Submerge

F I N E

T H U R S D A Y

As I wake up, a relentless headache pounds in my head, and the reflection in the bathroom mirror shows a version of myself even more worn out than the night before. I can't help but feel that today won't be any different in terms of making friends.

With little enthusiasm, I dress and hastily pack my bag, not bothering to check if I have everything I need. As I descend the stairs, I inadvertently eavesdrop on a conversation between my mother and Nathan about his work.

Entering the kitchen without making eye contact with anyone, I make a beeline for the refrigerator. Please, I silently beg, don't say anything. But of course, my mom can't resist: "Good morning to you too," she says. I choose to ignore her and grab a Red Bull. "It's six in the morning, Mason," Jordan, my mom's husband, chimes in as he enters the kitchen.

Jordan, my stepfather, is a figure I've grown to despise, though he's never actually harmed me. It's my convenient way of deflecting blame for my parents' separation onto someone else.

Casting a quick glance around the living room, I ask, "Where's Nathan?" When I don't spot him, I press, "Do I need to remind you that he has classes?" My mom responds with a hint of irritation, "You can't keep doing this!"

"Do what?" I retort, my voice devoid of emotion as I focus on my phone. "This is his senior year, he has a lot of responsibilities. You can't keep calling him whenever you feel a little sad!" That last comment strikes a nerve.

"A little sad?" I seethe, locking eyes with her. "You call my daily battle with depression and desire to die 'a little sad'?" I rise from the couch, advancing toward her. "I always knew you didn't love me, but I never knew you could be this cruel, Mom." I feel a hand on my shoulder, pushing me away as I draw closer. "I think we should all calm down," Jordan interjects, fixing me with a stern gaze.

"Fuck you" I mutter, walking away. "MASON! Apologize now!" my mother demands. I ignore her and continue to fill my cup with water in the kitchen. Suddenly, I sense her following me there. "I said apologize!"

"No! Fuck you both! My sister is dead, and all you care about is your stupid husband's feelings!"

"You are just like him! Mindlessly destroying everything and everyone! You really are your father's son."

My brain abruptly ceases to function, and the next thing I know, my palm is smashing the cup in my hand. Gasps fill the air. "I am **nothing** like him," I hiss, teeth clenched, my gaze locked on the floor as my hands tighten against the glass, blood dripping onto the floor.

"MASON STOP!" she pleads, pressing on my wrist in an attempt to weaken my hold on the glass. She then reaches out to caress my cheek, and I instinctively flinch at her touch. "Don't... don't touch me," I manage to say, pulling away. She retreats, hands raised in surrender. "Okay, okay, look, I'm not touching you. Baby, can you please let go of the glass for me?"

I stare at her, still not fully comprehending the situation with my bleeding hand. When I finally look down, I gasp at the sight of blood, releasing the piece of glass in my hand. "I- I didn't even feel it," I murmur, staring at my bleeding hands.

"It's okay, baby, just keep pressure on it. I'll go get my keys," she says hurriedly before walking away. My eyes lock onto Jordan's.

You are a burden.

"You'll be okay, kid," he offers with a smile, but his underlying thoughts are crystal clear. You should be 6 feet under, not her.

It's your fault.

I rub my head with the back of my hand, the dull ache spreading to my temples.

"Let's go we need to get you to the ER you're bleeding a lot," my mom says, her voice filled with concern. I nod and follow her to the car.

**

At the hospital, they barrage me with questions about the cause of my injury. My mom doesn't hesitate to reveal my mental struggles. She doesn't exactly say it, but her words paint a grim picture: "Sorry, but my son has a lot of mental problems, and I assure you that he has a therapist and everything; it's just that he's having trouble managing his anger right now."

The car ride back home is as uncomfortable as a shard of glass stuck in your hand. Jordan is along for the ride, not out of genuine concern for me.

He sees you as a threat to your own mom.

Upon arriving home, the sight of my blood on the floor turns my stomach. "Go to your room, Mason; I'll take care of that," Jordan says, patting my back, which only worsens my nausea.

I slam my room door shut and lock it, needing a moment to collect myself. I regain control of my breathing before heading to my window, where I take my newfound seat on the ledge.

My hands find the rectangular metal box in my pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled joint. With the flick of a lighter, the pungent smoke invades my lungs.

I rub my temples, desperately hoping the throbbing would subside.

Before long, I find myself lying on my bed, scrolling through my phone. I notice a few messages from my old swim teammates, but I haven't had the energy to talk to anyone who knows about what happened.

My fingers hover over Nathan's name. You're a burden a voice in my head taunts. I decide against texting him, tossing my phone onto the bed and staring at the wall.

I open the rectangular metal box again, realizing it was my last joint. My phone dings, breaking my concentration.

Nate 🏋️‍♀️

You up yet?

I don't have time to reply to his text before my phone buzzes with an incoming call from him.

"Hi," I exhale. "Hey, I guess you're up! I just wanted to check up on you. How are you feeling today?" Just great! I think sarcastically, other than the fact that I had a little tantrum and my hand is now stitched and useless.

"Fine," I reply coldly. There's a brief silence on the other end. "I was thinking maybe we could go out on Friday, if you'd like. Go around town, do a little shopping. What do you think?" I offer a noncommittal hum in response. "Okay, then. See you tomorrow. Bye, love you."

I guess my mom didn't jump at the chance to tell him about my tantrum.