Trigger Warning: Physical/emotional abuse, PTSD, depression, anxiety, suicide

They were quiet around the table, glancing at one another, not wanting to be the first to speak. Their lack of response filled Andy with unease; he worried he had said the wrong thing. Was he not supposed to be that honest with them? Was this all a trick? Would they begin to point and laugh? 

Afraid of their reactions, he avoided looking at them, counted the seconds since he had spoken, twisting his rings around on his fingers beneath the table, both relieved and terrified when someone finally talked. It was Jinxx, asking, "I'm sorry, did you just say he tried to kill you?"

It wasn't that he asked it in a harsh way but that he was asking it all which made Andy feel slightly sick. The reason for putting off this discussion for so long was because he feared they would accuse him of lying. 

He didn't dare look up and meet any of their awaiting eyes, nodded, said, "Yes. He did." 

The silence this time was short-lived, and Jinxx went on to ask, "How?" 

Andy had answered this question many times in his head but hadn't quite decided which response was the best to give. That Holden hit him? But hitting couldn't kill a person. That Holden broke his rib? But he'd had a broken rib before, and he'd been just fine, so how was this any different? That Holden beat him? Wasn't that too dramatic? 

He'd thought of all these possible responses, had assured himself over and over that he knew exactly what he was going to say and that he would say it in such a way that they would understand, that they wouldn't need to ask anything else. 

However, sitting there, faced with the four of them, he couldn't think of anything to say that was of any use. All of his thought-up answers were weak and made him seem pathetic. So he just shrugged. 

"Andy, you can't tell us your boyfriend has tried to kill you and then not say anything else," Jake said. "If this is one of your elaborate podcast stories for dramatic effect, I don't think we really wanna hear it." 

"That's a bit harsh," Lonny cut in. "Of course we wanna hear it." 

"I don't," Jake said, and Lonny gave him a dirty look. "All I'm saying is, we haven't heard from you in weeks, man, and now you're claiming your boyfriend's tried to kill you out of nowhere. And we all know you have the tendency to exaggerate things to gain a reaction, it's not a secret. So either tell us straight up what happened, or don't. But don't turn this into some sort of performance. This ain't a stage." 

Already, Andy's eyes were getting horribly close to spilling, and he held them on the table, didn't need to see Jake to know what he'd look like as he was talking. He had no response. Jake was right. He did exaggerate, he'd done it since he could talk as a child. Perhaps he did it to himself without even realising, perhaps none of what had happened was as bad as he had convinced himself that it was. Maybe this was all a big lie, and he had sent an innocent man to prison. 

"What the hell?" Lonny argued. "Clearly he's not making this up, just let him talk." 

Andy didn't want to talk anymore. He felt so small that he could have climbed into the water-jug in the middle of the table and drowned in it. 

"Andy?" Lonny prompted. 

Pulling a ring off his middle finger, Andy passed it between his hands. It slipped from his grasp and fell onto the ground by his chair. He bent down to pick it up and, on the way up, hit the back of his head against the edge of the table. As he expected, the tears came, and he had the disconcerting thought that even inanimate objects were trying to hurt him now. He pushed his chair back and, twisting the ring back onto his finger, he quickly muttered about needing the bathroom. 

Then he was walking briskly through the restaurant and locking himself in a cubicle, wiping furiously at his eyes until the voice of Lonny was asking if he was okay through the door, and he knew he couldn't hide himself away forever. 

Unlocking the door, he faced the bassist, blinking to push the tears back. He said he was fine. 

Lonny stepped closer, took Andy in his arms for a hug, and Andy couldn't stop himself from pushing him away with both hands, shoving at his chest until there was a gap between them. Then, realising what he had done, he stuttered, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," and made a dash for the exit, not slowing until he was out of the building and on the street. 

Outside, he put his hands on the railing and bent over it, tried to breathe, to make his eyes dry and his heart slow. Then, he started walking, and he watched the cars on the road and he wondered where they were going, who was driving them, what their lives were like. He wished he could have been one of them, wished he could have been a strange with a simple life. 

Remington had given him a key so he could get through the main entrance of the apartment building, and his hand was shaking as he pushed it into the lock and turned it. He took the stairs, passing someone carrying a black rubbish bag. He thought about what would happen were he to miss a step and tumble to the bottom. He stopped walking, stood looking down, imagined the impact of hitting the ground. 

On Remington's floor, he turned left down the hall. At the door, he hesitated, then raised his hand and knocked.

Remington opened it with a glass of orange juice in his hand, face sinking at the sight. Stepping aside, he said, "What happened? It's only been half an hour." He closed the door. Andy was looking at him. "You're shaking. I'm gonna make you tea. Come and sit down." 

Andy didn't move. "Please," he started weakly, "Can you-can you please not touch me? Please? I'm sorry." 

"It's okay. I won't touch you. Come and make yourself comfy, if you like." 

Slowly, Andy followed him into the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa-bed and staring at the ground. Remington went to make tea, and he started to cry into his hands.