Fix Me (Alternative ending)

Chapter 116

Trigger warnings. Mentions of suicide, eating disorders.

Abigail encourages Remington to return to the group therapy. He agrees with reluctancy, and says hello to the familiar group leader, who doesn't say its good to see him here again because it isn't good. He wouldn't be back if he was recovered.

While they're waiting for it to begin, Remington texts Andy a bunch of puppy dog eye emojis, since he was trying to get him to make a blanket fort this morning. He gets a few smiley and eye-roll faces back, looking up from his phone when the group leader begins talking, introducing two new people, including him. He avoids eye contact with anyone and that's when he notices a very familiar face, four seats from him.

The two catch eyes and Remington gets a glare, which he doesn't think is necessary. He looks away and tries to forget about it.

"Remington," the leader says, ten minutes in. "I understand you're struggling, but please try and at least make it look like you're paying attention."

"Sorry?"

"Leah's been trying to ask you a question for five minutes.

The boy looks down.

"Go on, Leah."

"How come you're back?"

Remington scoffs. "But personal."

"We're all here to help each other, Remington."

"Fine." He sighs. "I'm back because...my life goal is to be one of those skeletons in a science lab."

"Remington," warns the man.

"It's a an answer, is that not what you wanted?" He rolls his eyes. "Oh, are you after a sob story? Alright, here's one. My husband got addicted to drugs, I started relapsing. He tried to drug me so we argued and I didn't eat for a while. Then he OD'd in a hotel room 'cause his manager was a cunt, and I collapsed outside our house. Happy now?"

"Remington, seriously. A real response please, not a made up story."

He laughs loudly and obnoxiously. "if you're too goody-two-shoes to believe that, it ain't my fault."

"Okay. Moving on. Anyone wanna share an accomplishment with the group?"

"I do," Remington chimes.

Everyone looks at him sceptically.

"I haven't developed a fucking fake ass disorder just to spite my brother because he's married to the man I confessed love for."

"Rem-"

"No fucking swearing, yeah yeah. Sorry for ruining your perfect group. Maybe I should go and 'get it over with', huh? Y'know, stop 'making a fuss.' That'd make you real fucking happy, wouldn't it?" He folds his arms aggressively as he and Emerson steal glares from each other.

The leader looks away for a moment before saying, "if you're not willing to co-operate, please leave."

"And should I do that without making a fuss? I'll just get it over with, how 'bout that? And you know what, why don't you hand him-" he jabs a finger at Emerson "-that fucking cake knife so he can fucking stab me like she did? Why the fuck do you even bring a cake to an eating disorder group? You really think I'm gonna come get myself a fucking slice after, do ya'? Man, you know what I look forward to all week? As an anorexic? A piece of fucking cake!"

"Shut the fuck up," Emerson says, "it's not the Remington show, mate. It ain't all about you and your million issues. We all have issues!"

"Is your's that you keep telling me to kill myself?" Shouts Remington, standing and kicking his chair. "One day, Emerson, I'll succeed! And then what? You'll come to my funeral in sparkly fucking clothes and dance on my grave?" He loudly exits the room, though not before sending his chair halfway across the floor.

The group leader gets up and follows him out. "Kind of piecing together that you two know each other," he begins, and Remington laughs. "Look, Remington, I know things aren't way for you, but taking it out on others won't help."

"The day people stop telling me to shout at him is the day I'll eat a fucking cow."

"How are things at home?"

"Fucking fine."

"Please talk to me honestly for a second. I don't want to let you go home if you're unsafe there."

"Why the fuck would you think I'm unsafe?"

"It's normal for people who don't have good home lives to use any time away from home to dominate others."

"Dominate? I'm not dominating."

"Remington, please."

The singer glances at the door. "It's not that," he mumbles, "home is good."

"Okay. So what is it? I've never seen you out of control like that."

"Man, if you think that's out of control, you should try living with me." He's given a concerned look. "Fine, fine. Emerson, he's my brother. We used to be close. Now he just shouts at me and tells me to die all the time. I was literally in a fucking hospital, half a stone from dying, and he told me to get it over with. Then he conveniently gets this eating disorder while I'm in the middle of a relapse and expects me to be fine with it. And my big brother keeps telling me to be sympathetic and it sucks." He sighs. "And that story about drugs is true, I swear. Why d'you think I'm so insane?"

"I don't think you're insane, I think you're not letting yourself handle it."

"Huh?"

"I think you're trying so hard to look 'fine', that inside, you're not at all. Sometimes to recover, Remington, you need to let those around you see you trying. You can't keep going through the process of being partly healed and then spiralling. You know it won't end if you don't really try."

"I am trying."

"Who are you trying for?"

He shrugs.

"Is it for you? Because it will only work if you're trying for you." The man then gives him a sympathetic smile and goes back into the room. Remington stares at the floor and then he's crying.