Fix Me (Alternative ending)

Chapter 12

Trigger warning - descriptions of panic attack.

Remington answers Andy's phone while the man is in the shower. "Hello?" He speaks, sat on the couch. The woman on the phone asks to talk to Andy Biersack. "He's busy right now," Remington says, and then, "can I give him a message?"

"It's about the report he submitted regarding Kacey and her mother. Please ask him to call back as soon as he can."

"Okay," Remington says, "I will. Thank you." He hangs up, stands up, and ascends the stairs. "Andy!" He calls, pushing open the bathroom door at the same time.

The man raises an eyebrow.

"The woman from social services called."

"Oh, right. I'll call her back, okay?" He picks up the shampoo. "You're staring."

Remington grins. "I know. You're very stare-able."

Andy squeezes the shampoo into his hand. "You sure it's me, kitty, or my-"

"Don't finish that sentence, please."

Andy laughs and Remington rolls his eyes. "We both know the answer."

"Fine. Maybe I was briefly glancing at your-"

"Briefly glancing? Kitty cat, you were staring."

Remington giggles. "Yes I was, tiger, yes I was. Bye bye now."

"You're odd!" Andy calls after the boy, who leaves the bathroom and goes back down the stairs.

Later on, when Andy calls the lady back, Remington is lying across his lap with his phone in his hands, replying to comments while Andy talks on the phone.

"Hi, it's Andy Biersack," he greets, "you called about Kacey? Oh, right. Okay. Really? Wow. No, sure. Absolutely. Okay. Will do. Yeah. Mm. Okay, bye." He puts the phone down, exhales. "Well, that went...well."

Remington raises his eyebrows.

"So...Kacey apparently ran away from her mother at the hostel and no one knows where she is. They wants us to look out for her. Her mother is in pieces, apparently."

"She ran away?"

Andy hums.

"Jesus, poor girl."

"Right? I feel awful for her. I wonder what happened."

Remington sighs.

"Hey, don't worry yourself about it too much. She'll be okay."

"But she might not be. She could already be..."

"Shh, sweetheart." His hand finds the younger's hand, strokes his knuckles. "No need to spiral, okay? It's alright."

Remington nods. He didn't realise he was spiralling. "Okay," he whispers, "sorry."

"No. None of that."

The boy rubs his eyes.

Andy kisses his hand.

The bed this evening is more inviting than usual, for some reason. The soft sheets and the quiet mattress and the warmth. Remington sleeps but Andy can't. He tries, but he can't. He sees the girl, so young, so full of dreams and hopes and ambitions and places she's never been. So much to do that she's never done because her mother hasn't shown her any of it. So many people to know that she hasn't met because her mother won't introduce her to them. So much but she's so held back.

Andy feels responsible. He doesn't know why, but he does. Perhaps because of the way he had talked to her mother, the way he felt the sudden need to provide some sort of protection for her. Just something. He can't place it but it's something and it won't shift.

He thinks about how scared the little girl must be, how desperate she must have felt to feel the need to run away, to leave her mother, even though her mother is the only person there with her. Does she love her? Andy wonders. Does Kacey love her mother? Does her mother love Kacey? It's a muddle in his mind. A mess of guilt for not doing more, pain for the girl, regret for walking away and leaving her. But the guilt, God, the guilt. It's like a sensation inside him. Like something is tugging on his lungs, on his heart, tapping at his ribcage in an unsteady rhythm. Nagging guilt for not doing anything more about it. Guilt for not asking if Kacey was every hurt by her mother. Guilt for telling Remington not to worry when he's been worrying obsessively ever since. So much guilt.

When he finally does sleep, he wakes just hours later with a strange, disconcerting feeling in his chest, like his lungs aren't working properly, or that his heart can't, for some reason, pump enough blood. The man, quiet, gets out of bed and goes across to the bathroom, not wanting to disturb Remington, who's fast asleep. He sits on the toilet seat and tries to figure out what's happening. Panic attack? But that doesn't make sense. He doesn't get panic attacks. He's never had a panic attack in his life.

The way he's breathing doesn't seem right and the way he's shaking doesn't feel right and he doesn't have a clue how to make it stop. So he sits, tired and confused and overwhelmed, and tries so hard to just breathe. In and out, like he tells Remington. In and out. Nice and slow. It's okay. But it's not okay. How is this okay? And he can't breathe! He can't make his lungs work, can't inhale enough air to satisfy his heart, to make it feel better. Can't make it stop.

Breaths turn to gasps and blue eyes turn wet with tears and he doesn't understand. Maybe he should have woken Remington, told him he wasn't feeling right. But there really is no need for that. It's not a big deal. Everyone can't breathe sometimes, right?

Right?

Gasps are strained, like he's choking but he isn't, eyes are heavy and tired and dripping tears down his face and his neck and onto his clothes. Like a sort of tragic waterfall. Stop overreacting, he tells himself, it's not a big deal! But he still can't breathe and he still can't make it stop and he's scared but he daren't even admit that to himself. He's not allowed to be scared. He's not allowed to show anyone that he has fears. No one cares about it. No one gives a damn.

It's more than half an hour before Andy feels he can stand, can go back to bed and wake the next morning as though nothing happened. And that's exactly what happens.

For six days.