Ten | newtmas

thirty

It's been almost two weeks since I was first in solitary, and I didn't miss this room one bit.

    The whole way there, the overwhelming fear that I'd made a huge mistake in trusting Thomas washed over me. What could getting ourselves put there possibly accomplish? Maybe he did go completely mad, because nothing about this is making sense.

    Being isolated allows my brain to overthink this and everything else happening. I haven't spoken to my parents since the hospital, so this is the longest I've ever gone and it's slowly driving me crazier than I already am. More than anything else, it's the fear of not knowing what's happening and the inability to help. I've come to regret running out of the room the day they told me. If I'd have stayed, maybe I could get some answers to the questions that have been nagging at my mind. The only thing I'm sure of is that it's my fault.

    I stare up at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. By now, they've brought in my dinner and medication—but not the new one—so there's nothing else for me to do. This room is like a prison, all I can do is look at the clock and try to hold the thin blanket a little closer to my body. The transfers between the bed and my wheelchair have been a bit easier this time because I'm no longer paralyzed from the lack of my tens, but it's still not great. The nurse I have this time isn't the kindest, either. No sympathy, no smiles, barely even a word to me. I'm just a delinquent to him.

    Strangely enough, I find myself missing Thomas. I should be angry at him, I should hate him. But that seems pointless. I want to see him so he can explain himself. He always makes sense in an odd way, and I could use that. If he's even sane right now, that is.

    As I drift off to sleep, I wish away the consequences of today's actions.

The door opening startles me out of a nightmare, and when I look up, I'm not entirely convinced this isn't still a dream.

    "You called for the bathroom?"

    Vince is walking over to my wheelchair with a strange smile on his face, and my brain produces too many questions at once to even process what's happening; especially when I'm still half asleep.

    "How are you here now?" I ask groggily, blinking hard to try to adjust my eyes.

    "Shift change at half past one. Come on, get up," he says, wheeling my chair over to the side of the bed.

    "I never—" I stop myself. I never called him to go to the bathroom, I was fast asleep. But I think he knows that.

    I'll take any excuse to leave the room, so I transfer into my wheelchair and Vince lets me stop to put on my shoes. I'm still wearing my clothes from today, so changing seems unnecessary, especially if we're just going to the bathroom like he said. Maybe he'll have an explanation, maybe he'll break the news of how long I'll be in solitary. No matter what, I could use it.

    But when he takes me into the bathroom, then says nothing the whole time, I start to get confused. He could have imagined me calling for him, sure, but something about this seems unusual.

    I walk—well, waddle—over to the sink after, finish up my tens, then wash my hands. The cold water helps wake me up, and I consider standing there for the ten minutes, but I shouldn't keep Vince waiting. That's a choice I let myself make, thankfully. If I have nowhere to be or I'm frustrated or stressed out, I take the ten minutes. But since Vince is standing there, my brain tells me it's okay to opt for ten seconds instead.

    I sit back down in my chair, and Vince rolls me out of the bathroom. The hallway is eerily quiet, but there are still nurses everywhere. I don't recognize a lot of them, most likely because they're the night people. They stand posted outside of doors in the hall, and all eyes are on us. I look down.