Trigger warning. I don't know how long this book is gonna be at this point so if anyone wants something to happen in it, feel free to message me and I'll se what I can do. :) 

Sitting in the hospital is all too familiar. The mental health posters, the blue cushioned chairs, the strangers drifting in and out of rooms like ghosts. It's odd to be here, like stepping back into the past, except that the room has been re-decorated since last time. The wall is pastel blue now, like some children's bedroom, and the colourful, shiny, posters on the wall are only drawing attention to how fucked up one has to be to end up here. And for the third time, no less.

On either side of him there are people he doesn't know. A younger man on his left wearing plain black and a woman on the right, fingers playing with a bracelet around her wrist. It's purple, almost pink. He looks down at his wedding ring. Twenty eight hours. It's been twenty eight hours since he's seen his husband. The worst hours of his life.

"We have someone new today," the group leader says, looking at the boy. "This is Remington."

People saying hello only makes him more uncomfortable. Remington stays quiet. He keeps seeing the stalker bleeding out in front of him, his body quivering and fading and dying. The knife in Remington's shaking, murderous hand, all red and dripping, knuckles white with the grip he has. He closes his eyes and shakes his head to rid himself of the image.

"Do you want to tell us anything about yourself, Remington?"

The boy feels observed. He hates it. "I'm a murderer," is what he says, because it's all he can think about. Murderer. He should be in jail. Surely he should be locked up. After all, he got Holly locked up and she never even killed him. Remington stabbed a man to death and he isn't even in jail for that. He deserves to be locked up for the rest of his life.

Someone across the room gives him a dirty look and he sinks into his seat. He knows everyone thinks he's an awful person. He is an awful person.

Remington tunes out the rest of the time in group therapy, reliving the moment outside Abigail's house over and over until it's carved deep into his brain and all he can see is the dead body on the ground in front of him and his guilt dripping off the blade with the blood.

After the session he walks back to his room with his head down, shirt hanging off his thin frame like a sheet over a door. His wedding ring is warm between his fingers as he twists it around like he has been doing constantly since he ended up back here. They took his necklaces away. Apparently he could use them to strangle himself. He's in a room on his own, considered too 'dangerous' to be with someone else. And for that, he is thankful. As upsetting as it is to be labelled as dangerous, he knows they're right. After all, he killed a man.

He killed a man.

Remington sits on the small white bed and runs his hands over his face. He feels so disgusting. The judge in court pleaded him innocent on reason of self defense and of course he's glad he's not in jail, but he can't help feeling like he should be punsished  for what he did. They made him come here and he didn't argue. He shoved clothes into a bag and willingly got in the car and he didn't even hug anyone goodbye. Not Sebastian, not Emerson, not even Andy. He couldn't bring himself to hug anyone. It felt like he was too dangerous for anyone to hug.

He isn't allowed his phone here. They took it away when he arrived. All he's allowed is a notebook and a pen, a book to read, and an adult colouring book that he doesn't even want. They said it would help soothe him, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. He asked for something to listen to music on but they wouldn't give him anything, said they can't provide anything with wires because he could use it to choke himself. As if he'd ever kill himself here. And anyway, there are too many people around watching him for that to ever be possible.

Thirty four. That's his number. If Andy were here and he asked, that would be the answer. But Andy isn't here. Maybe that's why it's so high.

Andy's a seven. He hates to think what anything above a ten is. Last night was odd. Sleeping alone was odd. Scary, almost. It felt so wrong without Remington there. He keeps seeing the poor boy stabbing the stalker and it tears him apart inside. It hurts to know how much pain Remington must have been in to do that. How angry he must've been at the world.

He keeps leaving messages on Remington's phone. Telling him he loves him and everything's okay, mostly just to convince himself. He wishes that Remington would answer but he knows the boy will have had his phone taken away. Andy's confused. Confused about the photos Remington never explained. Confused about how the boy didn't even hug him goodbye. Just confused and upset and missing his husband. The house feels too big now. The bed feels cold. Everything just feels wrong.

There isn't much free time for Remington. He has half an hour after group therapy to do what he wants, though isn't able to do that because he can't even listen to music. He sits with the book and tries to read it. But the pages turn red and he feels the blood on his hands again and he doubts that he will ever be free of this.

A doctor knocks on the door and tells him it's dinner time. Remington cringes at the thought of food. He drags himself down the hall and sits in a chair in the canteen, not moving his gaze from his wedding ring when someone sits next to him. He won't talk to anyone.

They give him a tray of food and he just stares at it. There's fucking cheese on it. For as long as he can get away with it, Remington doesn't even pick up a fork, but soon a doctor notices and comes to tell him he has to eat it and he won't be allowed out of the canteen until he does.

Remington tears up before he can stop himself. Don't they know he can't eat cheese? Why don't they know that? "I feel sick," he says dryly.

"You need to eat it," the doctor responds.

Remington shakes his head and pushes the tray away. "No," he protests, "I feel sick."

"You're not gonna recover if you don't eat."

The boy scoffs. "Recover from what, love? I murdered someone in front of my fucking husband. How do I recover from that, hmm?" He only uses the rude tone to mask his undescribable sadness. He never means to be rude like this. "I don't like cheese," Remington mumbles, trying to calm himself down before he shouts. "I'll-I'll eat it if you take the cheese away."

The doctor does take the cheese away, scooping it all off with a serving spoon and not walking off until she sees Remington put a forkful into his mouth. The singer swallows the food down almost painfully, one hand over his mouth, the other feeling at his ribs. God, it sucks. Everything fucking sucks.

He forces it down and then can leave and go back to his room. One of the only things he was allowed to keep when they went through his bag was a framed photo of him, Andy, and his brothers in Greece on their wedding day. They're all smiling. Genuine smiles. Of course, Remington cut himself that day, but in the face of this, that seems irrelivent. He finds the photo which he hasn't taken out of his bag yet and lies on the bed with it, looking at his brothers and at his perfect, beautiful husband, and he cries. Remington didn't want to cry.

The tears hurt. They're the sort of tears that burn and choke and make him feel like he's dying. He hopes he is dying.

God, he should be locked up.

Because he's a murderer.