Guys, I just realised I didn't put a warning for the f word in the previous chapter, I'm so sorry!! Please let me know if I'm missing any warnings/if something upsets you so I can fix it!!! I don't want my readers triggered by shit that I write, that's totally the opposite of what I'm trying to do!!

Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide, self-harm, F slur

Andy is allocated a room in the hospital that has nobody else staying in it, since his fighting in the bathroom is enough to label him as violent. At least, violent enough that he isn't 'safe' being in a room with somebody else.

He, first, has to sit through an interview so the doctors can determine his state, and finds himself wearily following one of them to the room while another walks behind him. If he weren't so heartbroken, he'd turn and punch them straight in the nose. But he doesn't because it seems like too much effort, so instead he walks with his head down, not bothering to listen to anything's that's spoken. He doesn't know if they're saying it to him or not but he can't bring himself to care.

The room isn't awful. It's small, but that's a given. Andy thinks it's a little like a university dorm room. There's a sink opposite the bed and a desk that looks to be at least a few years old, though the paint on the walls is new and the carpet is cleaner than he'd expected. There could be worse places.

Andy sits on the bed and looks up at the two doctors, talking finally. "Get me a fucking gun and I'll make this a whole lot easier for you," is what he says, in a flat, uninterested, and aggressive tone.

"Get yourself settled in, sir."

"At least use my actual name. 'Sir' makes me feel like a teacher."

"Of course. Your things are under the window, Andy, please do make the room a little more homely for you. You'll be escorted to your therapist in forty-five minutes."

The man sighs. "Escorted. What, you think I'm gonna start attacking everyone? C'mon, I'm not a psychopath. There's a difference between being suicidal and psycho."

"I'll see you in forty-five minutes."

Once she's gone, Andy gets up and tries to find something he can use to hurt himself, angered at the fact that the small mirror above the sink is un-smashable and that the hot tap runs no hotter than warm. The desk is coated in a smooth plastic-like material that Andy isn't able to get into, the chair is cushioned and has no sharp edges. Everything is self-harm proof.

His therapist is a man around his age wearing a suit and sitting at a neat desk. The door is opened for Andy by the woman escorting him, and he steps in unhappily, is told to sit down, and does so with a huff.

"Good afternoon, Mr Biersack," the man greets, "please make yourself comfortable."

Andy folds his arms and glares.

"Your family expressed concern towards your current emotional state."

"They mean that I wanna die," Andy says bluntly, "and I do, so why not just fucking let me do it and quit this intervention shit?"

"They have asked that we keep you here until you are able to look after yourself, sir."

"I'm perfectly able to look after myself, I just don't want to. Why is everyone finding that so difficult to understand?"

"Would you like to elaborate on that?"

Andy laughs. "Would I like to elaborate on that?" He echoes. "No, I would not. Thank you so much for the offer, this is just what I wanted when I found out my husband hates me. A fucking interrogation."

"Tell me about that."

"What?"

"Your husband hating you."

"There literally is nothing to fucking tell. He cracked his head, fucked his brain up, forgot all about me, then started calling me a f** and apparently he hates me even though no one fucking told me until after I fucked him, so I'm sure you can imagine how fucked over I feel."

"And you're willing to take your own life because of that, I presume."

"Willing? No, Jesus Christ, I'm begging you to let me 'take my own life.' I will literally stick a pair of scissors into my fucking heart if you give me some."

"Okay, Mr Biersack. I can see you're dealing with a lot at the moment. There are a few things we can do to help you."

"Yes, start by passing me the scissors." He leans back on the chair and huffs again. "Or at least fucking get on with it! You ever consider the reason so many people wanna die is because therapy is so fucking boring? You talk so fucking slowly, like I'm incapable of comprehending words. I'm not dumb, I'm just sad. So are you gonna help me stop being sad, or can I fucking go home and sort shit out with my brain damaged fucking gorgeous husband?" Andy casts his eyes down. "Here's the thing, alright. And please listen because I'm not gonna say it again."

The doctor nods and waits for him to continue.

"I don't do therapy. I couldn't think of anything worse than sitting opposite a serious mother fucker and complaining about my life. I'm suicidal because my husband is brain damaged and doesn't love me anymore and I'm blanking my friends and my band because I don't wanna think about shit, and now I'm trapped in this fuckin' place and all I wanna do is get out, so fucking tell me why I'm here, what the fuck you can possibly to do 'help' me, and when I can fucking leave."

"You're here because you're not safe at home and there are treatments here to help you."

"Treatments such as what? The electric chair? Count me out."

"No, Mr Biersack, we don't do anything of the sort."

"Okay, so then what?"

"Group therapies, medication, reading groups etcetera."

"I try to kill myself twice and your solution is to read?"

"You'd be surprised at the positive effects of activities such as reading, Mr Biersack."

"Please just call me Andy," the man says, "and look, I don't exactly enjoy feeling like shit and I know I'm a dick when I'm like this, but you need to understand that I didn't choose to come here, alright. I appreciate what you're doing and everything but I was literally dragged out of my own home and told I'm not myself, so excuse my rudeness, but can I be blamed?"

"Andy, I completely understand. We get a lot of patients who have been committed because of their family's concerns. It's absolutely fine to feel you aren't going to benefit from being here and I understand being taken from your home is a distressing situation to experience."

"And honestly, I just wanna die."

Nodding, the doctor writes something down on a clipboard. "That's why you're here. Your family is worried that you aren't safe at home, and we're here to help restore the joy for life that you've lost."

"How are you gonna do that?"

"By talking to you, encouraging you to make friends by attending group therapy, and giving you things to enjoy again. Do you want to tell me about your hobbies? You mentioned being in a band."

"My band's my career," Andy says, warming up to the conversation. "I love it with my life but recently, I...I haven't been even talking to my band mates."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm too tired to do shit."

"I can imagine. You've got a lot going on, it's unfair to put yourself through so much without taking a break."

"So is that what this is? A break?"

"Andy, you're here to do whatever you need to do to feel better about yourself and about your life. Of course, there are certain boundaries and schedules to stick to, but we're largely here so that you can benefit from us and from the ability to let someone else take care of jobs that you'd normally be doing."

"Jobs like what?"

"Making dinner, washing clothes, cleaning the bathroom. All of that boring stuff that tires you out without you realising."

"Okay."

"Your family will be visiting later on, would you like to meet them in the visitors room or have them come to your bedroom?"

"I can choose?"

"Of course, it's not a prison. I want you to be as comfortable as you can be while you're struggling as much as you are."

"Do you know who exactly is coming?"

"I believe it's Sebastian, Emerson, and Lonny."

"Okay. My bedroom would be good." He straightens up. "Remington isn't coming?"

"I'm afraid not."

Andy sighs.

"Were you hoping to see him?"

"No, I don't know. I guess. It'd be nice to see him."

"Is he your husband?"

"Technically."

"You feel he doesn't love you anymore?"

"I don't know what I feel."