Remy's POV:

Peter stared straight back at me. He was just as horrified as I was. Quietly I peeped around the doorway, holding my breath. The front door was wide open and I could see my ma and Joseph were taking bags out of the boot of our car.

Of course this is happening. It's me.

I had no time for self - pity. Handing him the envelope and taking him by the arm I steered him towards the double doors in the kitchen that connected it to the sitting room. They were open. I kept him behind me and tiptoed forward, peering around the doorway. I could still see them from the sitting room bay window. If my idea went to plan they would both enter the kitchen to dump the bags like they always did when they came back from shopping. While they were doing that Peter and I would creep into the sitting room and slip out the front door, given that it was still open and my mother had bought too much stuff to carry in all at once. It was risky.

Peter was nudging me, clearly worried out of his mind. I turned to him.

I've got this, I mouthed. It's okay.

He looked convinced. He trusted me. I put a finger to my lips and turned to watch from the door again. As I was watching he wrapped his hand around mine gently, and I surprised myself by not wrenching it out again. Because I didn't want to.

Well, that was new.

I panicked as my mother was inches from the doorway, struggling with many paper bags. Joseph dropped what he was carrying and went to help her, taking all of her load. It was good to know he would always take care of her. Ma patted his arm and went back near the car to pick up some of Joseph's load. I was momentarily distracted until I realized Joseph was coming into the house. Clutching Peter's hand I readied myself. I could hear Joseph's feet in the hallway, and once I knew they were coming into the kitchen I pulled Peter into the sitting room with me. We both crouched down behind the leather couch without a sound. From where we were I could still see the scene outside and was watching, mentally battling any distractions. My free hand was gripping the loose leather on the back of the couch in fright. We couldn't be caught. My mother was carrying in a few bags again when Joseph rushed out to help her. When he took them off her he simply dumped them inside the door and went back into the kitchen. My mother looked a bit miffed, but her eyes brightened again when I could hear Joseph coming back out again. The sun had revealed itself again and I could see what was in Joseph's hands. A bottle of wine and two glasses. He pushed the door closed and they were talking and laughing, making their way over to the garden table. I was yet again on the verge of a mental breakdown.

We weren't leaving anytime soon.

Peter was nudging me again. "Where are they?" he whispered.

I looked at him, trying to disguise my disappointment. "I'm sorry, Peter. They're staying outside. We have to stake it out here for a while."

His face fell. He held my hand tighter.

"We can't hide behind here forever," he whispered again.

He was right. Sooner or later when they came back inside they would either retreat to the sitting room like they always did for the soaps. I checked the time on the grandfather clock across from us. Six o'clock, which only left an hour until the soaps began. They almost always fell asleep during them, I would know. So that only left Peter and me the upstairs to work with. We would come down and sneak out the front door, providing we weren't seen. I told Peter my risky plan.

"I'm in," he tells me.

I could hear the clinking of glasses and the sound of laughter. Rising slowly from behind the couch I pulled Peter up with me and we both quietly exited the sitting room. I winced when we were at the stairs. If either of them saw us then it was game over. Everything would crash and burn. I had to pull my hand out of Peter's and steady myself on the banister. The very thought of being caught sent a huge wave of panic coursing through my brain, getting stronger with every second. I began to shake and my vision was blurring. Suddenly there was an arm around my waist and a hand on my shoulder, guiding me. I stepped up and up but I was a million miles away. Time seemed frozen. Fear was taking hold again and it was freezing me, rendering me useless and emotionless. Like a rag doll.

"Almost there, Rem."

His voice came out of nowhere and startled me completely. I went to clutch the banister rail again but my fingers couldn't find it. I realized my eyes were shut tight and forced them open again. We were standing a bit away from the top step, directly across from ma and Joseph's room. Martina's old room was to the right, mine was to the left. He was still holding me and I felt a sense of protection, like he was trying to force my state to go away and leave me to be happy. Like the panic attack was a demon, a demon he was trying to shut out and make it leave me.
But demons never left. Demons hid in the shadows, in the darkest corners of your mind, leading you to believe they were gone. Then they would unexpectedly rise at your most vulnerable moment and attack with every bit of strength they had in them. Which was clearly a lot in my case. But Peter was (knowingly or not) banishing them, and after a few moments my panic attack was a memory and nothing more.

