Make Me (Remdy)

We All Wish We Could Help

Trigger warnings: Mentions of depression/side effects of depression, suicide, death, self harm

(I think it's really important to show the ugly parts of depression, specially on a platform like this where most stories with depression as a theme seem to glorify it with the whole 'girl who self-harms meets band, girl falls in love with band member, girl loves life again' thing. That's why I include some details that may be a little disgusting. I don't want people reading this to think I'm trying to present any of the traumas in this as something desirable. Please don't ever say you'd 'want depression' or that it's your 'aesthetic', and if nothing else, I hope the way I present it can help shine a light on some of the things that some people (not all, I know everyone experiences it differently) go through. Ok, that's all, thanks!)

Thanks so much for all the support with this story (and all the other ofc) Love you! 

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Four days pass, but to Remington, they feel like years. Years or minutes, and he isn't quite sure which. He knows it's days only because of what the screen of his phone tells him, and for all he knows, that could be lying to him. 

He sleeps for most of those four days. Or he tries to, at least, but the biting pain hammering at his insides makes it a difficult task. Everything else is difficult, too. Every one of those tasks that any 'normal' person does without much trouble. Making something to eat - it's been two days since he had anything substantial. Showering - the last time he tried that, the only thing he was successful in was finding something sharp and attacking himself with it. Getting up to use the bathroom - he hates how his bed feels, but doing something about it involves using too much effort.

Effort that he lost when the yellow lorry plowed them down, plunged glass through their brains, stole their lives as though it had any sort of right in doing so. Remington will always despise God for not stealing the driver of that lorry, that he gets to walk the earth after everything he caused. All the loneliness, the anger, the sadness, and yet he gets to live and breathe, and they don't. 

Maybe he should blame Andy for this episode. Maybe he should hate the man for doing this to him, only he knows that no matter how much he wishes it were that simple, Andy is not to blame. Andy is the one trying to do the right thing, it seems. Only, 'the right thing' feels so completely wrong, so awful, that Remington could scream at him. He would if he wasn't trapped here by his own in-capabilities. 

The biggest in-capability being that of finding reasons to continue, to not just give in to what he so badly wants, what he so badly needs, to avoid the containers of pills and kitchen knives and high windows that open all the way. To live despite no longer having a home to live in.

Because most of all, he just wants to go home. 

Day four begins the same as the past three. Dark room, curtains drawn, uncomfortable dampness to the bed sheets, stinging wrists, heavy, reddened eyes. The same, and even though he so needs to get up for breakfast, for a shower, he cannot, for the ropes of solitude keep him down. A self-hostage situation. A complete loss of self-worth situation. A disaster waiting to happen situation. 

Day four begins the same, but it does not stay the same. 

Remington's phone rings at around midday. He doesn't answer because it's on silent and he doesn't notice. 

A little over an hour later, Andy lets himself into the house with the key Remington gave him and never took back. He locks the door behind himself, leaves a bag on the kitchen table, begins up the stairs, having been unable to sleep for the past few nights, kept awake with a worry of what he might have caused by trying to help. He fears he has done quite the opposite. 

He pushes open the bedroom door and grimaces at the sight and the smell and the responsibility of what he's done. Remington moves his head at the sound of the creaking hinges, looks through half-closed eyes at the man, turns his head back to its previous place on the pillow. 

Andy steps in, face set in deep concern, crouches by the bed where Remington can see him. His brows are furrowed and his features are soft. He sighs, touches his knuckles to the younger's face. "Oh, baby," he whispers. "Darling, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Remington closes his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek.

Andy wipes it away. "Let me help you," he says. Still quiet, gentle. Like they never argued at all. "Is it okay if I help you?" 

Hesitation, then a nod. Tears don't stop. He makes no attempt to move or to speak. 

Soaking up the tears with his sleeve, Andy strokes his cheekbone. "Let's sit up," he suggests.

This time Remington does move.

"I'm gonna get you some water, I'll be right back." He gets off the floor, leaves the room, comes back with a glass of water, returns to kneeling beside the bed. 

Remington takes the glass. The wounds on his arm aren't hard to miss as he sips the drink, not looking at Andy, who strokes his hair patiently, waits for him to finish it and pass the glass back. 

The man takes it, puts it on the bedside table. "You're doing so good," he says, smiles encouragingly. "We're gonna have a nice long shower now, okay?" 

A nod. 

Andy walks with him to the bathroom. "I'll shower with you," he decides, and though he doesn't voice the reason, it's mainly to stop anymore harm from being done to his wrists. 

Remington slowly undresses. It's a relief to be rid of the dirty clothes. He stands against Andy's chest under the warm water with his eyes closed. Then he starts sobbing, so Andy turns him around and hugs him for a long time.

After washing the younger's hair and making sure his wrists are clean, Andy turns the water off and passes him a towel. "I'm so sorry," he says again. "I know I hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you." 

Sitting on the closed toilet, Remington looks at him. "You did the right thing," he quietly replies. 

"I should have been nicer about it. I'm sorry I didn't check you were okay afterwards. I should have made sure you were okay." 

"You shouldn't have to see me like this." 

"Don't be silly. This is a horrible thing for you to be dealing with, I don't want you dealing with it on your own." 

Remington looks down. His hair is dripping down his face and his back. "I've never felt so alone."

"You're not alone. I know I made feel that way, but I promise, you're not. I'm always here for you, even if we can't be together right now." 

"I want to go home." 

Andy kneels before him and takes his hands. "You're gonna stay with me for a bit, okay? I know my house isn't home, but it's better than being on your own, and I'm gonna get a therapist for you, because you need help that I can't give to you." 

"Okay." 

"And it's gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay. I'm sorry I made you feel so alone. I'm sorry for everything that's happened to you, I wish I could make it all better for you. I really wish I could."