Trigger Warning: Suicide, death, blood, PTSD, self-harm 

The school burned down the night before Remington graduated. 

* * * 

Remington slept in Andy's bathroom, dreams riddled with the churning of train wheels and the screaming of metal on metal. He woke with a headache and, crawling towards the door, reached up to open it. 

The bus was quiet but moving, the engine buzzing, light seeping in through the windows at the far end where one of the blinds had been left half-open. Using the doorframe, Remington pulled himself off the ground, stood unsteadily while he blinked out of the sleepy state he was in. The ringing in his head wouldn't budge. He half expected something to plough into the side of the bus and kill them all right there. 

Cautious about making as little noise as possible, he crept past the bunks and towards the living area, jumped and froze, stared at Andy, who was sitting on the couch with a notebook in his lap.

The man hadn't slept, that much was obvious. Remington suddenly felt responsible; he knew from various social media posts and interviews that Andy didn't do well sleeping away from his home. Who was he to disrupt him further, specially after he had tried so kindly to help him already? 

"Sleep okay?" Andy asked, unable to stop himself from looking Remington up and down, mildly alarmed at the paleness of his skin. Though it wasn't like he looked much better himself. 

Remington quickly looked away and gave no reply. He tried to focus on a poster Andy had put on the wall - a glossy image of Batman - but everywhere he looked, the train was there, murdering his classmate right in front of him. He blinked stiffly and took a step back, distancing himself from the railway, though it moved with him, seemed to move closer, like it was alive, the vibrating of the rails its heartbeat, the train the thick blood in its veins.

Watching, Andy frowned. He didn't know how it was possible that Remington was acting more weird that morning that he had been the previous night. He said, "You seen a ghost?" 

His voice was strange in Remington's ears, like it wasn't supposed to be there. Everyone around him had been speaking, making a lot of noise, smiling about it. How was that? How were they okay with that, how were they happy to know they were all going to kill themselves? 

Andy put the notebook down on the couch and stood, reached for Remington's hand, wondered if it was physical contact that he needed. He knew better than most how important hugs were while on tour. However, when his fingers touched Remington's knuckles, the younger jumped away and covered his mouth as though about to vomit, his eyes blown out like craters. Andy stepped back. "Jesus," he mumbled, pulling his hands into his chest and finding his rings, twisting them. "Are you...are you okay?" Stupid question, he realised as he asked it. He shook his head. 

Remington stood still again, kept his hand over his mouth, his classmate disappearing with the metal front of the train. It should have been him that night by the road, he shouldn't have allowed Oliver to talk him out of it. It should have been him to die next, should have been him after what he did to poor William. Should have been him to kill himself. 

"Remington," Andy tried, though knew it was useless. If Remington wanted to tell him what was wrong, he's have done so by now. 

The scene was replaying itself. William was shaking on the tracks, standing straight but weak, glancing at Remington. The vibrations grew into trembles, and then the trembles into screeches. William stared ahead of him, watched it approach like the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs. Then he closed his eyes tight and wrapped his arms around himself, the flimsy blazer flapping manically in the wind. 

Then he was gone, and Remington knew he could never be the same again. 

Andy considered calling one of his brothers but wasn't sure what use that would be. They'd clearly been upset with Remington after the disastrous show, having them coax whatever the issue was out of him would doubtless go well.

Instead, he stood and observed Remington for a few moments, desperate to see what he was seeing, to fear what he was fearing. Then, maybe, he would be able to help, to bring him out of the strange trance-like state he was trapped in. Ideally before the show that night.

 * * * 

After the game was banned and the boys responsible for it expelled, things seemed to improve, though only temporarily.

For, whether it was the boredom, the long-lasting impression of those expelled, or something else entirely, boys continued to assist the suicide of their classmates. By the time Remington left at the age of eighteen, more than thirty students had died.

He had been the one to find Oliver, wrists cut and eyes white, and on his last night in the school, he himself tried to do what Oliver had done, tried to bleed to death. He was saved by the shrill ringing of the fire alarm. 

Somebody had set themselves alight and taken the building with them.