Today is Winston's memorial, which means we're all allowed out.
It's not until two o'clock, though, and right now we're eating breakfast. I haven't spoken a word or touched my food—which Frypan severely warns against—instead opting to stare at the table and shake my leg in tens.
I'm vaguely aware of Thomas sitting across from me, looking at me worriedly. He knows what happened yesterday. Everyone does. But I didn't tell them.
No, they know because this morning, before I was allowed to go to breakfast, they made me go see Dr. Janson to talk about what happened. He suggested another family therapy session, to which I strongly disagreed. He set it up anyway.
I thought for sure that he'd take away my pass to go to the memorial today, but he said it might do me good to go outside. The words sounded wildly inconsiderate to Winston, but I didn't say anything.
They all heard when Janson walked me to lunch. It was a terrible walk, and every time I stopped, he observed me like a lab rat. I almost burst into tears.
When we got to the table, everyone looked up and he left me with the parting words, "we can put you in the children of divorce support group."
Most of the group attempted to give me comforting words, but I didn't hear any of it. Their conversations right now are nothing but a distant hum to me. I can only hear my tens.
I'm numb. I'm numb everywhere but my chest, that seems to be radiating pain somehow, making me feel inexplicably cold. There's nothing I want to do right now. I don't want to move, or eat, or think.
A tapping on the table in front of me snaps me out of my trance, but I don't want to look up. I already know who it is. I already know what he'll say.
"Newt, please. You don't have to talk about it now. But if you don't eat, they'll take away privileges," Thomas says. Okay, maybe I didn't know what he'd say.
My voice is hoarse and quiet when I speak. "I'm not hungry."
"I know. I've been there, okay? But you have to. I learned that the hard way," Thomas says.
I look up at him now. "Why should I? What can they possibly do to me?" What could be worse than this?
Thomas' eyes hold nothing but sympathy. It almost makes me feel bad for my tone, but I can't handle anymore guilt. I'm already the reason my parents aren't together anymore.
"Newt," he says more quietly, leaning forward, "you know that I'm right. I know that right now you're feeling self destructive, but getting angry at me or not eating isn't going to help anything."
I have nothing to say in response.
I force myself to eat what's on my plate, not making eye contact with Thomas again.
We're allowed to put on normal clothes today. So far, it's been things they deemed 'safe'; sneakers without laces, plain pants, t-shirts and long sleeved shirts.
One of the things I've learned in my time here is that everything is unsafe. Normal shampoos? Unsafe. Sweatpants and hoodies? Unsafe. Dental floss? Unsafe. Anything in an aerosol can? Unsafe. Access to lightbulbs? Unheard of.
I always think about why certain things have been banned from our use. Some of them don't make any sense to me. But sometimes I'll figure one out, and it'll occur to me that maybe they're putting ideas into some people's heads.
I'm thinking about the sneaker rule as I get dressed. Lunch has ended and those of our group who are going have been excused from group therapy today, since it conflicts with the memorial. I'm thankful for that.
Fishing through my drawers, I find a black sweater and black jeans. Changing is always a challenge for me, the weird amounts of stepping involved sometimes getting overwhelming, but today it's a welcome distraction.
I only have my pants on when theres a knock at the already slightly open—due to yet another rule—door.
"Getting changed," I mumble, hopefully loud enough for whoever it is to hear. I'm not facing the door, but I know that they can see me. There's a glass window on it along with it being opened, so it wouldn't exactly be difficult. The thought makes me uncomfortable beyond belief.
"Please let me in." It's Thomas, and his voice sounds rushed and desperate. "Please."
I hesitate, holding my sweater in my hand. "Fine."
The door swings open, making me quickly turn. I watch Thomas fix the door to be in it's former state, then rush over to the wall of Chuck's side, leaning up against it. He looks rattled, breathing heavily and worry plastered on his face. He's wearing all black too, a black t-shirt and black jeans that both look a size too big.
It's only when he looks at me again that I remember I'm standing shirtless. I quickly scramble to put my shirt on, my cheeks turning pink. It's strange. I haven't had a problem changing with Chuck in the room, but for some reason, I feel more exposed now.
"What's going on?" I ask, trying to distract from myself.
"Someone... unexpected is attending the memorial," Thomas says. Is he looking at me funny, or am I overthinking things?
"Who?" I ask.
Thomas quickly glances at the door, then back at me. "Gally."
My eyes widen. "I thought he wasn't allowed—"
"Yeah, well, apparently he's been doing alright, because he's out there right now," Thomas says.
"Did he see you?" I ask.
"No, not yet," Thomas says.
"If he's doing well, then maybe he wouldn't say anything to you," I say.
"Not a chance. You were there the last time, you saw," Thomas says.
"What's the plan, then?" I ask. It comes out more bitter than intended. "Hide in here? Not go?"
Thomas doesn't look offended in the slightest. "I'm not sure yet, I don't know, I—" he stops himself, taking a deep breath. "The hallucinations, they always get worse with him around."
