I was so many things, to so many people. Thomas, Tom, Tommy.

Leader, Best friend, Glader, Brother.

The one that called me Tom, sacrificed herself for me.

The one that called me Tommy, got the flare and I shot him.

The one that called me Brother, died saving my life.

The person everyone else knew as Thomas, got lost along the way. Dead. Ripped apart. Broken. Gone.

Just a torn soul that got taken away by the breeze.

WICKED is good. What a joke. It's in the name. WICKED is wicked.

They never had any good intentions.

Just to break us.

Strong leader. Ha. I'm just a kid. We're all just kids.

Kids put in life or death situations.

Fighting monsters, horrible places, dying friends.

We're all just dust in the wind, paper people, chess pawns.

I can't help thinking that I'd like to join Newt. Go where I'm not holding the weight of the world.

But there's Minho. He's the only string holding me to this earth. And that string is straining against the weight..

I promised him. Promised him I'd stay with him.

I'm always alone now. I isolate myself in silence. I can't bear to see the others.

Minho is the only one who visits. Mostly it's to give me food. Or try and give me food. For the most part it's just him begging me to eat until I choke down a few bites just to please him. He tries to get me out of the shed. No sunlight ever comes in here, and I'm paler than a ghost from the lack of vitamin D. But the sunlight represents happiness and joy and I haven't felt either of those for a long, long time. The blinding light burns my eyes and gives my headaches.

I'm causing Minho too much stress. He has dark circles under his eyes and he's constantly running his hand through his hair. In between being a leader to the immune's, he's mothering me, trying to get me to say more than a few words. He knows something is wrong, it's obvious. But I haven't told him what it is yet. I don't think I will. He doesn't need the worry. Not now.

Anyway, it's not like there's only one thing wrong.

Chuck was my brother. He was the closest thing I had to family in the Maze. He was so young, so innocent, and so selfless. He wanted to find his Mom and Dad. But he sacrificed himself for me. I'm sorry Chuck. I failed you. I promised you I'd get you out. I promised you I'd help you find your Mom and Dad. I'm so sorry it had to end that way.

I loved Teresa. And now she's dead. Because of me. I didn't forgive her when I had the chance. She was just doing what she thought was best. I saw the pain in her eyes every day when she looked at me, but I didn't care. I was selfish.

And Newt. My best friend. I never realized how important and special he was to me until I lost him. The Maze broke him. The Scorch destroyed him. The Cure killed him. The pain and desperation in his eyes was too much to bear. He wanted out. So I helped him.

They talk about moving on like it's easy. Release your grip finger by finger. But my hand has been in a fist for so long it stuck there, unable to open. I'm never going to get over them. I'm never going to forget. They'll be in my thoughts every day. I'll be forever be sorry. If that means I'll never fully heal, that's fine with me.

I thought the whole point of those shucking trials was to find a cure and get our memories back. Am I the only one who noticed that we failed? Trillions of people are going to die. Only a few thousand are going to live. That's what's going to be left of the human race. And none of the teenagers who went through the trials have their memories. I don't know where I'm from, who I am, who my family are. A lot of our friends died for us to make it this far. But for what? We failed. If Newt had stayed in the glade he ever would have been exposed to the virus. He would be alive.

And on top of all that, I was part of them. Part of WICKED. I helped them. I put my friends in the Maze. I built it. I broke them. I can't help feeling that if I hadn't put him in there, Newt wouldn't have tried to kill himself.

Only when a a hear a soft splash on the floor do I realize I'm crying. Again. I'm surprised I have any water left in me at this point. Crying has become a regular thing to me now, as normal as breathing.

I have sacrificed too much. Lost everyone I cared about.

"Please, Tommy please."

"I only ever cared for-"

"Find...My mom..."

Their last words haunt me, taunt me.

Please. I can't... I can't do this anymore.

I crawl on my elbows and knees to a pile of old clothes. I start digging frantically, wanting to get the deed done before Minho arrived. My hand brushes the cold metal and I grasp the handle.

It's the gun I killed Newt with.

Slowly, I pull it from the pile of clothes.

I hold it in front of me feeling the weight. Is this really the right thing? I ask myself.

Yes. I'm ready. Minho is strong, he'll heal. He doesn't need me. Nobody does.

I had to be brave for so long. People were counting on me. Now there's no one left.

I bring the gun to my temple. I'm sorry Minho. I'm sorry you'll have to find me this way. Bury me next to them, alright? This is not your fault. You helped me more than you can imagine. But this was too much. Don't think of me as a desperate kid looking for a way out. Think of me as I once was. Strong, bold, brave. You were one of the best shanks I knew.

Thank you for being my friend.