Chapter Text
No one understands. No one ever does.
He knows how the nurses look at him, how society looks at him. They think he’s stupid for being sad. His psychiatrist always asks the same thing. ‘Why are you sad?’. Why is he sad? Everything. The answer is everything. The shitty relationship with his parents, his step-brother degrading him every time the sees the chance, the lack of friends, the bullying, entire family ignoring him and then asking him why he doesn’t talk to them, everyone preferring his step-brother, even though he’s an asshole. Everything he remembers has been like that, and he eventually gave up.
He knows exactly what people think of his situation. Self-harm is stupid, he’s weak for giving in to his sadness. He knew something was wrong with him months before it became critical, and his mom told him a quote she read from a book. People think it’s something he can control. He can’t.
It all started around September. His dad left him and his mom, which left them devastated, but he buried it away. His mom was sad enough, she didn’t need to worry about him too. So he was strong for her. He didn’t cry, except for when they gave him the news. He never yelled, never cried, never smiled.
Eventually, his mother found another man and they got married, giving Newt a step-brother who loved to bully him and never got punished, and a step-dad, who didn’t give two fucks about him. Then, after a few months, Newt started feeling this kind of hole in his chest. It was there all the time, a ball of darkness covering his heart. It got worse, so he investigated, coming to the conclusion that he was developing depression. He got worried, and told his mom one day in the car, when they were driving to the supermarket. His father and brother never went with them.
“Mom, I’ve been feeling weird lately, and…” He gulped and kept talking. “I think it might be depression.”
His mom looked at him with an irritated expression, and then returned her eyes to the road.
“Of course not. You always self-diagnose. I’m sure it’s nothing.” She said, before sighing as she saw his son’s hurt face in the mirror. “Look, Newt.” She had said. “Look at everything you can do. You play the piano, you paint, you write. You’re an artist, and artists see more than other people can. They feel more, plus the fact that you’re a teenager now. You’re just being oversensitive.”
“I mean… okay, yeah, but this feels differ-“
“No, Newt. You’re fine.” She interrupted, trying to convince the two of them. “In a book, it said ’our soul needs emotions to keep going. It’s up to us if we give it the positive or negative ones.’ Just concentrate on the positive.”
Newt nodded and never mentioned it again.
--
It got worse. Worse to the point in which he cried, at least, three times a day. In which he felt better with harming himself. In which he considered suicide.
Then, he started getting these…attacks. They were horrible, and there was no way to see them coming. Just, suddenly, he stopped feeling, and he hyperventilated, searching for something, anything to feel, and the emotions gradually returned, filling his chest with desperation, and anger, sadness, and he cried. He cried for hours in his bedroom.
--
Time went on, and the lingering empty feeling around his heart turned into something worse. It felt like being in the bottom of a well, looking up and only seeing a dark sky, not even with stars, as it was covered with clouds.’ What’s the point?’ He asked himself. Even if he got out, he’d keep feeling the same, and no one was coming to the rescue, anyways. He couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. Playing the piano was the only thing he still enjoyed, and he was starting to hate that too. The only thing he didn’t hate in life anymore was his mom.
But it was too much, so he just wrote her a note and stopped swimming, wanting to see how deep the actual bottom of the well was.
--
Now, he was stuck in a psychiatric hospital.
Today was his second day in there when he made a friend. His name was Minho.
“Hey there, you must be new. I’m Minho.” Newt heard a happy voice and a hand appeared in front of his eyes. He shook it.
“Newt.” He said quietly, with his eyes downcast as the boy who had spoken sat in front of him on the grass.
“Why are you here? Doctors said I have Pyromania. I don’t believe it, though.” He talked again, to which Newt finally looked up to see an Asian guy smiling down at him. Ugh. Why was he so fucking happy?
Instead of answering, Newt did the one thing that would surely make him go away, since he didn’t want to talk –or do anything- right now. He raised his hands, palms toward Minho so that he could see the bandages on his arms.
“Oh.” And Newt let his hands fall back onto his own lap, as the boy looked straight at Newt, but erased the sympathetic look on his face. “Depression, hu? Are you on watch?” He asked calmly.
Newt nodded and looked at the floor.
“Hey, that’s okay. Not judging.” Minho raised his hands in defeat, standing up and offering Newt a hand. “Come on. Let’s get some lunch. I’m starving, and it’s obvious you haven’t eaten anything yet.”
Newt took the hand and was lifted from the ground.
Well, who would have guessed? He was better at making friends in a nuthouse than in a normal school.
--
Minho and him got to be really close friends, and Newt actually started talking with other people. A boy named Alby, another named Gally… He didn’t spend time with them as much as he did with Minho, but still.
He wasn’t getting better. He didn’t talk to his therapist, he avoided taking his medication because it made him feel dizzy. He knew that was not healthy, but he didn’t like it.
A few days later, a new boy arrived.
Newt only found out for one reason. He would be sharing room with the kid.
No one had told him, though, so it was kind of a surprise. Not a pleasant, nor unpleasant surprise. Just a surprise.
He had been out in the garden with Minho, just listening to an unrealistic plan of escape, when they were told by one of the nurses that dinner was almost ready, and that they couldn’t be outside anymore, so they got back in the building, Minho ate dinner, Newt played with his food, eating two or three spoonfuls of cereal at Minho’s request –“Seriously, dude. You have to eat.”- Before they got back to their respective rooms, with Newt’s excuse of ‘I’m really tired.’
But, when Newt opened the door, there was a boy sitting on the previously empty bed, looking at a thing Newt had been drawing that morning, and had left on the bed. He blushed, and didn’t think of it twice, before he was snatching the paper from the boy’s hands.
“That’s kind of private.” He said, scurrying to his bed and hiding the drawing where the others were: in the small space between his bed and the wall. That was one of the few things he was still allowed to do now. Draw, as long as he didn’t use things that were too sharp, or he could use to harm himself in any way.
“That’s pretty good. Did you draw it?” The boy asked, and Newt answered without looking at him.
“Yes, and I would appreciate it very much if you didn’t touch my stuff without my permission.” He said bitterly, and he could practically feel the hurt puppy eyes the other boy threw him.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, man.” He said and added something a few seconds later. “But you’re really good drawing, I have to say.”
“Thanks.” Newt answered quietly and felt something swirl in his chest. Fuck. He was gonna cry. Fuckfuckfuck. He hated crying for nothing. Now, that he thought was stupid. He reproached himself every time it happened.
“Um… Are you alright?” The boy asked from behind him, and he nodded.
“Yeah. Fine.” He replied, his voice not cracking or giving him away in any way. He was really good at controlling his voice, as his brother mocked him and called him names when he cried. It was a survival skill. “Just really tired. I think I’m gonna sleep now.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, me too. I’ll turn off the lights if you want to, I mean.” The boy started ranting and Newt interrupted him quietly.
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
“Okay.”
Newt tried to notice when he fell asleep. He failed.