"Thank you," I said to him, even though I couldn't see him.

His hold softened a bit. "No problem."

His voice had too.

I kept forgetting he was becoming more mature, but it was at an unnatural speed. His time was catching up, but he didn't seem to care anymore. And if he did, he was hiding it very well.

The arm around my waist hand the envelope in its hand, but suddenly I didn't want to know anymore. For the first time since this whole thing had started up again I realized I was totally exhausted. I didn't have the strength to fight the self – pity parade anymore. It was coming whether I liked it or not. And it had blimps too.

"Which way, Remy?"

The door in front of us was open and so was the one to the right. So I pulled Peter along towards my room, the only room with a closed door. It was least likely they would come upstairs at all, but if they did, it was even unlikelier they would come into my room, seeing as how I was not supposed to even be in Ireland. But technically where I had really gone to was out of Ireland just like Spain was, so I did partially tell a little bit of the truth.

I let myself ponder on that pitiful logic as Peter reached for the door handle, pushing it down and then pushing the door open. I was staring into nowhere, not even seeing. It creaked loudly and a blast of cold air hit us, but I didn't really care anymore. I just wanted to sleep. The cold air kept hitting us so I knew the windows were open. But there was something else in the atmosphere. A smell. A smell that I didn't like, but recognized in an instant. Paint.

I stopped staring into nothing and saw. My windows were thrown open, my curtains were gone. The room had transformed. The walls were now a sort of coffee brown, replacing the old purple. The wooden flooring had been polished, now cleaner than I had ever seen it. The windowsills were bright white and gleaming, and the once single ordinary light bulb that hung on a wire from the ceiling was covered with a white ceiling lamp, with black patterned butterflies flying in every direction. Trying to escape.

My bed and the rest of the furniture were piled neatly together in the middle of the room, away from drying paint. That's probably what all those shopping bags were for. They were doing up my room for me, based on my web of lies. I didn't want to go in there. The smell was sickening and without warning my knees went from under me. Peter shut the door again quickly and knelt down beside me on the floor where I had landed. I knew he didn't know what to do, and that he was silently fretting. I didn't want to worry him, but I was well past that. Instead I tried to stop my shaking from returning, and another panic attack. Right then and there I would've agreed that I was fragile, if not already broken into pieces.

The kind of severe hopelessness I had only ever felt once in my lifetime was coming back. That explained the panic attack, the shaking, the confusion. My mind just wasn't able for it again.

The kind of severe hopelessness I had felt when Hook's bullet had severed my skin and stupidity and killed me. I thought I was coping with that experience, over it even, but I wasn't. I hadn't realized until that moment that I was psychologically damaged. Probably beyond repair.

I looked at Peter. He was saying something, but I could just barely hear him. The sounds were cautious, and a bit jumpy, but they were helping.

We were there for a long time, and halfway through the panicking stopped and my hearing came back, so we talked, sitting side by side leaning against my door. We both said if ma and joseph came up we could go into my room again, as long as I held my breath.

"Do you want to talk about today?" he asked me.

There was no point in keeping it from him. "Panic attacks. Flashbacks. They've never been this bad. I think I triggered them because of my fear of us being caught."

"Flashbacks? To what?"

No point in keeping that from him either. "Two years ago."

He didn't say anything, which meant he understood. I didn't have to explain further. We sat together in silence.

Just when I was wondering when the cursed hour would be up they came inside, still laughing but yawning. The telly sounded, and we waited a few more minutes for the snores. Once they sounded, we were out like a flash. I didn't look in the doorway as we passed. I didn't want to disturb them.

It had been an exhausting day for everyone.

A/N: Would appreciate reviews pretty please?:)