It Should Have Been Me

'Gally."

Thomas blinked, shocked and angry at what he was seeing.

It was Gally.

Gally had stayed behind in the Glade, he wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be standing just a stride away. Being the pig headed teen that he was, he refused to leave the Glade even when asked to join them to finally find there way out.

"What's he doing here!" Minho shouted.

"I'm here to stop y'all from listening to this shuck face and getting yourselves killed." Gally jerked his head in Thomas's direction ,who stood in front of Chuck and Teresa protectively. Gally had the look of a madman in his eyes. The look of someone that's finally lost any morsel of sanity that they had. Only then did they seem to notice the green ivy like veins spreading over Gally's neck.

Newt put his hand up in surrender, not wanting to provoke him, "Gally, we found a way out of this kluck hole I'll be bloody damned if I go back to the glade because of you."

Thomas focused on Gally. The boy's whole body trembled, his face pasty white, making his wet, red eyes stand out like bloody splotches on paper. His lips pressed together in a way that formed a distorted frown.

"Gally?" Thomas asked, trying to suppress the complete hatred he had for him.

Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right, sensed movement. Toward him.

The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn't. Thomas felt as if his feet had been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him, completely helpless.

With a sickening, wet thunk, the dagger slammed into Thomas's chest, burying itself to the hilt. He screamed in pure agony, falling to the floor, his body already convulsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark crimson. His legs limp as the clattered against the floor, the rest of his body followed. Red spit oozed from between his lips.

Teresa fell to the ground, pulled Thomas's shaking body into her arms, it was a challenge since he was much bigger than she was.

"Thomas!" she screamed; her voice was like shattered glass ripping through her throat. "Thomas!"

The boy shook uncontrollably, blood everywhere, wetting Teresa's hands. Thomas's eyes had rolled up in their sockets, dull white orbs. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.

"Tom …," Teresa said, this time a whisper. There had to be something they could do. They could save him. They—

The boy stopped convulsing, stilled. His eyes slid back into normal position, focused on Teresa, then onto the boys standing open mouthed behind her. He was still clinging to life. "Well...damn." It was just two simple word, barely there.

"Hang on, Tom," Teresa said. "Don't die—fight it. Don't you dare die on me!"

Nobody moved, and deep inside, Thomas knew why. Nothing could help him now. It was over. Black spots swam before Thomas's eyes; the room tilted and swayed. No, he thought. Not today. Not now. Not when he was so close.

"Thomas..." Chuck whispered, he looked as if he was about to faint at the sight of his friend's blood.

Thomas turned his gaze to Newt, "Don't let them win, don't-..."

He didn't finish. His eyes closed, his body went limp. One last breath wheezed from his mouth.

Newt stared at him, stared at his friend's lifeless body.

Something happened within Newt. It started deep down in his chest, a seed of rage. Of revenge. Of hate. Something dark and terrible. And then it exploded, bursting through his lungs, through his neck, through his arms and legs. Through his mind.

Teresa held on to him tighter "No! THOMAS!" Her voice cracked, hot tears streamed down her face. That only angered Newt more.

And then he snapped. He completely and utterly snapped.

He rushed forward, threw himself on Gally, grasping with his fingers like claws. He found the boy's throat, squeezed, fell to the ground on top of him. He straddled the boy's torso, gripped him with his legs so he couldn't escape. Newt started punching.

He held Gally down with his left hand, pushing down on the boy's neck, as his right fist rained punches upon Gally's face, one after another. Down and down and down, slamming his balled knuckles into the boy's cheek and nose. There was crunching, there was blood, there were horrible screams. Newt didn't know which were louder—Gally's or his own. He beat him—beat him as he released every ounce of rage he'd ever owned. Everything he had been holding in was finally let out.

And then he was being pulled away by Minho, his arms still flailing even when they only hit air. He wasn't finished yet, he was far from finished actually. Minho dragged him across the floor; he fought him, squirmed, yelled to be left alone. His eyes remained on Gally, lying there, still; Newt could feel the hatred pouring out, as if a visible line of flame connected them.

And then, just like that, it all vanished. There were only thoughts of Thomas.

He threw off Minho's grip, he hobbled to the limp, lifeless body of his friend. He grabbed him away from Teresa, pulled him back into his arms, ignoring the blood, ignoring the frozen look of death on the boy's face.

"No!" Newt shouted, sadness consuming him. "No!"

Teresa was there, put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it away.

"Bloody hell, no!" he screamed, realizing even as he did so that his voice was laced with something wrong. Almost insanity. "He was going to save us! He was going to save us all! He remembered the truth! Now wee'r all better off bloody dead!"

Teresa didn't respond, only nodded, her glassy eyes cast to the ground. Tears stained her cheeks.

Newt hugged Thomas to his chest, squeezed him as tightly as possible, as if that could somehow bring him back, or show thanks for saving his life, for being his friend, for being there.

Newt cried, he cried more then he ever hand the day he woke up in the Glade. He wept like he'd never wept before. His great, racking sobs echoed through the chamber like the sounds of tortured pain.