Back with some sad shit I hope u missed it <3

Trigger Warning: PTSD, anxiety, depression, physical/emotional abuse, vomit, injury

It was hospital policy for Andy to receive counselling during his stay as a patient in the mental health ward. A man introduced himself as Dr Jose Alonso. They were in a small room with a black couch and grey cushions, and on the wall were posters with phrases like 'you're not alone' and 'it's okay not to be okay.' 

Dr Alonso was younger than Andy, though only by a few years, and was broad-shouldered and obviously a friend to the gym. The thought took Andy's mind back two years, to when Holden had insisted they work out together and had pushed Andy so far that he had struggled to stay conscious. After that, enjoying the clunking of weights and rattling of treadmills and static bikes was an impossible task. 

The couch, while perfectly comfortable, felt like stone beneath Andy, who sat so stiffly on it that he half-expected to be told off for not being 'relaxed' enough. Staring at his hands and refusing to move his gaze even to the ground beyond, he bathed in dread that had been festering since they had told him of his need for therapy. 

"How are you doing today, Andy?" Dr Alonso asked, and his voice brought a trembling to Andy's features. It wasn't that he sounded harsh or remotely unkind, but rather that he had spoken at all. Up until that point, Andy had allowed himself to balance on the edge of believing he wasn't really there, that the information about it had been a practical joke. "I know it can be intimidating, starting something like this. It's okay if you don't want to say much today." 

Andy didn't know how he was supposed to respond, if he was supposed to respond, bore his eyes into his knuckles, wanted to use them as something to bite on. Seconds passed and nobody spoke, and so he rushed out, "Sorry. I'm sorry." 

"What are you sorry for?" 

Interrogations were Andy's worst enemy, and yet he had received them so many times that he should have been an expert at them. He clasped his hands together and pressed his fingers into his skin. He realised he needed to answer. "I-I shouldn't have done it, I promised no more." 

"Okay. What shouldn't you have done?"

Andy wished he could scream for the questions to stop but he wasn't allowed, so he dug his fingers further into his skin and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He thought about the cut on the roof of his mouth and how he deserved another. He bit down and then he realised, again, that he had to answer. He said, "I'm sorry."

"Who are you apologising to, Andy?" 

Now, what the hell did that mean? Had he said something wrong? Was he not supposed to be sorry this time? Or had he used the wrong tone? Did he sound sarcastic, mocking? "Sorry," he quickly corrected, levelling out his voice, trying to fix whatever he had done wrong the previous time. 

"You don't need to apologise, you know. You're here to recover, nobody is upset with you." 

Mumbling Holden's favourite phrase, "'Get it together, boy'", Andy closed his eyes; perhaps if he couldn't see the room, then he would be in it anymore. 

"Sorry?" 

"Get it together, get it...together. Boy. Sorry. Get it together, boy." 

"Andy-" 

Startling himself, Andy interrupted the doctor to say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Get it together. Get it together, boy. I'm sorry." Even with his eyes shut so tightly that it hurt, made him a little dizzy, he was still there and he knew he was. That was the worst part - he couldn't even pretend that he was somewhere else, somewhere safe.

Then a strange, unexpected thing jumped into his mind, and he felt all the more panicked and unsettled, for what he needed was to be in Remington's small apartment. Before then, he hadn't felt such a certain need for the presence of a human, the closest being the yearning he felt for his band and for the studio. But this was different. 

Dr Alonso again started saying something, but Andy didn't like listening, didn't like being the one who needed help, didn't like anything to do with the hospital and the people in it and the room he was trapped in.

He stood, an abrupt movement, and then all too soon his mistake was blinding and horrible, so he crumbled back down, his hands falling weak beside him. He kept his eyes closed and waited, but nothing happened, and he hated that more than the punishment he expected, deserved. 

In another moment, he was hyperventilating, angering himself by his lack of control and by his outburst which he seemed unable to break out of. "Get it together, boy," he was chanting, almost imitating Holden's voice, the sharpness to his constant disappointment. 

He knew he was being watched, knew he was about to be in big trouble, knew everything he was doing was wrong and dramatic and childish, but he couldn't make himself stop.

His chest ached at the speed of his heart and a movement opposite frightened him to such an extent that he physically recoiled and started to whimper, folding in on himself like he did when his stomach was beaten so many times in the recent past.

It was as though he could feel the old injuries like they were new. The bruised ribs, the cut mouth, the lack of air from when Holden went through a phase of choking him almost until collapse. 

"Get it together, boy," he continued. He wanted to vomit out his vocal cords so he would never say anything wrong again.