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You would think, that after years of experience of being manipulated, that Jeremy would be used to it, would recognise it.
At first it was his mom, she drank because Jeremy was a bad child, because he was a boy and not a girl, because his dad was a mess trying to earn enough money to pay for Jeremy’s food. The cuts on her arm were Jeremy’s fault.
When she left, his dad might as well have left too, he did nothing but laze around on the couch or drink liquor late at night. Jeremy blamed his mom, it was easier that way. Easier to blame someone who wasn’t there. Easier to blame someone who left them for someone she barely knew.
But she left because of Jeremy. Because Jeremy made her life terrible and was a terrible son and a terrible person and no one wants to live with a terrible person, it all boiled down to Jeremy. Everything was Jeremy’s fault.
Mom leaving was Jeremy’s fault. Dad’s depression was Jeremy’s fault. Michael’s self harm was probably Jeremy’s fault too.
Taking the Squip was Jeremy’s fault.
Abandoning Michael, leading on Brooke, Jake’s legs, Rich’s burns, Christine’s insecurity, all of it was because Jeremy was a terrible person who made terrible choices and ruined everything he touched.
His friends found out, because Jeremy got drunk one night and cried and complained like a terrible loser and his friends found out and it was all his fault and he was a terrible person for making them feel bad.
His mom said he was terrible. His Squip said he was terrible. His friends didn’t think he was terrible.
Jake would pat him on the shoulder and tell him he was ‘pretty great’. Christine would hug him and tell him he was extraordinary, Michael would kiss him and tell him he was the most amazing person in the world.
His mom told him to stop making bad choices. The Squip started making choices for him. His friends valued his choices.
Brooke would drag him along to a store and ask his opinion on her outfit. Jenna would show him her latest blog post and ask him if it looked good to post. Chloe would show off her nails and designer clothes and ask him what to wear.
His dad would tell him that his mom wasn’t his fault.
Rich would tell him that the Squip wasn’t his fault.
His loved ones would tell him that he was special and incredible and the furthest thing from terrible.
His mind would tell him otherwise, a soft whisper of a mechanical voice echoing at the back of his brain.
But then his friends would always be there, with a bottle of Red, with a warm hug and a willing ear, with a tender smile and a whole lot of love.
His mom said he was terrible. His Squip said he was terrible. His brain said he was terrible.
He doesn’t believe them, not anymore.