I walked along the top of the crumbling stone wall, its grey cracks running beneath my feet like small rivers.

I wore my shoes, because I didn't see a point in taking them off. At least if I kept them on, the other Gladers would know where to find an extra pair if they needed one.

I sighed and felt the frigid air nip at my exposed arms. Glancing down sent an overwhelming wave of vertigo crashing down on me, which made me rethink my decision.

No, I told myself. Six bloody months I've been here, Alby, Minho, and a couple of others been here the same. Maybe they can stand living like this, but I can't.

Oddly enough, I started to feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of Alby and Minho. Sure, the shanks had their flaws (Alby's cranky as a buggin' Griever, and Minho has attitude to go around), but by now I was actually starting to feel attached to them. I finally had the guts to go through with this, but now I was also starting to adapt to the strange place called the Glade; starting to accept it.

But I wouldn't let that hold me back. I'd felt the need to do this since I first opened my eyes in the shuck Homestead. Maybe it was to teach the Creators, whoever they may be, that they can't just through a bunch of kids into hell like this. Or maybe I just wanted a way out of it. Or both. Either way, I had felt the urge, and now I was about to go through with it.

I took a look back at the Glade proper, the Homestead, the Bloodhouse, the Gardens, the Deadheads, where I'd rest in the back after I finished the job I was up here to do.

I forced myself to ignore everything else. I closed my eyes.

And I jumped.

Of course, at the very last second, I just had to change my lovin' mind. I thought that if I was already in the air, I couldn't go back, so I allowed all my fears and misconceptions to flood in to my mind. But I thought wrong.

As soon as my feet left the top of the wall, I panicked, tried to go back. I could only imagine whay my writhing form looked like from below. I pictured it flailing and convulsing as it plunged downwards, my almost shoulder-length blonde hair streaming behind my head.

It felt like hours, but was probably only a matter of seconds, the plummet did.

Finally, I did hit the hard stone ground, which sent a jolt of nauseating pain coursing through my skeleton, especially in my left leg. The leg I had jutted out in front of my to break the impact. The fact that I could feel the pain brought a surprisingly expected relief to me. I wasn't dead.

I wasn't quite sure if I was awake or not, because I remember time passing, not sure how much, and then a Runner shouting for Alby. My vision, or maybe my hearing, was blurred with red. Everything was jumbled together. I couldn't tell my sounds from my smells from my sights and such. It was a miserable moment of existence.

Next thing I know, I was in the Homestead, a couple doors down the hall from where they put everyone who's been stung and is on the Grief Serum.

It hurt to do just about anything. Even breath. It hurt to be.

Alby had told me that I'd recover for the most part as if it had never happened. We also made a silent pact to never speak of it again. But he said that my leg wasn't going to heal. That I'd walk with a limp for the rest of my life.

Since I could no longer be a Runner with a limp, Alby made me pretty much his second in command.

I was somewhat glad I hadn't died.

But now, standing in the middle of Denver surrounded by dozens upon dozens of Cranks just past the Gone as my own sanity slipped away, I fully regretted it.