Shut Up And Be Pretty(Remington Leith)

One - Depression's Personification

This is my contribution to #longliveremington. This will have three to four parts. Enjoy!

———

It hurt. It physically hurt. Was this really all they thought of him? A pretty face? A hot body? Did they realize there was a real person with real feelings and emotions behind the cute smile and the abs? It was starting to feel like the answer was no. Remington threw his phone to the end of his bed and sighed. He knew it was stupid to be upset about it, but he couldn't help it. He looked down at his hands and picked at the paint dried onto his fingers and palms. He didn't get to paint as much as he wished he could, touring made it hard, but when he was home that was almost all he did. On tour he sketched mostly. Some might say much like Emerson, but the truth is it was different. Very different depending on who you ask. Emerson drew to express himself, to share his consciousness, his mind. Remington drew to escape his. Since he was teenager his thoughts had been calling him names and feeding him lies. As a teenager he'd believed it. At twenty-two he'd overcome it. Learning to play along, but stay away from the razors edge as it were. At twenty-four it became too much and he was barely staying afloat. He drew because he hurt and no one seemed to care. His brothers cared, but they had a tendency to get caught up in themselves. So he drew and he painted and he pretended he was fine.
He stood and opened his closet. He dug around for a few minutes, as the closet was a mess, before pulling out his painting supplies. They weren't anything fancy. Paint and brushes bought at Walmart and a sketchbook, meant for use with acrylic paints, he'd gotten for Christmas last year. He sighed and got his things set up. He sat on the floor, back to the mirror and pulled his shirt over his head. Using his phone so he could see his back and the tattoo between his shoulder blades he picked up his pencil. He didn't draw himself often and when he did he never drew his face. He always drew himself from behind or the side. It was easiest that way. He sketched his picture lightly before opening paint and putting some on his palette. He dipped his brush in the blue paint and started.
As a teenager when he'd first become interested in art he'd personified his mind and certain aspects of his person. His anxiety, depression, loneliness, and many of his fears, they all had personifications. He painted them most frequently. He had an entire world of bright colored fears and emotions. Each sketch or painting was simply the most recent chapter of the story he was trying to tell. Emerson was the only one who knew of the personifications, but there was one picture even he wasn't allowed to see. A picture of Remington being hung by his overwhelming sense of loneliness and his fear of being left behind. It stayed face down on the floor under his bed. No one else had ever seen it.
He moved his brush slow and deliberately. Though he never intended it they always came out looking sloppy which was perhaps part of the reason he kept them to himself. Too much of a perfectionist to share them with the world. Emerson chose not to care about imperfections in his art. No drawing had ever been discarded. If he drew a wrong line he'd simply draw around it, find a way to incorporate it. Remington wasn't like that. If the line was there and it shouldn't be the picture got scrapped. He wanted to share his art with the world, but the few times he'd tried no one seemed to care. Emerson was the artist. Not him. He was just the pretty one. The sexy one. Who cares about personality or intelligence when he has abs, right?
Remington sighed and sat the brush down. He went to put red paint on his palette and hit the brush. It flipped up and left a streak of blue paint on his knee and across his stomach. It was cold. He didn't care. At least not enough to clean it up. It was then that he realized he had no way to clean his brush. He sighed again and stood up.
In the bathroom he found his paint cup. An old, paint covered plastic cup he used to hold water to clean his brushes with. He filled it with water and went back to his room. He cleaned his brush and dipped it into the red paint. This was always his favorite part. He pulled the bristles back with his finger and little flecks of red paint hit the paper.
   Unlike Emerson Remington couldn't listen to music while he drew. Music was part of what he was escaping. He'd tried to make music his escape and instead they threw it in his face and complimented his body. It hurt. What was the point of writing music if no one would listen? No one cared about the music. All they cared about was his clothes, his makeup, his body.
  He finished painting and sat back to look at it. The painting depicted Remington sitting back to surrounded by blue flecked with red. Words filled the empty space around him. "You're just the pretty one", "You're not smart enough to talk about that", "Everyone just wants you're body, not your mind" "No one cares, post a picture of yourself", "You're not an artist". The personification of his depression, a slimy grey monster with fangs and claws, loomed over Remington. It's teeth were bared, claws ready to sink into his back.
Remington didn't realize he was crying until the first tears fell on his knees. Staring at his painting made him angry. He grabbed a paint tube and chucked it at the wall. Then he brought his hand back and knocked over his cup of water. Grey water seeped into the carpet, not for the first time, as Remington yelled in frustration and threw more tubes of paint at the wall.

