Trigger warnings: mentions of depression, PTSD, anxiety, self-harm/blood, abuse, eating disorder/weight

Bed without punishment proved to be troubling. Without the protesting of his arm and the dizziness of blood loss, Remington couldn't sleep. He didn't know how to, when the night wasn't complete. Punishment was always before bed. Always.

For a while, he lay in bed wide awake, running his fingers up and down over his bandaged arm. It wasn't right.

He got up at gone midnight and crept into the bathroom across the hall, closed the door with a soft click, and opened the medicine cabinet. Almost instantly, he found what he was looking for; there, on the middle shelf, next to a bottle of throat spray Remington recognised from his own vocal care kit, was a razor. The handle was gray, and he took it in his hand.

Punishment was ways before bed, always.

Sitting on the edge of the large bathtub, he unwrapped the bandage and let it fall onto his knee, and drew his eyes over the wounds that had been made just that morning.

Then he counted from three and pressed the edge of the razor into his wrist, dragged across, and bit through a groan of pain. It was better this way. He could sleep now.

Only, one cut wasn't enough, and neither was four, and his arm was throbbing. He counted each one, all the way to twelve, and when he looked up and she wasn't there smiling back, the only thing he knew how to do was cry as he continued.

There was blood dripping from his arm and onto his legs, soaking into the tangle of bandage. He felt sick with relief and regret and grief, because she wasn't here and he needed her to be proud of him.

He didn't know when or how to stop. She was always the one to decide that. In her absence, he continued to count as the number reached the twenties, and soon, the thirties. His head was heavy and his heart hammering, and at thirty-eight, he dropped the razor without meaning to, his fingers refusing to hold it any longer. 

For ten minutes, he sat with his eyes closed, waiting for the bleeding to stop, eventually hauling himself to his feet. 

Lying in bed afterwards, it still felt wrong. Better, but wrong. The pain was a relief to his system, like he needed it to function, but without the watchful eye of Holly, there seemed to be no point to any of it. He needed her to tell him that he was being good, needed to know she was proud of him, needed to see her smile. He lived to please her. 

He slept, but it was fragmented and unsatisfactory, and in the morning, he was weary. 

Andy made breakfast while he was on the phone to CC, and brought the conversation to a close when Remington emerged, yawning and trying to hide the discomfort of his arm. "Morning," the man said brightly. "You sleep okay?" 

Remington nodded. 

"Come sit down, honey. We'll have some breakfast." 

Tears returning to the surface. Voice weak. "Not allowed." 

Andy pulled out a chair for him. "Of course you are," he said. 

Hesitantly, Remington sat down. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd done last night, about the blood he'd haphazardly cleaned from the floor. He shook his head as a bowl of cereal was put in front of him, bit his bottom lip, whispered, "Not allowed." 

"Yes, you are," Andy tried. 

Remington pushed it away, winced at the movement of his arm, hoped Andy wouldn't notice. 

"You need to eat, honey." 

He rubbed his eyes. 

"Just a little bit?" 

"Not allowed."

"You'll collapse if you don't have something." 

The tears were escaping and Remington didn't have the power to stop them. He shook his head and winced again, sharp pain prodding at the inside of his elbow, like there were drawing pins in his sleeve. 

Andy crouched beside him, eyebrows furrowed. "We'll do it together, okay? Just a little bit." Another wince, and, "Are you hurt?" 

Remington shook his head but his body disagreed, sending a jab of pain bad enough that he whimpered and closed his eyes tight. 

"What's wrong? Can I see your arm?" 

Quickly, Remington pulled his arm into his chest. 

"Talk to me, love. Are you hurt?" 

He wiped his eyes with his other hand, shook his head even though Andy already knew he was lying. 

"Have they reopened?" 

He just shook his head, more furiously each time, giving himself a headache. 

Andy sighed. He took Remington's hand gently from his chest, lifted the edge of the hoodie sleeve, saw the damage, and let go of him. "Last night?" He asked. 

There was no point in denying it, so he nodded, wiped his eyes almost angrily. 

"Punishment always before bed," Andy recalled sadly. "Alright, I'm gonna take you to hospital. These look pretty bad. Let's have a little to eat, first, though. So you don't feel all dizzy." 

Dragging his sleeved hand across his face, Remington didn't dare reach for the spoon. She wouldn't let him. She'd never allow such caloric meals anywhere near him. He didn't want to break anymore rules. He didn't want to be punished again. 

Andy couldn't push him any further, so he made the decision to take him to hospital on an empty stomach and have them feed him through the tube again. He was sure they'd do it, since they had the records of his undernourishment just days ago, and since being released, he hadn't eaten a thing. It was the only way to keep him from starving to death, and he knew Remington would probably hate him for it. 

Remington was glad to be away from the bowl of cereal, and sat in the car half expecting Holly to get in the driver's seat, but then he remembered what had happened to her, and he wished he had kept his mouth shut, lied to police man, said he felt safe with her, that she was nice. 

The distance was worse that anything he had ever felt.