Peter picked apart the face that stared sleepily back at him in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were more prominent now—heavy set and dark. Insomnia had been more of a friend these days than a foe. More welcomed than despised. He ran a shaky hand through his mussed hair, fingers catching against tiny knots. And even though he hadn’t intended to, he still paid mind to them. Paid mind to everything.
The way his mouth turned down at the sides. His long and slightly crooked nose. The mole set beneath his left eye—kissing his cheek bone. His brown eyes and dark hair, curled at the tips. Features he knew all too well. Features he had seen many times before, not on himself, but another. Features of his mother.
He looked just like her. Every last bit of him. Every last part he hated and detested.
It was her fault.
Peter gripped the sink with one hand, fumbling for the medicine cabinet with the other. He removed a bottle of pills, managing a shaky breath as he read the label. Fluoxetine.
He hesitated, thoughts lingering on the word and the thought of those tiny green and yellow capsules. How he dreaded taking them. His therapist ensured they would make things better. Easier. But all they ever did was make things harder. Peter couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. And while his body physically didn’t feel the pain of emotion, his mind still did. And that was a pain worse than living without the prescriptions. It was a prison. Trapped in his own head, his own thoughts, with no way to release his feelings.
And it was her fault.
His grip tightened on the pill bottle. All those therapy sessions spent staring off at the walls, blank and wishing for them to end. All the different medications he’d tried. Medications his father insisted would be better than the “alternative.” His sleepless nights. Up late and crying alone in his bed. Crying for comfort. For love. For his mother. Lost and empty inside.
Alone.
And it was her fault.
His features. His fears. His heartbreak.
All of it. But this, he told himself, this wasn’t going to be because of her.
He struggled to get the cap off the pill bottle, staring down at the week’s supply left. Without hesitation, he turned and emptied it into the toilet. Flushing, Peter watched as the water rushed in, drowning the little pills and sending them away. For the first time in years, he smiled. A genuine smile.
It was easy to stand there and watch them float away. Leaving them lost to the cold pipes, to be devoured by the sewer. Easy to move on and walk away like they never existed. Like he never needed them. Never cared.
Easy, to abandon them.
And that, he knew, was her fault, too.
The way his mouth turned down at the sides. His long and slightly crooked nose. The mole set beneath his left eye—kissing his cheek bone. His brown eyes and dark hair, curled at the tips. Features he knew all too well. Features he had seen many times before, not on himself, but another. Features of his mother.
He looked just like her. Every last bit of him. Every last part he hated and detested.
It was her fault.
Peter gripped the sink with one hand, fumbling for the medicine cabinet with the other. He removed a bottle of pills, managing a shaky breath as he read the label. Fluoxetine.
He hesitated, thoughts lingering on the word and the thought of those tiny green and yellow capsules. How he dreaded taking them. His therapist ensured they would make things better. Easier. But all they ever did was make things harder. Peter couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. And while his body physically didn’t feel the pain of emotion, his mind still did. And that was a pain worse than living without the prescriptions. It was a prison. Trapped in his own head, his own thoughts, with no way to release his feelings.
And it was her fault.
His grip tightened on the pill bottle. All those therapy sessions spent staring off at the walls, blank and wishing for them to end. All the different medications he’d tried. Medications his father insisted would be better than the “alternative.” His sleepless nights. Up late and crying alone in his bed. Crying for comfort. For love. For his mother. Lost and empty inside.
Alone.
And it was her fault.
His features. His fears. His heartbreak.
All of it. But this, he told himself, this wasn’t going to be because of her.
He struggled to get the cap off the pill bottle, staring down at the week’s supply left. Without hesitation, he turned and emptied it into the toilet. Flushing, Peter watched as the water rushed in, drowning the little pills and sending them away. For the first time in years, he smiled. A genuine smile.
It was easy to stand there and watch them float away. Leaving them lost to the cold pipes, to be devoured by the sewer. Easy to move on and walk away like they never existed. Like he never needed them. Never cared.
Easy, to abandon them.
And that, he knew, was her fault, too.
