Good Grief (TMR fic)

Chapter 60

The next day passes full of tension. Thomas is screaming periodically, and most of the times I check on him he looks dreadful, thrashing and sweating from the Changing.

"I don't think I'd have had the guts to get stung on purpose," I tell Minho as we walk upstairs together to check on Thomas.

"Me either," he says with an exaggerated shudder. "At least the Serum was right there."

Minho only stays for a minute, but I agree to stay longer and trade out with Clint so he can get some food. I don't mind being stuck in the Homestead as much. Not in the daytime, at least. It's so much better than the horror evening brings that it feels almost comfortable by comparison.

"How is he?" Alby asks, poking his head in through the door.

"I don't know, doc, how does he look?" I drawl.

"Oh, shut it, Ash. Is the Changing going normally?"

I yawn. "Seems to be. He'll be out of it nice and quick since we got the Serum in him so fast. That's what everyone keeps saying, at least."

Then Thomas screams again, starting to struggle and fight against the restraints they've tied him down with.

Newt comes in as Alby goes to his side, and they both make sure he can't hurt himself. Thomas subdues into whimpering cries and twitching.

"Calm down, Ash. You need to stop pacing," Newt says. I hadn't even noticed that I was furiously stalking back and forth. I hate watching Thomas be in pain.

"What else am I supposed to do?" I snap.

"I don't know, go annoy Minho or help the Builders fortify the Homestead. I've got Tommy."

Sighing, I do as Newt says and head back out downstairs.

My eye catches on something resting on Newt's sleeping bag, and I curiously cross to it. It's the yellow notepad I've seen him writing in before.

I don't know what he uses it for, so I sit cross-legged on his sleeping bag and pick it up.

"Property of Newt" is scrawled on the front in clumsy handwriting, and I smile fondly.

No one is paying attention, so I flip it open to where I think he was writing in it last. I want to see the notes from when we first organized the Homestead together. I doubt we've forgotten anything important as we've continued to brace for the Grievers, but I'm curious to see what we've changed about our method.

I find an almost entirely blank page and pause at it, expecting it to be the last thing he wrote. The words at the top, though, burn with an emptiness that makes my skin crawl.

Two Years, Two Months

They're all dead. I'm alone.

What is this? Who's dead? I turn the page, desperately curious.

Two Years, Two Months

She got stung. The idiot. I want to be angry with her – I am angry with her – but at the same time... I'll never forget that look on her face. If she hadn't tripped, she might have been able to save my friends. She didn't regret it. When the walls slammed shut between us she was completely calm. She had tried her best, and she was content with that.

I'm still mad, of course.

But I'm thankful, too. Mostly I'm thankful that she survived. It's not that I don't care about the others, it's just... Ash. I'm selfish when it comes to Ash. I don't know if I like that.

I know what this is now. This isn't just his way of keeping track of the Glade. This is Newt's journal, and... and he's selfish about me.

I don't know if I like it, either.

Now that I realize I should put the book aside. I should move on and pretend I never saw it. But... I want to know what it was like when he was new to the Glade. Presuming he had started the journal that long ago...

I quickly flip back to earlier in the journal, just to see, not allowing myself time to reconsider my actions.

One Year, Five Months

He must not have started it very early on, then. This isn't quite the beginning of the notebook, but it's close. I'm still curious, though, and keep reading.

My hair is getting long. It always gets in my face if I don't have it pulled back with a rubber band. Fry is annoyed that I keep stealing his bands, but I won't let him cut it no matter what he says.

I can't cut my hair. I can't let myself forget.

I'm stuck here, and I need this reminder of how long it's been. Every time it annoys me that my hair is this long I remember.

I remember what they've done to us.

I remember that we're never getting out.

I promise myself that if by some miracle we do escape, I'll make them suffer for every inch of hair I've grown out.

I release a shaky breath. I knew Newt has been crumbling for a long time, been drowning under the feeling of being caught and stuck. But I hadn't realized he was this... this...

I don't have words. I didn't know that was why his hair was long. A permanent calendar to remember how trapped he is.

I close my eyes for a moment, still completely speechless.

"What are you doing?" The voice is so flat and expressionless that I don't recognize it for a moment. When my eyes fly open Newt is standing in front of me, his jaw slightly clenched and his eyes empty of emotion.

"Newt! I, uh..." I fumble, jumping from the adrenaline as I try to put the notepad down and scramble to my feet.

"You read my journal?"

I wish he was shouting. I wish he would scream at me and get angry. But instead he just looks at me with that terrifying patience.

"I didn't know..." I say, shivering slightly under his intense expression.

"What did you read?"

"I... the entry about your hair..."

"Anything else?" He glares at me slightly, as if daring me to lie to him.

"...no." I don't know why I lie. Maybe I'm ashamed of having been caught doing something I shouldn't. Maybe I don't want him to know that I read about how he sees me, how he feels selfish over me.

"Don't touch my stuff." Apparently he's satisfied with my answer. He turns on his heel and strides out of the Homestead, limping every other step.

"Newt, wait!" I call, needing to make it better.

He ignores me, and I sigh, feeling my shoulders droop.

I guess I had this coming.