TMR Glader Imagines

Newt imagine | Just Let Me Sleep

"Are you alright? It's not  like you to oversleep."  Newt asks you in a concerned tone, giving you a knowing look.

"Oh - yeah, I'm fine. I've just been a little tired lately." You lie. You assume it would be a bad idea to tell them about the pills. Newt takes a moment, squinting his eyes at you. He clearly does not believe you, but decides not to push the topic.

"Good that." He shrugs.

***

A few weeks pass by uneventfully. You sleep a little earlier so you can wake up in time. You actually sleep. Long, dreamless nights that relieve you from your thoughts and worries. It has grown to be your favourite part of the day. The guys are growing concerned for you. You're not acting like yourself lately. And they're not wrong. You're feeling mentally worse with every day that passes. You can't take it much longer. If the Runners don't find a way out soon, the Gladers will have to go without you when they do. Not that it matters. They don't need you. They're good.
You've started taking two pills recently and sleep pretty much half the day most days. You're often oversleeping as the pills give you a hard time waking up before they wear off. That much is very difficult to hide from the others, and they've definitely taken notice, but don't seem too alarmed. After all, for all they know it's just a habit. You know you'd be better off without the pills, but you can't stop. They've grown a necessity to get through the days. Along with an even worse habit; small scars line your upper forearms, neatly placed in a way that makes them easy to hide.

More days pass. Weeks. Months. The mental pain is overwhelming. And then, one day it' becomes too much. You can't take it anymore. Tonight is the night. It's over.

It's the evening. The others are getting ready for dinner. You're standing in your room, pill jar in hand. You read the label.

Sleeping pills - Take 35 minutes before desired time of sleeping.
Warning: Daily intake of 1-2 pills is not to be exceeded.
Overdose may result in sickness, coma or death.

The last overdose, the worst case. That's what you're going for.
1 pill, 2 pills. They go down like every other night. 3 pills, 4 pills. How many should I take? 5 pills, 6 pills. I'm feeling sort of full. 7 pills, 8 pills. You think of stopping but no, not yet. 9 pills, 10 pills. Must be enough soon. Just as you swallow the 11th, someone enters the room. Newt.

"Y/N what are you doing?!" He shouts, alarmed. You try to respond, but your vision blurs. Your voice will not obey you, not a sound comes out. No no, why Newt? Please leave, Newt. Please, please just let me sleep. You're making me regret this. Just let me sleep - You desperately want to talk to him, to tell him you're sorry, but nothing comes out. Newt screams for help and within seconds more guys come rushing in. Their faces are blurred as they kneel to you. You haven't noticed falling to the ground. The guys surround you, shaking you violently as if they expect you to just sit up and be fine. Then your hearing stops working. Mute, blurred faces shouting at you and each other. You haven't a clue who is who or what they're saying. You can't feel a thing. Your whole body is numb. You can't move.Then you recognise Newt's face. He is leant in over you, closer than the others, speaking to you. As your vision starts fading to black, you read his lips as if in slowmotion;

Please Y/N, come back. It'll be alright, I'm here, Y/N. Come back to me. Please.

Newt's POV:
Days, no weeks. 3 weeks of Y/N not moving a muscle. She is completely unresponsive to any and all attempts we have made to wake her. We've found scars on her arm when examining her. She's hidden those well. Someone picked up the pill bottle from her room the day we found her and brought it in. Clint suspects she is in a coma, judging by the possible overdose symptoms listed on the label. If he is right, that makes her odds of survival slim. We have no sophisticated medical equipment to keep her alive and stable in a coma. We have nothing. All that is left to do is wait. We found her diary when searching for clues in her room and, despite how wrong it felt, we deemed it necessary to read it. We needed answers. I was the one to do it. I read it. She loves me. She wanted to stay here, with us, just to get us home, not for herself. She loves me. She's wanted to die for so long. She loves me. She's fought so hard to stay here, fought the urge until her very breaking point. She loves me. It's the same two things in every entry: how badly she wants to die, and how much she loves me. I've always loved her, but I'm such a nervous wreck. How would I ever have been able gather courage enough to tell her? How was I to know I was running out of time? It doesn't matter now. It's too late. Time ran out.