A/N: WOW. It's been a while, hasn't it? About a year and a half. But with Death Cure coming out, I couldn't resist. Just a warning, I changed quite a few key things and did some minor rewriting (including grammar) of the first twelve chapters, so I'd suggest a quick re-read to learn and remember. Thank you so much for continuing to comment and vote every day still. I hope you like it! Expect more regular updates now. xx
Thoughts of Winston come crashing into my head like a brick through a window as soon as I wake up, not opening my eyes yet.
There's no sounds of sirens or cops or anything like the night before. I didn't hear my alarm go off, and I don't hear a jumpy and excitable Chuck yelling at me to come eat breakfast. Is he even in the room?
Maybe it's not the wake up time yet, maybe he's still sleeping. I open my eyes finally, looking immediately out the window only to squint up into the blinding sunlight, the only thing shading him from it being the bars across it.
"It's seven," I hear, causing me to jump, turning my head in the direction of the noise.
Thomas is sitting up against the door, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. He stares up at me, the situation making me feel... exposed somehow.
"Tommy?" I ask, reaching up to rub the sleep from my eyes. He's got to stop doing that.
Thomas smiles softly, the simple and out of place act putting me at ease. About him randomly showing up in my room, about Winston, about everything.
"I, uh... I turned off your alarms. Don't worry, Frypan set food aside for you guys. I told him you both had rough days yesterday, and you deserved to sleep in," Thomas says, his eyes meeting mine but looking away every few seconds as he speaks.
I'm at a lack for words for a moment, only partially because of my sleepiness. That was really nice of Thomas, god knows I could use the extra sleep. But now a flood of questions take over. Is there any news about Winston? Did Chuck have any night terrors? When's he supposed to have a panic attack? How did Thomas get in here? How long has been in here? Is he even allowed?
"Thank you," I say, sitting up more. "Is there-?"
"Winston?" Thomas asks, cutting me off.
There's a momentary silence before I answer. "Yeah."
"The most I've gotten is that he may be in stable condition. That's all I've been told," Thomas says.
My promise to Chuck to wake him up if there was any news comes back to me, but it doesn't seem like a good idea now. I'll let him sleep as long as he can, there's no urgent reason to let him know now, especially with information that vague.
"Stable... that's good," I say lamely, unsure of what else can be said about it.
"Yeah, well, I sure hope so," Thomas says, a look of pained worry flashing over his face now.
"Chuck told me they went a little hard on the lot of you," I say somberly, remembering Chuck's description from last night. It sounded horrible.
"Almost got me put in solitary. They kept asking the same things in the same tone that made me feel like I wasn't even a human to them. I stand by whatever I said or did, but I didn't hurt anyone. Including Winston," Thomas says, the last part sounding like it was less about trying to convince me and more trying to convince himself.
"It wasn't your fault," I say, only half believing it. It's true that it wasn't his intent, but if Thomas gave him the extra pills...
"How could it have been my fault?" Thomas asks softly, staring at the ground. "We've been doing this for a long time now. Every single day. Something is wrong. It wasn't me."
He's right. If they did this regularly, how could he have only just overdosed? Thomas isn't a bad kid. Not as far as I can tell. Like Chuck said, he was trying to help Winston. He wouldn't give him anything he thought would hurt him. Maybe it really isn't his fault.
"I believe you," I say, truly meaning my words.
Thomas looks back up at me, his eyes filled with tiredness and unmistakable sincerity.
"Thanks, Newt," he says.
I give him a weak half-smile, sitting up completely in the bed.
"How long have you-," I start, then stutter and stop myself. "Did, uh, Chuck have any night terrors?"
"Don't worry, I wasn't watching you sleep or anything. I came in right before your alarms came on to turn them off, then left, then came in a few minutes ago to check if you were awake. I don't want to be around the others right now," Thomas says, humor in his first words, but the rest serious. "Also, no night terrors. One of the first nights in a while."
"Really?" I ask.
"He's been having them since..." he trails off. "I don't know if I should be telling you this," Thomas says.
I furrow my eyebrows, tilting my head. "How long he's had them?"
"It's more than that. I think it's the reason he started having them, and I think Rat Man thinks the same," Thomas says.
"Rat Man?" I ask, Thomas shaking his head.
"It's the stupid name Minho gave Dr. Janson, it caught on. Anyway, I think they started when Chuck's older brother died. It was three years ago, a car accident, and he's been having them ever since," Thomas explains.
"Oh my god," I say, my heart breaking even further for the poor kid.
