Ten | newtmas

twenty five

TRIGGER WARNING: Newt's mind goes to a dark place. Very brief, but be careful and feel free to DM me for details.

The small area leading up to the building where we have to cross the street is a great concern to all of the nurses accompanying us. Turns out, walking a big group of mental patients across a road isn't exactly a simple task.

We've met up with the group from the other bus now, and we're all awkwardly huddled together on the sidewalk, nurses spread around us to shield anyone from doing who knows what. They're all talking nervously amongst themselves, most likely strategizing a way to get us to the other side without harm.

As for me, I'm stood in the back with Thomas. We're no longer holding hands, but he's still with me. Before I can get too anxious at the thought that he's just being nice, I remind myself that Gally's at the front. He has his own reason for being held back.

It's not too hot or too cold, but I wouldn't be able to tell anyway. I have this thing with sadness and coldness. Whenever I'm sad—like, really sad, the kind of sad that hits you like a ton of bricks—I get a chill. The chill spreads from my chest, down my arms, to my fingertips, and even to my stomach and throat, settling everywhere and paralyzing me for a moment.

When the sadness is prolonged, like the feeling I'm having now, I just feel like I'm moving through icy water.

Still, aside from that, it's odd to be outside after not being able to for so long. It's something I didn't think I'd particularly care about, and I haven't really, being so busy. But nonetheless, it's refreshing to have the fall air filling my lungs.

One of the nurses yells from in front, and I only make out the words 'start' and 'hurry' in my half-listening state. Before I know it, everyone is moving in front of me, and I'm forced to move along with them, counting the numbers in my head and trying not to stumble over anyone else's feet. God only knows what kind of breakdown I would have over a stumble.

When we get to the street, I've only taken one step onto the pavement when I hit ten, stopping and snapping my fingers quickly. I'm very aware of Thomas' worried eyes on me as I do so, making anxiety swell up in me like a balloon that's threatening to pop.

"Hurry it up," the annoyed grumbling from a nurse sounds behind me, not helping the situation.

Luckily, by now, there's a large enough gap between me and the others that I can cross the street in ten bigger steps, Thomas rushing alongside. But by the time we get to the sidewalk, I'm having to stop to snap my fingers again, my eyes stinging.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Thomas says. His words are kind, but his expression is odd, not even directed at me, but at our surroundings. His eyes keep darting around, looking at the street.

"I want to," I say, continuing to walk. Thomas joins, but he still looks off. Normally, I might not ask, but if it takes any attention off of me, it's worth it. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm just—" Thomas cuts himself off, finally looking back at me. "On edge."

There's no proper response for that, or at least none that I have the motivation to think of, so I let the words linger as we stop again. Now that we're this close to the building, I realize what it is—a hotel. It's a strange place to hold a memorial, but then again, where's the right place to host two bus loads of people from the psych ward?

Upon entering the lobby of the hotel, a strange and unwanted memory comes flooding into my mind.

I was five, and it was only my second time in the States, but at the time, I didn't realize that I would never be leaving. To a child, the concept of moving isn't something you can fully grasp. It just felt like a vacation that wasn't ending.