Ten | newtmas

twenty six

    But at the same time, I feel like I want to see them the most. It's the comfort of them being my parents that makes me want them, but the discomfort of everything happening right now making me wish they didn't know I was even here. Facing them is not what I wanted to deal with right now.

    Yet, here I am, sitting next to my crying mother and my stone faced father.

    "Baby, what happened? Why were you in the street?" she asks.

    I messed up my ten. That's what happened. But I can't tell her that. "I don't know."

    "They said someone pushed you, is that true?" she asks.

    "Not really," I say. Technically, Thomas was pushed. I was knocked into. But in my not-all-there state, I don't say any of that.

    "So why? Were you—were you there on purpose?" she asks.

    "I don't know," I say.

    Big, huge, insurmountable mistake.

    "Were you trying to get hit? Oh God, Lawrence, get a nurse, get a doctor. Is Dr. Janson still here? We need him," she rushes.

    "Mom, no, please," I say weakly, but she doesn't listen. Of course she doesn't listen.

    My father gets up, and my mother returns her attention to me.

    "Newt, sweetie, is this because of us? Did I do this? Was this my fault?" she asks. That is a devastating question.

    "Was the divorce my fault?" I ask, finding an ounce of strength in my voice.

    "May I have a moment with Newton?" Ah, Rat Man. Just the man I wanted to see.

    "Of-of course," my mother says, getting up. She gives me a worried glance before exiting the room.

    "Newton, how are you feeling? How's the leg?" Dr. Janson asks, sitting in a chair near my bedside. That must be the dumbest question I've ever heard.

    "I don't know. I don't know anything," I say. I'm not in the mood for therapy.

    "How much do you remember?" Janson asks.

    "I was bumped into while I was doing my tens and it threw it all off," I say. Nothing else seems relevant.

    "Pushed into the street, correct?" Janson asks.

    "I guess."

    "Did you see the car coming?" Janson asks.

    "I guess," I say again. It's the truth.

    "Why didn't you move?" Janson asks.

    "Look, I'm alive, aren't I? Why does it even bloody matter at this point," I ask.

    "Because we need to know what was going through your head," Janson asks. "When you were brought in, they asked you if you ever had suicidal thoughts. You said no. Was that true?"

    My blood runs cold. "Yes."

    "Newton, you need to be truthful with me," Janson says. My poker face must be worse than I thought.

    I'm silent for a moment. "I never acted on anything."

    "Not until today," Janson says. I'm silent again, a pit in my stomach growing and threatening to swallow me whole. I want to be home—but not my current home. I want to be home five years ago, before I was crazy and before my parents wanted to divorce. I want to stop thinking about how many snaps I missed. I want to stop thinking about the steps I didn't count. I want Thomas to come and tell me that he can fix this. I want this to be fixed. I don't want to be me.

    When I don't respond, Dr. Janson gets up again.

    "We'll have you moved back to TIMI once you're cleared. They have to make sure your head is alright, after you fell. We're next door, so it'll be easier for you to get there," Janson says.

    I only have one question. "How will I walk?"

    "Would you prefer crutches or a wheelchair?" Janson asks.

    My mind briefly trails back to Thomas pushing me in the wheelchair back to my room. "Wheelchair."

    "I'll arrange that," Janson says, then leaves without another word.

    My parents don't come back in. Maybe they were told to leave. Maybe my mother doesn't want to answer my question.

They offer me food, but I don't want it. I wind up only eating strawberry Jell-O, it's all I can stomach. It's brought to me by a different nurse this time; a nicer one.

    "You'll be out of here soon, kiddo," he says, once I take the cup from him. Leaving here doesn't matter much to me. What's the point? The only thing waiting for me back there is more questions about what happened. The only silver lining would be Chuck and Thomas, but they'll be busy worrying about the lawsuit.

    "So... your head seems to be okay," he says. Does it really? Because to me, it's the furthest it's ever been from okay. "It's just your foot you have to worry about. Your ankle is fractured, but it shouldn't take too long to heal it."

    Fractured. Great. How will my tens work in a wheelchair? Push it ten times and then snap?

    "Your friend that saved you was quite worried. You passed out after, and he insisted to come and see you, but they didn't allow any visitors aside from your parents and doctors," he says. This catches my attention.

    "Did—do you know who grabbed me?" I ask.

    "It was Thomas. I'm a nurse at TIMI, but I usually work the solitary unit. If I could have let Thomas see you, I would have. But that's not up to me, unfortunately," he says. "My name is Vince, by the way."

    Vince is an older looking guy, but he has a peaceful voice and a very chilled out vibe to him. It's odd that he's a nurse at TIMI, because most of them seem completely cold and without feeling.

    I should have known Thomas was the one that grabbed me. But I'm never one to assume. Should I thank him? It seems like the right thing to do.

    "Do you know what's going to happen to me when I go back?" I ask. "Am I going to be in solitary?"

    "I'm not sure yet. Maybe for a day," Vince says. "But I'll try to be the one working, so that you'll have a friendly face there."

    "Thanks," I say softly, looking down at my legs, covered by the blanket. Something Thomas said about liking one of the nurses in solitary pops into my mind. It was probably Vince.

    "No problem, kid. Thomas will be happy to see you when you get back," Vince says. My heart constricts. I've had friends before, but nobody's ever cared about me like that.

    Thomas promised me that I'd get out. He'd help me get out. But how am I supposed to do that when I've just been set back so far that I can't see even getting back to the way I was when I arrived?

    I can't take being there anymore. Not when I know that my parents don't want me home anyway. Not when I know that everyone thinks I stepped in front of the car on purpose. I don't want to be there. I don't know where I do want to be.

    I want out.