"His name was Ben, and sometimes he yells it during a night terror or panic attack. I can't even imagine what he had to go through," Thomas says.
For some reason, this brings about the other question I have. What's Thomas in here for? Clearly he has hallucinations or delusions. But how bad is it? He has a temper too, I've noticed. I don't blame him given his situation, but it might be part of it. Was he violent? Is he violent? He says he isn't getting better, does he know that for a fact or is he just saying that?
I decide to mentally drop it for now, we're talking about Chuck. Poor Chuck has had it rough. But I think he'll get better.
"When did his panic attacks start?" I ask.
"He says he had anxiety when he was younger and it just escalated as his life got rougher. They pulled him out of school because they thought it was the problem, but it still got worse til it became a routine for him," Thomas says.
"I know a bit about routines," I say. "They're hard to break. But Chuck is still young, just a kid, do you think he'll grow out of it?"
"I like to think so," Thomas says. "He's like my little brother. I can't wait for him to get out of here, even though it'll suck without him."
The thought of Chuck leaving is a great one, he deserves to be a normal kid. But Thomas is right, if he left now this place would get a lot more dreary and unbearable.
"How long has he been here?" I ask.
"About five months," Thomas says. "Hasn't improved or gotten worse. But his parents are dirtbags, haven't visited and rarely call. They could manage him if they actually tried."
"Five months?" I ask. If Chuck has been here that long, how long am I gonna be here? How long has Thomas been here?
"I still remember it. He wasn't so happy-go-lucky when he got here. He needed someone, so I took him in. His roommate was quite literally a psychopath, he got put in a section with the more violent people after a month so he's been alone ever since," Thomas says. "I'm glad he has you now."
I manage another smile. "I'm glad to have him. And I'm glad he has you, you're incredible with him."
"If I wasn't insane, I think I'd make a great therapist," Thomas smiles back. "I have Chuck down. I spend most of my therapy time telling Rat Man how to treat everyone else. Chuck's night terrors are because of his brother, and the panic attacks were from his Mom and Dad's divorce combined with his anxiety. The kid's just been through too much."
"Has Dr. Janson been giving him grief counseling?" I ask.
"He has. But clearly not enough," Thomas says. "You have your first session today, don't you?"
"Unfortunately," I say, sighing.
"Just play along, you'll be fine," Thomas says. "I wonder if I can figure you out, too."
"Figure me out? There's nothing to figure out," I say, Thomas furrowing his brows as he looks at me, a hint of a smirk on his face.
"That's what they always say," he says. "Give me time."
Just when I start to feel Thomas' gaze reaching my soul, a voice pulls his attention away.
"Time for what?" Chuck says groggily, rolling over.
"Hey, Chuck," Thomas says. "Sleep well, shuckface?"
"Thomas? What time is it?" Chuck asks. "...Shucker," he adds as an afterthought.
"Shucker?" I ask, completely lost.
Thomas laughs, an odd empty sound but still joyful all the same. "Chuck gets anxiety from cursing, so we came up with a new one. It's like fu-," Thomas stops himself. "It's two words mixed together."
"I see," I say, not being able to help chuckling at the thought.
"Wait," Chuck says, sitting up quickly. "Winston. Is he okay? Have you heard anything? Newt, you said-."
"I heard he was stable," Thomas says, cutting him off. I'm grateful, I was about to be told off.
"Stable?" Chuck asks. "Okay... okay, that's good."
"It's seven, by the way. I let you sleep a bit extra, Frypan saved some food for you in the kitchen," Thomas says.
Chuck nods, seeming to look okay with everything. "Thanks."
"No problem," Thomas says. "Do you know what time group is today?"
"The schedule said three," Chuck says. "Newt, did you get assigned a group yet?"
"What's group?" I ask. I go to Dr. Janson at three, so I won't be where they are.
"Group therapy. Rat Man should tell you what group you're in today, we're Group A," Thomas says. "It's once a day, sometimes twice. Nothing to worry about."
"Alright," I say, hoping I'm with them. "Do you have to talk?"
"Not necessarily," Thomas says. "It's short, and they don't press you."
"Yeah, yeah, therapy, short, whatever; can we go get some food?" Chuck asks.
Thomas stands up. "I'm gonna sneak out of here, I'll see you later," he says, directing it to both of us before he opens the door and slips out, reminding me of that first night he came in to comfort Chuck.
"Let's get dressed, I'm starving," Chuck says.
I nod absentmindedly, but still remembering to do it ten times as I stare after Thomas.
After a quick breakfast, Chuck shows me a sign in the hallway containing a schedule.
