Save me. (Remington Leith X Andy Biersack)

Chapter 40

Trigger warning - vivid PTSD/nightmare. May be upsetting.

PalayeRoyale:we are thrilled to announce a one off show in (venue name). Tickets on sale tomorrow!

Sebastian is reluctant about posting the news. He doesn't think performing is a good idea. But he doesn't want to upset his brother either. The boy is so fragile.

Comments come in thick and fast. Over joyed fans. Disappointed fans because they're in a different country.

And while it's comforting to know that they are so supported, it's also scary. Like they can't ever have time to themselves because they owe their fanbase new songs, new shows, new merch.

Remington swallow down his painkillers. He was prescribed new ones yesterday. The doctor said he might experience side effects.
Nausea.
Head aches.
Loss of appetite.

Nothing new then.

They're a different colour. Red. And flat this time.

The singer picks up his phone. He reads some comments. Smiles. They still love him. They are all so blissfully unaware of the hell he's been through. And that is how it will stay.

He sits on his bed and recalls the most recent nightmare. It was different to what he normally dreams about.

This time Holly was at his show, in the crowd. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She had that knife.

Is his subconscious trying to tell him something? Is performing not a good idea?

Remington suddenly isn't so sure about the show they booked. It's too soon. God, it's too soon. But he can't let his brothers know he's doubting it, specially since he was the one who asked for it. He can't let them down now.

The boy feels sick, dizzy, confused. He pushes his hands through his hair, steadies himself, stands up. The show is in two weeks. That really isn't long. Remington doesn't feel ready. He wants to cancel it. But he won't. He can't let his brothers down, or his fans, or the venue. He can't back out, not now, not ever.

It'll be fine. It'll all be fine.

The singer walks downstairs, holding on to the banister. It has become a habit to grab onto the wooden hand rail whenever he walks down the stairs. Even though it's nearly been a month since the whole hotel incident, he is still worried that something is going to happen and his wound will reopen or something. Just walking down the stairs makes him anxious.

And now he has to perform.

Emerson is sat in the dining room drawing, Shy beside him. "Morning," Remington greets, flicking on the kettle and leaning against the side while the water boils.

"How'd you sleep?" Emerson queries, genuinely concerned. He wasn't woken last night, which was unusual, and he hopes that means Remington slept through the whole night.

The older drops a tea bag into a mug. "Fucking shit," he mumbles, "I didn't want to disturb you." The truth is, he didn't want to have to explain to Emerson what the nightmare was about. He doesn't want to admit to his brother that the show is terrifying him.

"No-Rem-If you need me, please come and get me." The drummer puts the lid on his pen and stands up. He opens his arms for Remington and the boy lets his brother hug him. "Were you sick?"

Remington shakes his head, pulling away when the kettle clicks off. "No," he answers, and pours water into the mug. "Do you want tea?"

The day passes and Remington crawls into bed in the evening. He can't sleep. He wants to get Emerson, to ask him to lie with him, but he tells himself not to. It's not important. He'll be fine. He'll be fine.

The boy lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Noise outside seems louder than normal. Or maybe the noise is in his head.

She's here.

Remington doesn't know if he's sleeping or not anymore. There's a strange sensation of someone touching his body, ghosting over him like wind on a stormy day. He shivers, rubs his eyes. He wants to get Emerson.

His hands are trembling. Is that normal?

He turns onto his side. Everything hurts. He wants to scream.

I'm going to kill you tonight.

Remington covers his face with his hands. Bad idea. Water trickles inside his brain, getting louder, now it's crashing, thundering, hammering against his skull. He can't breathe. It's like he's drowning. Pain scrapes his stomach, twisting around inside, crushing up his soul.

Air is sucked out of his lungs, leaves his heart shrivelled and cold. Skin turns white, cold.

He tries to inhale a breath, tries to calm down. Why is this happening? What has he done to deserve this?

There's a harsh pain in his stomach and he whimpers, not sure what's real and what's not. God, he needs Emerson.

It seems like the room shrinks around him; like the walls encase him in a tight, suffocating embrace. Every strangled breath burns. Every choked sob stings.

She's right there.

He's sure of it.

The way her smirk lingers, how her eyes are almost black, her acrylic nails glossy, sharp, deadly.

She's right there.

Remington can't breathe. He can't think; not about anything else, anyway.

Because she's right there, in the bed beside him, climbing over him, holding him down, biting him, scratching him. Every touch on his skin he feels as she damages his skin, his soul, his heart, his mind. Every harsh whisper he hears as she forces him to do what he tries to fight against.

There's that knife again, sharp, glistening with perfect murder. Water crashes down, soaking him, and he can't see.

Agony.

The blade plunges into him. Twisting. Turning.

Agony.

He can't breathe.

Fuck, he really really can't breathe now.

Is this a dream?

Is this real?

Remington struggles, thrashes around, tries to scream. Nothing comes out.

Agony.

God, such agony.

Pain surges through his body. Why can't he scream?

Red bathwater is over flowing now, seeping into his deepest darkest thoughts, drenching them.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Fuck, it stings.

Is this real?

Is this a dream?

Remington writhes under the covers, heart thumping against his ribcage so hard it's sure to shatter.

And he can't fucking breathe.