[TRIGGER WARNING: Acknowledgment and discussion of a suicide attempt]

I sigh heavily with an equally heavy frown. Currently I stood in what would be my bedroom for the next ninety days. It wasn't the same room I was in last time, but it may as well have been. Same boring white walls, same boring desk in the corner. Same en-suite bathroom, same dresser. I walked over to the sliding closet door (which doubled as a mirror) and opened it. Then closed it. Then opened it again and left it open.

They ran a tight ship here. Six-thirty AM alarm. Head count at breakfast at seven. Morning leisure starting at seven-thirty. Then at eight o'clock sharp your ass had better be in your first therapy session of the day.

I walked over to my bed. For a moment I stared at it. It was plain, with a white sheet and white pillow. A comforter could be found neatly folded in the closet on the top shelf (I knew this without even looking). If it was anything like the other bed I had slept in last time I was here, it was pretty damn comfortable.

For a moment I spread my arms out and closed my eyes. Then I let myself free-fall onto the bed, face planted firmly into the pillow. I moaned loudly.

"Fuuuuck, Orion, what're you doing?" I asked myself out loud into the comfortable pillow.

What was I doing? I mean, it was pretty obvious what I was doing; I was wallowing. And while I wasn't prone to it, I gave myself permission to wallow just a bit.

My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—was states away. I was in a rehab facility for alcoholism (again). My best friend, who I was stupid enough to sleep with (again), currently hated me. My other best friend gave me a teddy bear and that was that. I had broken my sister's heart. I had scared my manager—whom I largely considered a mother to me—half to death.

Oh. And speaking of death. I had attempted suicide.

I flipped over onto my back. I expected to feel...Something. This entire time up until now I denied what I had done. 'It was an accident.' 'I just wanted to sleep.'

As I laid there, staring up at the white ceiling, one hand on my chest, it was the first time I admitted to myself I had tried to kill myself. Everyone was right—I knew what I was fucking doing when I got a hold of Simon. I knew that if whatever he gave me didn't work I was going to take everything I could get my hands on until I found something that would work.

And by "work" I mean, make the pain stop. I just wanted the pain to stop. I no longer knew how to get there myself, and I was in such emotional turmoil I didn't know up from down or left from right. So I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted everything to stop.

I was a mess. I broke up with my boyfriend, lied to his face. I had broken my sobriety willingly. I had let everyone around me down. I had lied to everyone. Everyone hated me...

Or so I thought. Then I had woken up in a hospital after taking seven pills, and it was like the fucking Wizard of Oz when Dorothy wakes up. Everyone was there. Everyone was there for me, but I couldn't even fucking be there for myself.

I didn't deserve them. I didn't deserve anything I had. Not the fame, not the fortune, not a loyal boyfriend or upstanding friends. I was just a fuck up. I wanted to burn it all to the ground.

So I tried to kill myself.

I felt a wetness on my face, so I swiped my hand against my temple. When I looked at my hand, and then realized the pillow was wet beneath me, I know I'm crying. And it's really fucking scary, because I'm crying, but I don't feel anything. Here I had just admitted to myself that I had tried to take my own life, and I was crying, but emotionally I was completely dead.

I sat up, wiping off my eyes. Pressing my palms into my eyes, I gritted my teeth.

"ARGH!"

I half expected someone to bust in with my mini-outburst, but no one did. So when nothing happened I stood up, made a mental note to mention in therapy my emotions were evidently fucked, and began unpacking. My breath caught immediately.

Sitting right on top in my duffel bag was the soft, black, fleece blanket Tristan had given me. Acting as though it would bite me, I gingerly took it out. Before logic kicked in, I did something stupid.

I shut my eyes, buried my nose against it, and inhaled.

Immediately I smelled Tristan. I smelled Tristan and I, and our scents were entwined, just like I was convinced our souls had been (or still were). But he wasn't fucking here because I was a fucking dick, and I was never getting him back. Suddenly my emotions were more than in working order, and I let out a strangled sob into the blanket.

Maybe if I just held onto the fabric harder, he would feel it. Maybe if I just wished hard enough, Tristan would magically appear. Maybe if I just cried hard enough, the emotional reverberations would ripple out to him, and he'd be standing at my door before I knew it, with his perfect lopsided grin, and his perfect accent, and he'd laugh and say, "Hey, Orio.".

But that was all fucking stupid and I knew it, and I knew he would never be a part of my life from here on out, and it made me want to try and kill myself all over again.

Once the tears were done, I decided the first thing I was going to do was wash that damn blanket, and I was going to do that ASAP.

~

"Mr. Bauwens?"

I looked up, but the person who had said my name was already sitting across from me. I found myself mildly scandalized. I was definitely detoxing, and while they had helped me manage that in the three days I had spent in the ER and then psych ward, I currently didn't have any pain meds in me. I also was feeling acutely nauseated. So the fact that they sat before even asking if they could, or asking if I minded, rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn't believe they just—sat down, like they owned the place.

Then it registered who had sat before me. My jaw went slack. To say I was stunned was an understatement.

