Trigger Warning: Mentions of suicide, depression, injury, anxiety

Amy and Chris arrived only a few minutes after Abigail left, and Andy could tell they'd both been crying. He sat up slowly, careful not to put too much weight on his hands, and said, "I'm sorry." 

"No, honey," Amy said, pulling a chair up to the bed and sitting in it. She took Andy's hand and he winced. "What did you do to it?" She asked. 

"Punched a wall," he mumbled. "Broke two knuckles."

"That's a powerful punch," Chris spoke, and Andy caught his eyes for a moment. 

"Don't say that," Amy scolded. "He might do it again if you encourage him." 

"How was that encouragement? I'm just saying, I'm impressed that he managed to break two of his own knuckles." 

"I'm not gonna do it again," Andy said, mainly to reassure his mother. "It was a thing. It's over. Not happening again." 

"A thing? Andy, they told us you were trying to kill yourself. That is not a thing." 

"It was a thing," he repeated. "Seriously. It's fine now."

"What does your therapist think about this?" 

"I think you should mind your own business, woman." 

"Oi, Andrew, don't speak to me like that." 

Andy looked away. "I don't know why you're here." 

"Because you just tried to kill yourself." 

"No, I didn't." 

"Andrew, don't play this game with me." 

"What fucking game? I didn't try to kill myself. I got angry, I punched a wall. The rest is bullshit." 

"That's a lie and you know it. You've tried once before." 

"Yes, but that was different." 

Amy glanced at Chris, who was standing somewhat awkwardly. "How was that different?" she asked. 

"Stop getting all up in my shit. I'm a grown man, I can handle it on my own." 

"Can you? Is that why you broke two of your own knuckles and why they're hospitalizing you because of your mental instability?" 

"Who the fuck told you that?" 

"A doctor, Andy. It's not a secret." 

"Well it should be! It's my own business, not the whole fucking world's! I'm not a piece of fucking entertainment, why does everyone keep treating me like I am? All I fucking hear is people whispering about Andrew's OD, and I'm fucking sick of it! Don't you start doing the same!" 

"Andy, you have to take this more seriously." 

Looking at Chris, Andy said, "Dad, please make her stop." 

"She's right," Chris said. 

Andy huffed and turned so they couldn't see his face. He was close to tears again. 

"Listen, honey, I'm just worried, that's all. Last time you OD'd, I got so scared of what that would mean for your future. You know, whether you would ever be happy again, and now we're back here, and you're exactly the same as you were those years ago." 

"Gees, thanks," Andy muttered. "You're literally calling me a lost cause, so thanks for that." 

"No I'm not. I'm saying you were doing so well and I want to know what happened." 

"What happened is that you two cunts decided to have sex and not abort me, and now here I am, and as usual, you wish I was someone fucking different. You know, someone who isn't a piece of anxiety-ridden, suicidal shit! That's what fucking happened! Stop asking stupid questions." 

"Andrew, stop it," Amy tried. 

"Stop what? Stop what?" 

"Stop speaking like that. It's not true. We love you. We love you just how you are. But we're worried. We're so worried about you. That's all. We don't want you to be someone else. Why would we want that?" 

"You tell me." 

"Just talk to us. Why'd you do it?" 

Turning to look at her again, Andy wanted to scream. "Just go," he said in a low voice. "Please. Just go." 

"Andy-" 

"Please. I can't do this." 

Chris sent him an apologetic, sympathetic frown. "Come on, Amy, love. We'll come back tomorrow." 

"Don't bother." 

"Andy-" Amy tried again. 

"Don't. Just...don't." 

They left him alone in the room, and he sunk down into the covers and cried. He wanted to go home and pretend like nothing had happened, like everything was fine, but he couldn't. He'd be moved from this room to another identical one in the mental health ward, and they'd treat him like a child, and everyone who spoke to him would have pity painted all over their face, and he'd count down the days until he could leave. 

Everyone at work had seen it. He should have been more careful, should have waited until he was home. Then he'd have had just one person to explain himself to, not forty. He was sure it'd be on the news in no time, too. The sequel to the previous articles; Founder and owner of 'Men Wear Pink', Andrew Biersack, in hospital after second suicide attempt. 

He knew Remington had read that articles. The laptop he'd given him was still logged into his google account, so every google search showed up on the search history on his computer. He didn't mind that Remington knew. There was a comfort in it, and it was fine, because he hadn't brought it up, hadn't started treating him differently after reading it. 

Not like everyone else. All his employees who whispered behind his back about 'Andrew's OD' and 'remember last time he got so stressed that he tried to kill himself?' They thought they were going by unnoticed, but they weren't, and he couldn't do anything about it, because everyone knew. It was online, and he had been stupid enough to do that interview with the magazine about it afterwards. Never again, he told himself after that. Never again. 

But here he was, again, and all the magazines would want to hear from him, and after a while, he'd give in and say what they wanted to hear.