Six wake up and breakfast, seven is an activity for older people, eight is a class for kids my age, ten is medication time for me, eleven is group therapy for Group B, twelve is lunch and recreational time, three is group therapy for Group A and a class for the older people, four is more classes for kids my age, five is another medication time, six is dinner, and you're supposed to be in bed by ten.
Sounds like a good schedule to me, and now that it's been a day I'm guessing I'll have to start actually following it. Chuck sighs.
"They're going to ask me to talk about Winston at group," he says.
"Do you want to?" I ask.
"Not at all," Chuck says.
"Then don't," I say simply.
"If I don't, they'll think I'm not channeling my feelings or whatever," Chuck says, walking away.
I walk with him, counting my steps as usual.
One, two, three, four, five, six-
"Newt," Chuck says softly, stopping in his tracks in front of me.
Seven.
"Chuck?" I ask, reaching a hand out and putting it on his shoulder only to find he's shaking like a leaf.
Chuck turns to me, his jaw and fists clenched and eyes watering.
Fear rises in me before I realize it. He's having a panic attack.
Chuck's chest starts rising and falling rapidly, his whole body shaking vigorously while tears spill over. My hand falls to my side as I stare helplessly, my mind racing.
I look around for help now, nobody close to us, and nobody paying attention.
"Help!" I yell, not even having noticed my heart rate increase to a million a second. I feel a million miles away from myself while I yell for someone to come help Chuck, the anxiety I'm getting enough to make me feel like I'm gonna pass out.
Chuck yells out to nobody in particular, his tears becoming sobs now as he turns from me. I go to grab for him, but he grabs my hand and shoves it away.
It all happens slowly, like the world is moving at the wrong time around me. He crumbles to his knees just as a nurse comes in to grab him, not even looking a slight bit phased.
"No!" Chuck fights back, crying and trashing, trying to suck in a breath between sobs.
Is it this bad every day? I couldn't handle that once a week let alone multiple times every single day.
Chuck kicks the nurse in the shin and they curse, making Chuck squeeze his eyes shut as he shakes his head. The nurse lets him sit and grabs his hands, Chuck thrashing his legs around. The sight makes me sick.
I don't realize I'm crying til I subconsciously wipe my eye, feeling the tears on my face.
A doctor I recognize comes over calmly to Chuck now, Dr. Ava Paige. She kneels down by his side and the other nurse lets his hands go, Chuck grabbing his knees, the crying not getting any better.
Eight.
"Chuck, it's Dr. Ava Paige. Do you recognize me? What's my name?" she says, her voice eerily normal.
"No, no, no, no, stop," Chuck mumbles, choking on his words.
"Do you know my name, Chuck?" she asks.
Chuck looks at her now, his eyes searching her face.
"Dr. Ava Paige," Chuck says shakily.
She nods, continuing. "Where are we right now?"
"TIMI," Chuck says, his knuckles turning white from the grip he has on his knees.
"What color is the ceiling?" she asks.
"White," Chuck responds, not looking up. These must be a normal checklist of questions.
"That's right," she says. "What's your name?"
"Chuck," Chuck says.
"Who's your best friend?" she asks.
"Thomas," Chuck responds immediately, seeming to visibly calm more, sniffling and loosening his grip.
"What grade are you in?"
"Ninth."
Chuck closes his eyes, playing with the material of his pants, his breathing still quick.
"Who's your roommate?" she asks.
This one takes a second. "Newt," he says. That's not a normal question, obviously. So it must have thrown him off.
"You're safe. Nobody is trying to hurt you. Nothing has changed. You're okay," she says, her voice not having even slightly changed in tone.
Chuck suddenly moves away from the both of them, still breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Get away from me," he says shakily but quieter than before.
The nurse and Dr. Ava Paige walk away, but the nurse stays close, standing back by the wall while Chuck puts his head between his knees.
Part of me wants to walk over and help comfort him, but the other part of me say that that's not a good idea. He just said he wants to be left alone, so I should respect that.
Nine. Ten.
I start my ten snaps while I gaze back at Chuck, hating leaving him there. Should he be in our room? What would Thomas do? Where is he? He must be in that class. If he were here right now, he could handle this. I have to talk to both of them about how to help him.
I make it back to our room in forty steps, feeling guilty that I left Chuck. The only thing that helps is that this is normal for him, he'll be himself again in no time. Right?
After I finish my round of tens, I walk over and sit on my bed, taking small steps so I get there in six and tap the rest out on the floor. I have two hours til medication time, four hours til lunch, and seven hours til my first therapy session.
Today's gonna be a long day.