Shucked Up || Newtmas AU

1☂ schrizophenic

Am I the only one I know,
Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?
Shadows will scream that I'm alone. - Twenty One Pilots
_______
Newt
________

What's his problem then?
He's too normal.

Why's he here?
He's too innocent.

Crossing a leg over another, I sit upright on the wooden stool, my elbows perched on the matching table in front of me.
However I keep my stare on the new kid.

The white t-shit he wears seems way too big for his torso; along with the white sweatpants which brush past his ankles.

I notice the pair of black high-tops he wears, instead of the white slip-ons like the rest of us, making me wonder if he's been allowed different, or he doesn't have the correct shoes yet.

The more the staff trust you here at The Glade, the more likely you are of wearing something other than the rather uninspiring uniform of all white.
Yet the staff aren't stupid, none of the 'depressed' patients can wear ties or any kind of item they could use to end their owns lives.

Any personal item of clothing we wear can't have any pockets either, not after last year when Gally kept a plastic dinner knife hidden in his pocket and tried to stab Frypan at breakfast.

I'd like to own a suit.
A nice, expensive suit.

Like the one I wore to the school dance back in England.

A suit would create a physical divide between me and all these sick idiots.
I've asked Doctor Paige many times but she refuses on the probability that I'd find some way to kill myself with it because she thinks I'm depressed.

I wouldn't do that.
It'd be a waste of a suit.

"Can I sit here?"

Excuse me?

A single wavering voice pulls me back into reality.
It's the new kid.

He wants to sit at my table.
My table.
Nobody sits here.

I used to sit here with George, until he beat up and hospitalised the lunch lady for the third time and was transferred to the psychotic institute.
Now it's just me.

"Okay, sorry." The boy mutters, at first I believe he's talking to me.

He's not, as he speaks the words he glares to his left side, like he was talking to someone who wasn't there.

Ah, another schizophrenic.

The boy glances nervously back at me, as if his eyes could see right through me, exposing my thoughts.

After another dragging second, he sits down, regardless of his missing invitation.

"I'm Thomas." He smiles sadly, digging his plastic fork into the pasta pot he previously collected from the kitchen.

I don't reply.
Everyone knows I don't talk.
Except him.

Talking means socialising.
Socialising means making friends.
Making friends means getting hurt.

I've already surrounded myself with a ten-foot high concrete wall to stop myself getting hurt.
I have no intention of breaking out.

"Are you not hungry?" Thomas looks down hungrily, upon the untouched pasta pot before me.

With my eyes focused on the wooden patterns on the table, I shake my head and push the pot with one hand effortlessly towards him.

The food here is pretty crap.

My parents told the staff about my 'fussy' eating habits, so they always keep a close eye on me during meal times.

The trick is to carefully deposit the food onto someone else's plate whilst they aren't looking, leaving me with a clean one.

I survive well enough on water, and breakfast.
Breakfast is the only decent meal here, well the porridge to be exact.

"How long you been here?" Thomas asks, clearly not taking in that I don't talk.

After waiting a couple of minutes for a reply, he sighs heavily, before trying again.

"What's your name?" He forces a brave and breakable smile to stretch across his face.
This is his last attempt.

"Newt."

After uttering the single word, the uncomfortableness hits me like a punch.
Speaking was a mistake, I'd just built a fragile, rickety bridge between Thomas the schizophrenic and I, but a bridge none the less.

"So Newt, got any friends?"

I take my eyes off the table, slowly and intimidatingly lifting my gaze to meet his eyes.

I'm about to say something insulting and hurtful, until I actually look at him.
Looking at him, all hurtful words fade into nothing, looking at his angel-carved face for the first time.

-a/n-
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