Save me. (Remington Leith X Andy Biersack)

Chapter 53

I found out that Dr Beckley died.
I don't know how to deal with that.

Remington is very reluctant about a new therapist. He doesn't want someone else. He wants Dr Beckley. His brothers show him different people and every time they try to persuade him to visit one of them, the singer slams the laptop shut and storms off. How is he meant to talk to someone else?

"You've got to give them a chance," Emerson says one day, scrolling the list on his phone.

Remington shakes his head adamantly. "No I don't," he protests, "you can't make me." His voice is cold, stern, set in stone.

The younger frowns. "How about Abigail Bridges? It says she's experienced and all her reviews are five stars." Emerson likes the look of this therapist. She seems genuine, caring.

Again, Remington shakes his head. "No," he states, "not going to fucking happen."

"What's not going to fucking happen?" Sebastian asks, coming into the room.

"Me and a new therapist. No gonna happen," Remington says flatly, "so can you please stop interfering? I've got in control." Everyone knows he's lying. He isn't in control. If he was they're wouldn't be a need for a therapist.

The guitarist sighs. "I've got some news," he says bitterly, "our tour manager is making us tour. He's booked all the venues without us knowing. The first show is in less than two months." This is the last thing the man wants to be saying to his brothers, especially Remington. The boy is so fragile and delicate and he can't tour. Not yet.

Remington pushes his chair out and stands up. "That's fucking great," he says sarcastically, "can't fucking wait." He leaves the room and disappears upstairs.

Emerson sighs. "We're doomed," he mumbles, "fucking fantastic."

"He needs to see a therapist before we tour. We can't go if he's still like this in two months." The man sits in the chair Remington was previously in.

The middle brother doesn't know how to feel about touring again. He likes to think that he's ready, but deep down he knows he isn't, not if he carries on like this, anyway. And his brothers are right, he does need a therapist. He hates admitting that he was wrong, it makes him feel useless. Holly used to call him useless, hopeless, nobody. He really did start to believe it after a while.

"You're such a baby," she used to say, "anyone else would jump at the chance to be in your shoes, and here you are, resisting me." Her words would never fail to hurt him in some way or another. She could make him think he was ugly, make him wish he was someone else.

She made him wish he was dead.

Remington got to a point where he would no longer fight against her or argue with her harsh words. It was never any use. Whatever happened, she always won. Even if it wasn't a game, she would win anyway. It was never a game to him. He wonders if that's all it was to her; a long, cruel game. See how quickly she can send him insane? To test his limits, to break his walls down.

"I'm sorry," he would say over and over. He didn't know what else he was meant to say. It must have been his fault, it had to be. He'd come home late from the studio, exhausted, and she'd shout, scream, tell him he should be home earlier, that he should come home as soon as she told him to. "Sorry," he would mumble, "I'm sorry."

At first he wasn't really sorry. He thought saying it would shut her up and she would leave him alone. It never did. And after months off saying it, he finally believed it, that he was sorry. It was his fault that she was angry with him. Always his fault.

Remington goes back downstairs. "I'm sorry," he says to his brothers, "I'll see Abigail."

The men look at him, surprised and relieved. "Great," Emerson says, and sends her a message before the boy has a chance to change his mind.

And the next day, Remington is sitting in an unfamiliar chair in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house with an unfamiliar woman sat opposite. She doesn't seem as good as Dr Beckley. She wouldn't let Emerson and Sebastian sit on the sofa with him. She made them sit by the side of the room in wooden chairs. Remington doesn't like it. He wants to hold his brother's hands for comfort, safety.

"What's that you've got there?" She questions, gesturing to the notebook clutched in his trembling hands. Remington doesn't want her to look inside.

"A book," he mumbles. He wants to go home.

The woman is observing him, making him uncomfortable. "What's in it?"

The boy looks down. "Dr Beckley gave it to me," he murmurs. He knows he has to talk. "Told me to write in it everyday. He's dead now."

"Can I see?"

Remington wants to say no. "Okay," he answers instead, and hands it to her, shaking.

Abigail takes it from him. "Do you always shake, Remington?"

The boy shakes his head. "Only when I'm scared," he says.

He watches the lady open the notebook. He wants to snatch it from her. "I see you've got conflicting thoughts," she starts, "is that common?" Her voice is soothing, the boy thinks, and that thought does make him feel a bit better. She's only trying to help.

"Yes," he answers, "all the time."

The therapist turns the page. She asks him more questions, ans the boy starts to see why she has five star reviews. She knows what she's doing. She's just-she's just not Dr Beckley.

I saw a new therapist today. It was weird. Different to Dr Beckley. She didn't let me sit with Em and Seb. I didn't like that. I felt exposed and vulnerable. Scared. But tour is soon and I need to be better for then, so I am willing to take her help and her advice. Tour isn't going to be good. I know it isn't. I don't want to go. I've never felt like this before about performing. Never! God, I hate this!