Ten | newtmas

eighteen

Waking up is the last thing I want to do today.

As soon as consciousness floods through me, the dreadful news from last night comes with it. Along with the sound of what seems to be the world's loudest alarm. Picturing hitting the alarm with a hammer ten times is the beautiful fantasy that helps me begin to drift off again.

Until someone's turning off the alarm. Surprisingly enough, the silence is more irritating than the noise.

"Morning, Newt," Chuck says, my eyes refusing to open. I'm sure I answer him, but apparently it's a figment of my half asleep state because he speaks again, startling me. "Newt."

I open my eyes and squint, blinking a few times before reaching up to rub my exhausted face, trying to force some life into it. Chuck laughs and I just groan back, sitting up.

He's gathering his clothes, and I can't help but wonder how he looks so awake. I'd say it's the fact that he's fourteen, but being three years off can't make that bit of a difference. Although, I guess he's used to this schedule by now.

It occurs to me that being as kind to him as I can today is important. He's about to receive some really bad news.

"Morning, Chuck," I say, my words sluggish with sleep.

Chuck grins up at me and I feel something tug at my heart.

I have to tap my feet on the ground four times once I sit down at the table. Throwing myself into thinking about my routines is the only way I'm going to survive the day.

    Dr. Janson has placed me in Group A for group therapy, and according to the board, it's at eleven o'clock today. Four and a half hours away.

    Chuck is next to me rambling about something I don't listen to, since it's being directed at the whole table. I don't pay attention to the conversation around me. I don't even pay attention to the food Frypan brings me.

    All I do is semi-discreetly watch Thomas. He's staring down at the table wordlessly and nobody seems to notice much, going along with whatever they're doing. But I notice, and it makes anxiety rise up in me.

    How's he going to tell them? Here? In the recreation room? At group therapy? Is he going to tell them at all?

    The urge to drag him away from the table and talk to him is a strong one, but also something I could never pull off. He's directly across from me, and a part of me is disappointed he hasn't acknowledged me—the only other person that knows his horrible news—yet. I could help him break it to everyone.

    But instead, he stares down at the table.

"This is stupid," I mumble to myself, staring down at the journal below me.

I'm laying on my stomach on top of my bed, propped up on my elbows and hovering my pen over the page. I feel like a bloody idiot, to be honest.

    So that's what I write. I write about feeling like an idiot for writing. Then, I write about the felt tipped pen.

    After that, I don't stop writing.

    For the next hour and a half, I do nothing but write. I write about being told to come here, I write about arriving, I write about Chuck, I write about the Normals. The only things I tend to leave out are Thomas and/or Winston related. Those can stay in my head.

    I only stop when my hand is so cramped up it hurts to keep moving the pen. For some reason, it's a good feeling. Like I've actually done something right for the first time in a while. Therapy isn't my thing, but maybe there is a bit of a point to the journal.