Icarus felt like shit right now. He really feels like shit. He tried to quiet down his hiccuped breaths with his mouth, pressing his hand hard against his lips to force himself to breathe through his nose. God, what the fuck was that? Ala had never raised his voice like that at him before: he's come close, but never that loud to where it almost shakes the walls of the house. He never knew that his father could be so loud.

He locked his door. He doesn't want to be bothered right now, and he sat himself down before the mirror in his room. He took off his glasses with a shake and rubbed at his eyes, trying to make the tears disappear. Why couldn't he understand? What the fuck is so much more important in that office than his own son?

Icarus was angry. He dug the heels of his hand into his eyes. So stupid. So fucking stupid. He hates that stupid office and whatever stupid thing his dad is so fixated on. He hates, he hates, he hates, he hates, he hates, he hates so much.

He gripped at his hair hard. He hates everything right now. He knows it will go away - that he will feel guilty for showing such emotion later - but right now, he's engulfed with just so much hate.

Why should he be hiding? Why is he here?

He looked up at his face—red, puffy. He hates the way his face is so round, the acne scattered on his skin, his stupid glasses, the length of his nose, his hair, his braces. He wishes he didn't have to share features with his dad. He wishes he could've just been made by his mother alone.

And why should I feel guilty for having emotions anyways?

He's human. He's a teenager. He needs help regulating these feelings from somebody. He shouldn't have to rely on medication just to feel normal.

He's so sick of playing therapist all the time. He's sixteen fucking years old. So why? Why is this all happening?

He walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He grabbed all the medication he had to take just to be okay.

He dumped the pills into the toilet. One by one, every bottle emptied.

He grabbed scissors and started cutting his hair. Chunks fell into the sink. He just needed the weight off.

When he was done, he flushed everything away. Good riddance.

He slipped into bed, shaking. Angry. Exhausted. Scared.

A scratch at the door. Achilles came in and curled beside him, licking away his tears until he fell asleep.

Icarus stayed awake.

2:00 AM.