would’ve, could’ve, should’ve - tmr!newt
warnings: blood mentions, panic attack mentions, skin condition
a/n: excerpt from a much longer fic i’ve been working on during my severe mental and physical health challenges over the course of this year. it’s a little something i mostly wrote for myself to cope, but i thought i’d share a little with you guys, cos it’s nice (??) to have people understand what you’re going through, and tbh i’m kinda proud of how this little piece turned out
Now that the initial shock and panic of arriving here, in the place they call The Glade, is slowly starting to wear off, the pain is taking up most of my attention. Even now, my arms are almost unbearable. The pain is tantalising me, taunting me. Cry, it seems to tell me. Break down in front of all these boys and sob.
I blink, suddenly unsteady on my own feet. “I–I’m gonna go,” I announce, not talking to anyone in particular, and stumble towards the Homestead. I manage to get myself to my room, before my legs give way beneath me and I crumple to the ground, leaning against the wall for support.
My head falls between my knees, and one, heartbroken sob shudders through me, shaking my entire being. The red-hot fire on my skin spreads to my chest, to my tears, to my head. I am distraught, trapped inside this ring of flames, burning me alive, from the inside out.
I’m aching, every bone, every muscle crying out in agony, screaming at me to grant them relief. I can only cry harder, wishing with every ounce of my being that I was able to grant that request.
The hot, itchy ants begin crawling, through the flames, and all over me, smothering me with their little, persistent stomps. I’m choking. Unable to breathe beneath all the itching and the pain.
I scratch roughly at the skin of my wrists and forearms, my nails digging into myself, drawing blood. But still, the itching is unbearable. My nails drag again, again and again, each time harsher than the last.
I don’t know exactly how long I stay like this, crunched into a ball, trying to disappear from this narrative I’m forced into.
I have no memories, but it is obvious this condition (of sorts), is a long term thing. I wonder briefly, in between the pain, how long it has been. How many days, months, years have I been fighting it? Is it even a fight? Or just an endless battle of no hope, and no happiness.
I wonder if it’s the cause of my being here. Maybe I got so fed up and exhausted of this pain and this whole damn thing that I just chose to be sent here. But what would that do? I’m still in pain, obviously. Nothing would have changed regardless of my skin. I dismiss the idea, the wonder still strong in my mind. I was burning with curiosity as to why or how or when or where.
I sigh, long and deep, drawing my knees impossibly closer to my chest, as if squeezing myself tightly into a ball will somehow keep out the pain. Maybe the fire ants can’t get in if I block them out.
The thought of those fiery, itching ants does it for me. My mind collapses. I shake, my sobs violent but deadly quiet. My head hurts, my throat is tightening up in a hot ball of tears, my chest feels like it’s been wrapped in cling wrap way too tightly.
Me, and the pain, and the tears, and the fire.
Nothing else matters. I don’t have room for it to matter. I’m all full, my space for love and life and joy and laughter taken up by a wretched pain. A chronic condition.
Finally, someone finds me. My door squeaks slightly as it’s pushed open, and a boy steps inside. My tears blur my vision, so the figure is hard to make out at first. I brush angrily at the tears, hating to be found like this.
“Hey, hey.” It’s Newt’s voice, soft and gentle. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
He gathers me hesitantly into his arms, awkwardly hushing my cries. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he keeps saying, keeping his voice steady. Eventually, I calm down, wiping the last of my tears away. My breathing is still shaky, though, and my voice trembles when I pull myself away from Newt.
“Thank you,” I say. “Um, I–I’m sorry you had to see that.” I might not remember my old self, or my past, but I was uncomfortable with him seeing me like this. It made me feel vulnerable, too open. I instinctively close myself off from Newt, physically shifting away from him, as I stare at the roughly built wooden floor.
I hesitate, then I slowly shake my head, still avoiding looking at him. It feels wrong for someone to have seen me like that. Seen me looking that weak and pathetic. Crying my eyes out on the floor just because of a little bit of pain.
Well, a lot of pain, but how can you possibly explain that to someone?
“Do you want me to stay?” Newt asks, his tone still gentle and reassuring.
I shake my head again, a lot more firmly this time. “I’m okay. Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”
Newt gets to his feet, but still crouches beside me for a second, lingering.
“I’m fine.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.
“Alright, okay.” He straightens, lets out a tiny sigh I don’t think I’m supposed to hear, and leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him.
I don’t move from the floor for a while, exactly how long I have no way to tell. The sunlight slowly dims, eventually leaving me in darkness. Still, I remain curled into a ball on the floor, my head aching dully, and my heart aching even worse.
I feel terrible for snapping at Newt like I did, but then I remember the feeling of crying in his arms, feeling stripped bare, my true self laid out for him to see. The memory makes me shiver for some reason.