"Worse?" I ask.
"More... realistic. Sometimes I know exactly what's happening, but sometimes..." he trails off. "I hate being around him, but not nearly as much as he hates being around me."
A question I haven't asked yet pops up in my mind. I've been curious, but I was afraid of asking until now. Right now, I don't care about what he thinks is weird of me. I just don't care.
"When you yelled at Dr. Paige in group, what was happening?" I ask, partially carefully but also a bit deadpan. "Was it a hallucination? And where were you for nearly a week?"
Thomas frowns, almost looking confused at the question. I'm a moment away from changing the topic before his expression shifts, and his delivery is more nonchalant than annoyed or uncomfortable. "Sort of. But not really. I knew what I was doing."
"That hardly answers my questions," I say, resulting in a small smirk from Thomas.
"Fine. I was in solitary for a night, then I was in my room for the rest of the time," Thomas says. "There's a nurse over in solitary that I like. We talked, it was nice."
"You looked bloody awful when you came back," I say, crossing my arms. In my head, I hear almost a dinging noise reminding me that I'm on step five.
"How sweet of you to say," Thomas says sarcastically. "I tend to look less pretty after a week alone."
Less pretty. Would I describe Thomas as pretty? I push the thought away. "I was..." I trail off, trying to find a better word. But when I discover that there isn't one, I continue anyway. "I was worried. Thought maybe you were ill, or something."
"Ill?" Thomas asks, raising his eyebrows. "Always."
I scoff. "You know what I meant."
"It's nice that you worried," Thomas says, his tone holding a hint of teasing that I don't understand. "Just like I'm worried now."
"About Gally?" I ask.
"No," Thomas says. "About you."
I swallow a lump in my throat. "Don't worry about me."
Thomas ignores my words. "I told you I only have my mother and my sister, right?"
I'm silent for a second. I don't need to hear the speech, I don't need to hear that other children of divorce got over it, I don't need to hear any of it. "Yeah, you did."
"Well, it wasn't always that way. My sister doesn't remember my father much, but I do. I remember the late nights and the sick emotional and physical abuse towards my mother. I remember quietly getting up at three o'clock in the morning the day after getting hit in the head with a TV remote and leaving the house with my mother and sister to go anywhere but there," Thomas says. While he speaks, he doesn't look at me, staring off into the corner.
"What are they like behind closed doors?" Thomas asks, meeting my eyes now. "Your parents. Abusive? Angry? Loud?"
My blood runs cold at the thought of them. Why would he ask something like that? "Not-not loud. Not around me, anyway. And he never hit her, or me."
Thomas lets that sit in the air for a moment before speaking again. "Different cases, then."
My eyes are stinging. I will them not to, but they do. "I guess so." My voice cracks.
I need to know what happened. It's all I can think about. The straw that broke the camel's back. I'd bet anything I own that it was me.
They fought over me a lot. They'd never tell me, but I know they did. I've heard it, I've seen it in their faces, heard it in their tones.
I wanted it to guilt me into stopping my tens, stopping everything. But it didn't. A few times, out of frustration, I'd try to take more than ten steps without the intention of snapping afterwards. I could only get to twelve or thirteen before breaking down.
They always had their fair share of problems, but doesn't every couple? I used to be there for them. I'd give each of them advice, I'd even mediate. They haven't asked me to do that in years. That's probably another reason.
While in my trance, I didn't notice Thomas walking over to me. I only notice when he steps to be mere inches away.
A look of hesitation flashes over his face before he lifts his hand. When his fingers land on my face, my heart stops. I feel him wipe something away on my cheek—tears. I hadn't even realized I'd started crying.
His thumb gets rid of another, and my eyes flutter shut. This is weird. It is, isn't it? But I'm too tired to care.
When he pulls away, my eyes open again, and I feel the wetness of my eyelashes as they do.
I stare at Thomas. What can I even say? Thanks? He looks just as lost as I feel, but then he speaks. Of course, he always can.
"I met them. Not for long, but I know they care about you," Thomas says.
And I destroyed their marriage.
"Let's go, we'll be leaving soon, and I need you to shield me from Gally," Thomas says, adding a small smile. "You're on five, by the way."
"How'd you know?" I ask. He wasn't even in here the last time I was walking.
"You mumbled it once or twice," Thomas says, then nodding towards the door. "C'mon."
Mumbling the numbers, have I always done that? I don't remember, then again, I don't recall doing it this time either. I'm only getting worse. Always getting worse.
When we walk out, there's a bunch of people lined up and several nurses walking around with clipboards, talking to the patients. It's funny to see some of these people in normal clothes, the things they'd choose to wear on a daily basis.
I spot Minho down by the front with Jeff, and he looks like one of the boys back at school that I'd avoid in the hallway. He's got on tan pants with a shirt that has a logo on it I don't quite understand. But it was the classic look of the jocks at my school, the ones that were notorious for drugs and parties and sleeping around.
