Trigger Warning: Self-harm, depression, suicide, blood/injury

A sharp, sticky pain woke Remington. 

He pushed the covers off him and lifted the bottom of his shirt, the fabric sticking to his cuts, and bit his lip at the stinging that worsened as he peeled it off. He touched the dried blood and winced, the entirety of his left side tender and uncomfortable. 

Still, he was awake now, and it was near impossible to lie there doing nothing now that his mind was active again. Moving slowly, he sat up, then stood, steadied himself, and went uneasily into the bathroom. 

It wasn't easy, cutting into such painful skin, but he did it anyway, letting blood run down him and onto the side of the bath. For a while, he sat and waited for the bleeding to stop, lifting his head when his phone alarm started going off. It was time to go. 

Andy was in the hotel reception when Remington went down, and said, "Turn right around, we need to talk in your room." 

Remington tried to step past him. "Fucking piss off," he mumbled when Andy wouldn't let him through the door. 

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Remington, I know you're upset about something, and until you tell me what it is, you're not leaving. So either tell me which room you're staying in or we can do this here, in public." 

Remington shoved into his shoulder, growling. "Fucking move," he hissed. "I'm not upset, I just don't fucking want to look at you or anyone. Everyone's fucking stupid all the fucking time. Now move."

"You're not upset, really? Tell that to your face." 

"Get away from me, creep." 

"For god's sake, will you just quit it already? I'm never gonna fall for you're petty 'I hate everyone' act, I'm not an idiot, and I know you way better than that. So come on. Which room?" 

"The room in your fucking arse! Move!" 

"You're about to get yourself kicked out," Andy murmured, sending an apologetic look to the lady behind the reception desk. "Room number. Now, Remington." 

"Don't fucking talk to me like that. Get off me. I don't care. I don't fucking care what you think, alright? No one fucking cares. No one fucking likes you. You're just a sad emo stuck in your teenage wannabe phase like the loser you are! Get your hands off me, whore." Remington wanted to cry. He hated insulting Andy, hated doing anything to hurt him, but he'd gotten this far, he couldn't stop now. 

Andy shook his head but wasn't offended. "You're not you, so what is it? What's going on inside your gorgeous fucking head for you to be like this, huh? I know you love me, I know you care, so what is it? What's going on?" 

"Nothing, I just fucking don't want to be anywhere fucking near you right now. Now move before I make you." Again, he shoved past Andy, and this time he wasn't stopped, so he marched through the double doors and across the road. 

At the studio, he shouted at everyone, calling their producer a 'talentless piece of dirt' among other things, muttering purposefully loud throughout the day about how everyone was stupid and no one could do anything right. 

At lunch, Emerson sat down beside him and said, "You've got to stop this, you know," and he dropped his sandwich into the supermarket packet in blatant irritation. 

"Piss off," he muttered. "Sit somewhere else." 

"No." 

"Get it through your head. I don't like you, I don't care about you, I don't want to fucking look at you. Stop trying to be clever. You're not clever. You're not fucking clever, Emerson. You're a stoner who makes shitty art about shitty buildings that no one likes, your 'philosophy' is a load of cult bullshit, and you couldn't write a decent song if you were sitting next to Freddie fucking Mercury. Face it. You're a load of greasy-haired shit and no one fucking cares. No one cares. So stop fucking trying to be this clever fucking artist, because you're not clever, and the only art you create is the cigarettes you roll. Fucking good for nothing." 

Sebastian, upon overhearing what was being said, raised his voice and shouted, "Oi, bastard, don't be so goddamn rude. Leave Em the fuck alone." 

"He sat with me, dumb fuck," Remington retorted.

"What the fuck is your problem?" 

"What's my problem? Maybe it's that I have to put up with you two dimwits every fucking day. You ever thought of that?" Standing, he threw the sandwich at Emerson, yanked his jacket from the back of the couch, and whacked Sebastian with it as he passed. 

He left the studio and walked back to the hotel, sitting against the locked bedroom door for a long time before crawling into the bathroom and reaching for the blade. Two cuts in and his phone began to ring, and when he didn't answer it, it rang again, but he left it in his pocket and kept slicing, tears pooling in his eyes and running down his face. 

Surely, he'd done it by now. His brothers, his husband, everyone else, they'd all surely had enough of him by now. And they'd be rid of him come the morning.