Scott Davis had just taken the seat across from me.

"You are Orion Bauwens, right?" he asked me excitedly, with his perfect smile, and his perfect British accent that made me think of James Bond.

I was so utterly broadsided that all I could manage is my stupid, nervous laugh and nod. I can only imagine what I look like to him. I knew I still looked like shit from ODing three days ago. My eyes were a red mess from crying over a stupid blanket for a couple hours leading up to lunch. I was still in my clothes that I had worn on the plane even, so they were a wrinkled mess.

Not exactly how I wanted to meet Scott. Not exactly how I wanted to meet anyone, really. I had tried my best to avoid people today; I watched my blanket spin in the wash for a while, then I came into the eating hall with its dark grey carpet and periwinkle walls. I had taken a seat in the back corner.

In my experience, when someone is dressed all in black and is sitting by themselves in a corner, it's usually a good indication that the person wants to be left alone. But this was Scott fucking Davis, Mr. Hollywood. Of course he would be bold enough to approach someone like that.

"I like your music," Scott chittered excitedly.

With those four words, it was like all my problems suddenly didn't exist. Without even meaning to, a bright grin gripped my face.

"Well, I mean, actually I don't," he continued with a sniff.

Any and all childish crush I had evaporated into smoke as he spoke those words. My pride took hold, and I glowered. If he noticed my frown and narrowed eyes, he didn't care, and instead continued.

"Not really my musical tastes, mate. I like classical. But you're wicked talented, I'll give you that."

That, admittedly, made me feel a little bit better. Even so, I really didn't feel like talking to anyone today, Scott Davis or not.

"Thanks," I replied curtly.

"So, what're you in for?"

Normally this line of questioning wouldn't phase me. But my nerves were absolutely shot, and I really, really just wanted to be left alone. The next ninety days were going to be spent talking non-stop. I'd like to enjoy this half-day to myself where I didn't have to spill my guts out to anyone.

I leaned forward and dropped my voice. "Aren't you doing exactly what you're not supposed to be doing?"

To my dismay, Scott laughed and leaned back comfortably in his chair. I tried to ignore how his biceps became taught as he interlaced his fingers behind his head. I was nearly positive he was straight. More so, I had just fucked up what I considered my first serious relationship—I really didn't want any sort of feelings towards anyone, romantic or lustful.

Scott shrugged. "It looks like you and me are the only famous people here this time around, friend."

Now I glared full-on. "Just because we're celebrities doesn't mean we're friends, mate."

Scott unwrapped his hands from his head. My words and disposition didn't seem to have rattled him at all. Shrugging again he got to his feet, taking up his tray of food. "Point taken," he said, starting to walk away. "Just thought it might be nice to have someone to relate to."

He had a point. A deep, annoyed, half-growl half-sigh erupted from me and I rolled my eyes. "Scott—wait."

Scott did just that, turning towards me. Puckering my lips off to the side, I scowled. "Come back."

Scott grinned triumphantly, the cocky bastard. As he sat back down, I couldn't help but smirk a little. Scott moved his tray off to the side, clasping his hands on the table. Arching his eyebrows, he looked at me expectantly.

"I tried to kill myself," I offered up coldly.

Scott looked genuinely shocked. Saying that out loud...Feeling my lips move and form those words...It was almost like each letter had become physical, and I could feel them leave my mouth. A part of me wanted to snatch them back, stuff them deep inside of me again.

That's not how it worked though. It's not how life worked. So instead we just sat for a few passing moments, the thin air between us impregnated with the weight of my words.

"Oh," Scott finally said.

More unsure silence. I hated it. So I moved my food around my plate, and looked at it instead of him. I shrugged, trying to speak as nonchalantly as I could. "I mean, there's other stuff too, mainly alcohol."

"Why?"

I looked at him. "Why what?"

"Why did you try to—"

I hated how he couldn't get the words out. I had the feeling this was going to be my life now. Shoving down a sigh, I raised my eyebrows. "What—why did I try to kill myself?"

Scott nodded.

"Why does anyone try to kill themselves?"

"I'm sorry," Scott said, for the first time looking unsure of himself. "I didn't mean to be insensitive."

I shrugged, taking a bite of my healthy burrito. It tasted pretty bland, but I knew it was healthy calories, and that's all that mattered. "You weren't, it's okay."

"I hit a deer and totaled my car," Scott blurted out then, sliding his tray back in front of himself and eating.

I looked at him, surprised.

"Honestly I'm lucky to be alive." He chuckled mirthlessly. "The deer? Not so lucky."

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't.

"I was less than sober. Ergo, here I am, talking to my favorite singer."

I felt myself blush. Even so, I laughed bitterly. "I thought you said you didn't like my stuff?"

"Just because I don't like rock doesn't negate the fact that I acknowledge how insanely good you are at what you do."

I turned the color of a beet, I'm sure. "Well, thank you," I muttered shyly.

To my surprise, Scott reached across the table and patted my shoulder. He gave me a wide grin. "You're welcome, mate."

I couldn't help myself; I smiled back.