Sometimes it all feels like too much for Cameron.

He'll stress and get frustrated over small, stupid things, making mountains out of molehills. Molehills can collide with walls and break glasses. Molehills can keep him up all night and make him physically sick with worry and make him wonder if the pills actually could work if he took enough of them. Perhaps the whole bottle.

He remembers glaring at the car with utter hatred as his father monologues about restorations, rarities and red, the perfect, shining red of his beloved Ferrari. His fingers always itched to scratch it, dent it, burn it. Stupid fucking thing didn't even have a consciousness-or maybe that was why his father liked it so much, because it could be anything he wanted it to be without protest, or responsibility for failure. The mere mention of the thing made Cameron sick to his stomach. His father had expected him to just take the pills and be cured, like depression was an infection that only needed antibiotics. Not that he cared if Cameron ever did heal, because he never gave a shit anyway, couldn't care less. His only love was for that god damned car.

'Who do you love? You love a CAR!'

-Cameron Frye