twenty four

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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.

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