

I scoffed, "No. When do I ever wanna talk about it?"

"It" being my feelings.

"Never, that's why I gotta pry 'em out of you." Newt chuckled lightly.

A small giggle left my throat before my face fell somber. Sheepishly, my unsettled gaze flickered down to my shoes.

"I had a bit of an...episode, but Teresa was there to help me through it." I whispered so no one but Newt could hear.

He paused, absorbing every word I said and every flinch in my brow. He winced a little when he realized what "episode" meant, considering he had walked in on me having one of these episodes when the sky first fell in Glade.

I watched him through my dark lashes as he turned his gaze from my stiff form to my raven-haired friend sitting on the examination table in the corner.

And with the tiniest of smiles, he sent Teresa a nod for helping me.

"And you're okay now?" He asked.

A small crooked smile tugged on my left