Ten | newtmas

thirty eight

I can't tell if I'm more hurt, or frightened. Both feelings are definitely in there, but as I look at him, I don't know which one is dominating.

    Then, something hits me. Usually, in a moment like this, I'd be frozen. I'd lock down, unable to speak or move. But right now, I don't feel that at all. Following the initial wave of emotion after Thomas tells me to leave, something different spikes in me. Anger.

    "I need to ask you a few questions, and I'm not leaving until you answer them," I say, my voice hard. Lately, I've been getting used to the sound.

    Thomas sits up in his bed, propping himself up on his elbow. "Why would you believe me? You're TIMI's pet now, right? I'm sure they told you all kinds of things about me. You told me you don't trust me, so why are you here?"

    His speech is still sluggish, and while his words sting, the way he's saying them hurts worse. I feel a sense of responsibility for how he's being treated, despite having less than nothing to do with it.

    I look up at Vince. "You can leave us," I say.

    "Are you sure?" Vince asks.

    If I was normal, I'd nod. "I'm sure," I lie.

    Vince looks at Thomas, then back at me. "Alright." He looks like he's going to say something else, but instead walks out, leaving us alone in the room.

    I look back to Thomas, and try to speak in a leveled enough volume that's loud enough for him to hear, but quiet enough for only him to hear. "I need to know where you got the money."

    "What money?" Thomas asks. After a moment, the confusion that twisted up his face fades. "Oh. I told you—child support."

    "Are you sure about that?" I ask.

    Thomas switches his position to be sitting on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off. I wish I could walk over to him, or at least roll, but Vince isn't here to push me and I don't feel like discovering a new routine for me right now.

    His face is illuminated better now sitting like this, and he narrows his eyes at me. "What did they tell you?"

    "About what?" I ask.

    "About me," Thomas says.

    Maybe if we sit in silence long enough, he'll forget he asked the question. I stare at the ground, searching for an answer. At this point, what would lying do for me?

    "They told me about the time you tried to escape," I say in a small voice. I look up at him. "And how you got here."

    "Is that right?" Thomas asks, his tone flat.

    I'm afraid to answer. "Yeah."

    "And you just believed everything they told you," Thomas says, his voice cracking at the end. He doesn't phrase it as a question—more of an accusation than anything else.

    "What else am I supposed to go off of, Thomas?" I ask, the flare of frustration returning.

    Thomas is silent for a moment. "They don't know a thing about me."

    "Because they're bad at their jobs, or because you refuse to tell them?" I ask.

    Thomas' look is piercing. If I angered him, I'm not sure if I'm sorry or just glad to get that out. We sit in more uncomfortable nothingness for a few moments, and then it becomes so long that I almost consider calling Vince in to help me out.

    Then, Thomas speaks. "Why do you need to know about the money?"

    I'm tapping my knee in tens, and throughout the silence, I could feel a strange warmth spreading up my neck. Now, I'm trying not to think about the unsettling feeling and focus on Thomas' question that I don't want to answer.