———

"Do you think he's okay?" Shy asked Emerson softly. They were in his room, Emerson on the floor drawing, Shy on the bed playing music on her phone. Before Emerson could respond Remington yelled and threw something at the wall.
"No." He stood. "I'll be right back." He left the room and went upstairs. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but paused when he heard Remington crying. He knocked. "Remington?" He tried the door, but it was locked. "Remington?" There was no response.  Emerson let his head fall against the door. "Remington, please open the door." There was no response, but a few seconds later the lock clicked. Emerson opened the door and watched as Remington knelt in front of his painting mess and began to clean up. A once white bath towel lay on the floor beside an empty cup. There was a pile of paint tubes laying beside the wall. Emerson knelt beside Remington and looked at the painting. Remington dried his brushes on the towel. "Which one is this?" Emerson asked softly, pointing at Depression.
"Depression." Remington muttered. He dropped his brushes into the plastic bin he kept them in and picked up all the tubes of paint.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Remington shook his head and put the cover on the bin before gently kicking it into the closet. Emerson sighed. "Pretending it doesn't exist wont make it go away."
"I know." He dropped onto his bed and put his head into his hands. "Is it my fault? I feel like it's my fault. I egged them on. With all the stupid shirtless pictures." Emerson was lost. He didn't know the reasons behind Remington's recent dive into depression and feelings of general disgust with himself
"What?"
"Nothing." Remington sighed. "Can you leave? Please." Emerson sighed and stood.
"I'm always here if you want to talk."
"I know." Emerson nodded and left.

———

"I'm worried about him." Emerson said meeting Sebastian's eyes. They were celebrating Remington and Andy's birthdays with way to much alcohol and magic tricks that only worked because of how drunk they all were.
"Really?" Sebastian's brows furrowed and he looked at Remington, drunk off his ass and laughing at something Andy said.
"This is one hundred percent alcohol." Emerson nodded at Remington laying on the floor laughing. "He's been painting his emotions again. Depression is the most reoccurring. But there's others. He won't talk about it. At least not to me. I thought he might talk to you." Sebastian nodded and took a drink from the glass in his hand.
"I feel horrible for not realizing things were bad again."
"It's not your fault. He's good at hiding it." Emerson assured him.
"Hah! See! 'M more than jus' fuckin' pretty!" Remington yelled, dragging out the y and giggling, before almost falling onto the coffee table.
"This is different than the last time." Emerson said.
"What do you mean?"
"Earlier he made a comment about egging them on with shirtless pictures and now that one about being more than pretty."

———

Two hours later Remington was almost asleep and couldn't stand on his own. Sebastian helped him out the car and drove him home. He was pretty quiet for the ride, occasionally mumbling something or giggling. When they reached Emerson and Remington's place Sebastian hauled him out of the car and into the house. Getting him up the stairs proved more of a challenge than Sebastian had anticipated. Remington was out of it. He couldn't focus on anything and kept giggling and nodding.
"I hope you have a killer headache in the morning." Sebastian said as he picked Remington up and carried him up the stairs.
"Funny 'Bastian." Remington mumbled. "Uh-oh." He looked at Sebastian with wide eyes before throwing up on the floor and Sebastian's feet. Sebastian sighed.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Emerson asked, from the bottom of the stairs.
"Trying to get him to bed, but he just fucking threw up on my feet."
"I'll get a towel." Emerson muttered and walked away. With much difficulty Sebastian put Remington back on his feet.
"Ooh!" Remington giggled, "Dizzy!" He swayed and fell against the wall with his eyes closed. Emerson came back with a towel. Sebastian took his shoes off and made a feeble attempt at cleaning up the mess before picking Remington back up and taking him into his room. He dropped Remington onto his bed and was about to leave when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the bed. He grabbed it and the blood drained from his face when he saw the picture. Remington, seen from behind, was hanging while two of his personified emotions held the rope and dozens of other personifications watched and laughed. The words 'Only pretty' were written at the bottom.
Sebastian took the painting downstairs and left it on the dinner table. He slept on the couch. He would confront Remington in the morning.