Make Me (Remdy)

We All Have Bad Experiences

Trigger warnings: Depression, suicide, self harm, death, panic attack 

If anything 'good' could possibly come out of the suicide attempt, it would be that it pushes him almost to the top most importance for seeing a therapist, which means his first session comes much sooner than it originally would have. Just eight days after the attempt, in fact, and he sits across from the woman, unable to look at her. It's the first time he's been a situation like this, and considering his past, he realises that probably is not a good thing, but something about telling his deepest secrets to someone he's paying to listen to him is a little disconcerting. 

She tells him her name. Victoria Perez. She has a slight but noticeable Spanish accent and must be no more than five years older than him. Her hair is black and she's wearing a dusty pink suit, and after introducing herself, she says, "Before we begin, Remington, I'd like to check your preferred pronouns and name, if you have one." 

Remington has to make himself listen, more focused on the itchiness of his skin beneath the bandage. He nods. "Remington's fine," he tells her. "He/him pronouns, and not that it makes a difference, but I'm gay. I guess if you're a homophobe, it makes a difference." Anxious rambling is what he's doing and he knows it. He makes himself shut up. 

"Alright, perfect. And I'm not a homophobe, I'm actually bisexual myself." 

"My boyfriend's bisexual, too," Remington says. Then he frowns. "Not boyfriend. I'm not supposed to say he's my boyfriend." 

"Why's that?" 

"Nothing sinister. He's not abusing me or anything, he just doesn't think we're good for each other. But I've been staying with him since I got really depressed, so it sucks." 

"When was that?" 

"That I got really depressed? Well..." A sigh. "I don't know. Like, two weeks ago, or something." 

"Could you talk me through what happened when you started feeling really bad?" 

Remington doesn't answer for at least a minute. Then he shrugs and says quietly, "I just felt awful." 

"Were there any noticeable physical effects of this depression?" 

"I don't know." A lie. A blatant one, but being confronted by such an intimidating person makes it difficult to want to open up. 

"How about your energy? Were you having issues with fulfilling simple activities?" 

Another shrug, and he is suddenly worried that if he tells her what it was actually like, she'll tell him he's dramatic or pathetic or just doomed, so he says, "No."

"You attempted to take your own life last week, I understand. What did that involve?" 

"What?" 

Victoria sighs. Remington thinks she seems fed up with him already. "How did you do that?" 

He looks at her questionably. "Does that matter?" 

"How did you do in order to accomplish that goal, Remington?" 

"Goal? That's a weird word for it." 

"Your goal was to end your life, I don't think it's a weird word for it. Wouldn't you agree that was your goal?" 

"Yes, but..." He shakes his head. "I don't feel comfortable talking about that. Why is it important, anyway? It doesn't matter how I tried to kill myself."

"I don't mean to pry, it's just that nowadays, you get lots of kids claiming they tried to take their lives and what they really did was cut their wrist a few times with a pencil sharpener." 

Remington pulls his sleeve down over his hand, making sure the bandage isn't visible. He wants to cry. "I..." He trails off.

"You just look the type to dramatize these things." 

"I...I what? I'm sorry, I can't." Fighting the need to cry, he gets up, walks out, slams the door on his way, leaves the building and gets just a few metres away before the tears rush to the surface. He wipes them away with his sleeves, continues walking until he can no longer see the house. Then he leans against a dry stone wall separating garden from pavement, and calls Andy. 

"Aren't you supposed to be in therapy right now?" 

Remington sobs down the phone, covering his mouth after and trying to calm down. 

"Darling, what's wrong? Why're you crying?" 

"Can you come get me?" 

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Where are you? The same place I dropped you off?" 

"Near there." 

"Okay, sure. Wait there. I'll be fifteen minutes tops." 

"Okay." The younger hangs up, puts his phone away, wipes his eyes messily. While he waits for Andy, he angrily pushes the bandage up his forearm to scratch the itch that doesn't go.When Andy turns up, he's just begun to calm down, though the moment the man asks what's wrong, he returns to sobbing. 

Andy, who's stopped his car in a residential parking space beside the road, gets out, offers a hug. "What is it?" He whispers. "Baby, what happened? You were barely even in there at all." 

Shaking his head, Remington grips Andy tight. He only cries harder when the man mentions going home, because going home means going in a car. 

"You need to take some breaths," Andy says now. He pulls back from the embrace, furrows his brows. "Darling, what's going on? You're gonna have a panic attack." 

Remington shakes his head again, chest heaving. 

"Take a deep breath, you're okay. I've got you." He strokes hair from his face, repeats that's he's okay, takes his arm and fixes the bandage. 

A few minutes later, Remington reluctantly gets in the car. He grips the door handle so tight that his knuckles turn white, and each time a vehicle passes on the other side of the road, Andy notices his quickened breathing and tensed posture. By the time they're pulling into the driveway, he's started to cry again.