Ten | newtmas

twenty three

I've got a thing with washing my hands.

It's not like I'm a total germaphobe or anything. Do I like to tidy and dust my room and sanitize things sometimes? Yes, but I don't go crazy with it. It's not like my world will end if everything isn't clean. Well, aside from my eating utensils, cups and plates, those need to be clean. But I'm getting off track.

    The hand washing started more recently, but it's been a main topic of worry in my household. Mostly since I'm in the bathroom for so long.

    It started with ten seconds of washing my hands. But one time before school let out, I'd had an extremely bad day and wound up at the sink in the bathroom of the science wing washing my hands for ten minutes with hot water. They were dry and red and painful after that, but it became a habit when I was frustrated.

    The frustration started occurring a lot more often than it should have. More often than not. And like everything else, it became a habit.

    That's why I'm standing in front of the mirror now, on minute eight of washing my hands with the nurses staring at me. I'm pretty sure that they're used to it by now, but it's unnerving all the same.

    As tiring as it is to stand and scrub at my hands for ten minutes, I don't want it to end. Because when it ends, I'll have to start heading down for my family therapy session, and I'm terrified.

When I eventually finish washing my hands, trying to ignore how tired my legs are from standing and my arms are from doing so much work, I dry off and walk out.

My day so far has been nice, but nerve wracking. Everyone's been giving me advice and pep talks about family therapy. Group was alright, too. I got my clearance to go to Winston's memorial, and I even spoke when it was my turn, saying I was nervous for today.

    It's three o'clock now, judging by the barred off clock on the wall, so my parents should be arriving soon. I do have fifteen minutes to spare, so before going by Dr. Janson's office—our designated meeting point—I stop by the lounge room.

    I'm on step three when I poke my head in, seeing everyone that's not in Group B sitting and talking. When I take a fourth step, Jeff looks up.

"Isn't your family therapy now?" he asks.

Maybe I've talked about it a little too much. "Yeah, five minutes or so," I say.

"Avoid fighting and you'll be okay," Thomas says, adding a small smile at the end. For some reason, it actually helps, even though I've heard the same thing all day.

"I've never thought about my relationship with my father this much," I say. "We haven't even spoken enough to have fights. Well, not until today."

"We'll be here for you when you're done," Chuck says encouragingly.

"No we won't," Zart says.

"He's actually not lying," Thomas says sadly. "We'll be in a class. Which, by the way, you should join, Newt."

I haven't thought about classes, really. I didn't think I'd be here long enough for them to even matter. But at this rate, I may have to.

Swallowing my disappointment that I'll have no friends to comfort me, I respond. "Maybe."

"More time with me," Thomas says, adding a wink at the end that makes me fight a humiliating blush from rising on my cheeks. Why? Why?

"Don't flatter yourself, Tommy. Not sure you're worth doing work," I say, finally finding my voice. It's funny, how Thomas can bring out the old sarcastic humor I used to have with my friends.