Trigger warning.

The nightmare Remington has tonight is weird. Not what he expected. But who should have to be expecting nightmares at all?

He's in an unfamiliar house, alone, and looks in the mirror. There's nothing but bones. A skeleton with a heartbeat. He likes it. He doesn't know why, but he likes looking like that. Turn to the side, spin around, his fingers reach all the way round his bicep. The room seems to be changing around him. Getting darker, but then lighter, like lights at a concert. A microphone is in front of him and he can hear the crowd, see the blurry faces of strangers. But then they disappear. It gark. Flashing lights. Noise that shakes the soul. Then nothing. Silence. Lights are off. No one's home. Stomach is rumbling, screaming. But his mind is louder. No, it keeps shouting, you're ugly when you eat.

I'm ugly when I eat.

Fingers down his throat. Blood coming up. Coughing. Choking. Lights flashing. The crowd is there again. Cheering him on. You're ugly when you eat. Body is aching. Legs about to give in, collapse, fall to the ground. Cheering gets louder. Knuckles scarred. Teeth scraping the skin. Blood on the stage, the microphone. Voice weak. Heart fast and frail. Blurry. The world is spinning way too fast. You're pretty when you starve.

Body falls. Bones break. Screaming. Shaking. No heartbeat anymore.

Remington gasps. He's going to be sick. What the fuck was that? He runs into the bathroom, throwing the toilet seat up and heaving, retching.

What the fuck was that?

"Sweetheart?" He looks at Andy and shakes his head. "Bad dream?"

Remington can't think. "I don't know," he mumbles, and wipes his mouth.

Andy helps him up off the floor. "Are you sick?"

The boy shakes his head. "What's wrong with me?" He shudders at the thought of there being something else to add to the pile of issues he already has.

"There's nothing wrong with you," Andy whispers, making the younger brush his teeth and drink some water. "It's alright. Come here." His arms are open and Remington presses himself against Andy. The man is more worried than he lets on. It's been months since a nightmare made Remington throw up. He wishes he knew what it was about. Holly? The hate comments? Something else? It's also worrying how much he threw up. His stomach is empty now. The last thing he needs is an empty stomach, not when he's already underweight enough as it is.

In the morning, Andy drives Remington to therapy, knowing without asking that he's too anxious to drive himself. The boy only had a small piece of toast for breakfast, and Andy didn't push him into eating anything else, even though Remington must be really hungry. As usual, he takes his shoes off and curls his legs under himself on Abigail's couch, looking down as she talks.

"How are you?" She asks, and takes the notebook when he holds it out for her. Sometimes it's easier for her to read what he's written than for him to tell her what's going on in his head.

There's something wrong with me. I don't want to be this thin, but I also hate the idea of gaining any weight. Food makes me sick.

All he had written were those three sentences this morning, when Andy was in the bathroom. He thought that writing it down would help, but it really didn't. It just made it seem more real.

Abigail closes the book. "Are these feeling about food recent?"

Remington sighs. He wishes he could say they are, but they're not. "No. I felt the same when I collapsed." He feels so stupid. The woman is writing something down. "I had a weird nightmare last night. It made me throw up." It's raining outside. He can hear it on the windows.

"What was the nightmare?"

The boy doesn't want to think about it. "I was-like-really really thin, and people kept telling me I'm pretty when I starve, and then I died, or something. I don't know." Abigail knows there's more to it. He's using the voice he uses when he's ashamed of telling her the full truth, even if he really wants to.

She hands him the book back. "Have you eaten this morning?"

Remington looks anywhere but his therapist. He feel like he's letting her down. "A bit. Made me feel sick."

"Remington, it's important you eat."

The boy casts his eyes at the floor. "I know," he whispers, "I know, and I wish I could just fucking eat, but I can't!"

Abigail pours him a glass of water. "You've taken your pills, yes?" He nods. "Okay, good. Do you feel hungry?"

Remington doesn't like how many questions she's asking. "Yes. Starving." He cringes as he says that word. What if he really is starving?

"Okay. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to email you a link to a digital questionnaire for you to complete, ideally before our next session. I want you to try your best to have a good meal today. Can you do that?"

Nodding, Remington finally looks at her. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"No. It's completely okay to be having issues with food. You may have an eating disorder. That's what the questionnaire will help us to work out. If you're losing weight fast then it's important that we get you the help you need before you end up in hospital." What she's saying doesn't make sense to Remington. How can he have an eating disorder without there being something wrong with him? There are so may things wrong with him. He doesn't want another fucking disorder to add to the list. It's a fucking joke.

"What if I do have an-" he stops himself from saying it, like the words hurt.

"You will be given help and you will beat it. An eating disorder is nothing to be ashamed of."

Remington disagrees with that. "I feel like I'm going crazy. I don't want to go back to hospital." Abigail isn't sure if he means the mental hospital or just the regular hospital, but it doesn't matter. "Every time I think I'm finally getting better my stupid fucking brain ruins everything! I hate it!" His stomach rumbles and he puts his head in his hands.

"You're going to be okay, Remington."

Those words are no comfort to the boy, because he's already told himself that he won't be okay. How could he be? He can't eat like a normal fucking human being and is about to be left at home on his own for six months while Andy plays shows, which is all Remington wants to do. He hates Andy for that. For having the job that he had to give up because of some horrible fucking woman who couldn't leave him alone.

He just hates everything.