Was Minho one of those kids? I suppose it doesn't matter in a mental institution. Here, we're all in the same boat.
"Newt! Thomas!" Chuck waves over to us. He's got on a black button up and jeans, and for some reason, they make him look older.
I finish my round of tens and we continue walking. For some reason, every step is draining. Every number helps but also hurts. What's the point, really? My tens—what would happen if I didn't do them? Haven't they already done the worst?
I ignore the thought, but the gnawing feeling is there. There is no point, but there is. It's the whole point. Everything comes down to it. Ten.
Once we reach Chuck, I don't even remember getting there. All I know is that I'm on step two.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Thomas mumbles close to my ear.
Am I? I've been on the verge of crying all day—that is, when I'm not actually crying—I feel sick, my chest hurts, I barely have the motivation to breathe or open my eyes.
"Yeah," I say.
"Thomas, Gally is up by the front, so stay away from there," Chuck warns Thomas, nervously looking over his shoulder.
"Thanks, buddy," Thomas says.
"I'm excited to get out of here. I've already had my panic attack—it was in therapy today—so I'm good to go," Chuck says with a smile now, giving us a thumbs up. It's good that he's still enthusiastic. "How're you feeling, Newt?"
"Fine," I lie, Chuck obviously not believing me.
"You can talk to me and the rest of the Normals, you know," Chuck says. He means well, I know he does. If he was anyone else, I'd snap on him.
But, this is Chuck. "Thank you."
A nurse walks over then, holding his clipboard and looking up with a bored expression. "Names?"
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight—wait. Nine. Ten. The bus driver looks at me expectantly while I snap, trying to make it as quick as possible. Finally, I stop and continue to walk down the aisle of the bus.
Luckily for Thomas, Gally was put on the first bus. We're on the second one, and the only people I know on here are Thomas, Chuck, Zart and Aris. I assume that Thomas and Chuck will sit together, then naturally Zart and Aris will sit together. So I get to the end of the aisle anxiously, trying to find an empty seat and hoping I don't wind up next to someone too scary.
But when I get there, I see Chuck sitting with Aris. Then I see Zart sitting next to someone I don't recognize—although it looks like Zart does, considering he's chatting away.
"That one," I hear from behind me. Thomas is one person away from me, and he points at a seat towards the back.
I get there on nine, then use the last step to climb in, sitting down and snapping my fingers. Thomas slides in next to me, looking out at the rest of the bus.
"It's been a while since I've been on a bus," Thomas says, patting the cushion.
I never took the bus, really. Only on emergency days. My mother always drove me because the bus gave me too much anxiety. It was another sacrifice in a long list that she made for me.
"Did all these people know Winston?" I ask. Two bus loads of people seems like a lot.
"No, not even a little. He only really ever spoke to us. All these other people just want an excuse to leave," Thomas says.
"That's horrible," I say.
"Actually, I don't blame them," Thomas says. "Winston probably wouldn't either. A lot of these people never get passes."
"Do you?" I ask.
He smiles. "Not for a while. I never really have many places to go. Have you been offered one yet?"
"No," I say. "Not yet."
"I figured. Just depends on—" Thomas stops himself.
"What?" I ask.
"How long you're staying," Thomas says, looking me in the eyes. "Usually, after two weeks, they offer."
"Oh," I say. "I don't see myself leaving any time soon."
Thomas' face drops. "Don't say that."
"Am I wrong?" I ask, the bitterness in my voice coming through once again. "It's not like I'm getting any better. If anything, I'm getting worse. I'm gonna wind up—" Like you, I want to say. "No matter how hard I try, I'll never fix what's in my head."
"Newt..." Thomas trails off. I'm so spaced out that when he grabs my left hand, I barely notice until he squeezes it. He only does it once, but after a moment, proceeds to squeeze it nine more times. "You'll get out of there. I promise. You don't need fixing, you need help."
The contact of our hands weakens the hollow aching in my chest, but quickens my heart rate. It can't be normal for friends to hold hands like this. Even after he's finished talking, he still holds on, and he doesn't feel keen on letting go. The whole thing throws me off so much that I forget what I was going to even reply.
"Even if," I start, slowing down and then remembering my train of thought, "I get out, then what? I go back home to the people who's marriage I ruined?"
"Did your mom actually say that?" Thomas asks.
"She didn't have to," I say. "Their only real differences are when it comes to me. It's a wonder my father even came the other day, he hates me, I'm sure."
"Don't say that," Thomas says. "You're gonna get out of there. We both will. If you don't want to go home, you don't have to."
"I have nowhere else to go," I say, absentmindedly moving my thumb across Thomas' skin. I only realize a few moments later, but Thomas doesn't seem to. "It's either a mental institution or go back to a broken home."
"There's places for you to go," Thomas shrugs. "You'll see."
What's that supposed to mean? If I had a shred of motivation, I'd probably ask. But, for all I know, he could be delusional.
We ride the next few minutes in silence, listening to the various shouts and murmurs on the bus and looking out the window with our hands still clasped together.