"Yes. That." His blank voice echoed in my head like a shrill melody. I felt betrayed, stripped of my privacy. I felt violated and naked in front him.

"W-what were you doing in there? Why..." My question hung in the air, voice above a whisper.

"How could you sneak through my stuff w-without my permission? T-that was for me, Chance. No one was supposed t-to see that," I stuttered through my words, my chest constricting in betrayal and hurt. I think that was the first time I said his first name.

"I asked you a question, Jason," he said my name like it was venom, like an acid on his tongue. His face was scrunched up like he'd swallowed a bitter pill. How ironic. I'm the one who's been swallowing them.

For the first time in forever, I felt ashamed. Ashamed of something I had no control over. He made me sound like a bad person, like I was one of those drug addicts that stopped in the corner and robbed people of their belongings. Those ones that kill for a few pennies. Those ones that kill innocent lives just to get a fix of nicotine or coke. He made me feel ashamed of taking medication. He made me feel so insecure and so weak like a dummy.

He made me feel like it was my fault that I was depressed. No. That's not my fault. I didn't go knocking on its door and asked for it to possess me. I didn't ask to be an insomniac. That will never be my fault!

It was your fault.

A tiny voice at the back of my head always says that it's my fault.

I may be saying that it's not my fault, but I knew deep down that it's my fault. It's always been my fault. I got depressed because I was weak and stupid. I let the depression swallow me whole because I was weak and vulnerable. I didn't have the will to fight for myself, so I relied on sleeping pills, anti-depressants and therapists. They became my whole world. They became my life. One thing I'm good at is taking pills that are probably doing a lot more harm than good. Yet I still take them like the fool I've become.

I felt a tear trail down my cheek, seeping into my mouth that was slightly ajar.

My mouth was dry, throat clogging up. I tried to explain myself, many reasons at the tip of my tongue, but they just stayed there. At the tip of my tongue.

I hated myself every day because I couldn't take control of my life. I couldn't save the only person that had my heart. I failed to protect what was mine.

"I-It's not what you are thinking. I don't do drugs. I..."

"You what?"

His voice was sharp, sharper than a double-edged sword. It slit right through my being without mercy. It's not my fault. It was never my fault. I didn't choose to live like this. I didn't choose this goddamn life!

"I would never do drugs! I medicate! I need my medication!" I was yelling now, voice high-pitched and breaking.

He was momentarily stunned, sat still like he was cemented. I quickly wiped the tears off my face, feeling the salty liquid bitter on my tongue. I sniffed and ran out the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and leaving my medication.

I ran into my bedroom and locked the door, falling onto my bed and covering my face with my hands. I was sobbing hysterically, my body vibrating vigorously.

I didn't choose this life. I didn't.

I didn't go to work today. I stayed in my room all day, busy mulling over my thoughts. I raked my brain all day trying to find out why I turned up like this. I didn't love myself, that I could admit. I didn't think that I was good enough because of many factors.

My eyes were red and puffy due to bawling my eyes out. My mouth was as dry as the Sahara Desert. I ended up taking my medication when he'd left. I had a hard time swallowing this time. I didn't want to take them because of his reaction when he saw them. I don't even think he knows that they are sleeping pills and anti-depressants. He thought I was taking something dangerous. Something that was illegal.

I sighed in tiredness and evaluated myself in the mirror. My face was flushed, hair sticking out in every direction. I ran a hand down my face and walked away from the mirror, exiting the bathroom. I went into the living room and plopped down on the couch, taking my phone from the coffee table and dialing Mom's numbers. I needed someone to talk to badly. I even regretted stopping going to my therapist.

On the third ring, she picked up. My heart spiked up, beating erratically like it wanted to escape my ribcage. It wanted to break free from its cage.

"Mom," that's all I said. That's all I said for her to know that something was wrong. That's all I said to let her know, know that today was one of those days.

"Jason. Are you okay?" she asked, even though she knew. She knew that I was not myself.

"I don't know. Mom, why am I not good enough? I mean, sometimes I feel like I've disappointed you."

She was silent for a while, my heavy breathing the only sound that could be heard.

I stayed quiet too, waiting for her to answer me. Waiting for her to tell me that I'm not good enough, that I'm a failure and a waste of space. I needed her to assure me of that so I no longer had doubts.

"Mom, tell me that I'm a disappointment and a failure. Just tell me," I pleaded, tears threatening to spill, but I had long run out of them because nothing came out. I just needed the assurance that I was a failure and a waste of space. I am a failure!

"My son, please don't do anything rash. Just take a deep breath and calm down. I know you are in a bad space right now, but don't do anything you'll regret," she said, her voice breaking.

I don't know how many times I've told her that I'm not suicidal. I am not suicidal. I just like to think about what it would feel like if I was dead. That's not being suicidal.

"Mom, I'm sitting on my couch and speaking to you. I would never do anything to harm myself. I promise," The lie slipped out of my lips without conviction.

"That's what you said last time, Jason. I'm begging you. Don't do anything. I'm coming tomorrow to stay with you a little while," she was panicking now, her words a jumbled mess. I thought I heard a sob from her side.

Why is she crying? She is not the one feeling helpless and useless. Why is she worried? I’m not going to do anything to myself.

"Mom, I'm sorry for upsetting you. I'm okay. I promise. I'll talk to you later, bye," I hung up before she could get a word in.

My thoughts were all over the place. His accusing face was still engraved in my mind, haunting me. He looked at me like I was a pedophile or a serial killer. He looked at me like I was a rapist and a drug dealer. Did he know that those pills I took helped me a lot? Did he know that I was suffering? Dying bit by bit every day? That I wished I was dead to escape the horrors of my life? The horrors of what I’ve become? Did he know?

Did he know that his actions alone had me this messed up? Did he know that I was a ticking bomb, ready to explode anytime? Did he know all of that?

I bet he's busy living his good life, not caring about how he made me feel!

It's all his fault, his fault that I felt worthless and useless!

It's his fault that I've spent the whole day crying and eating my brain to the core.

Something in me snapped. It's like a switch had been flipped.

It's all his fault. It's his fault that I'm heading to the bathroom right now.

It's all his fault.

I opened the cabinet, reaching for a certain bottle. It's all his fault.