Simon had been struggling recently. You tried to help him; to get him to stop, but nothing worked. It would just start an argument.

Now he was laying on the couch, pills scattered all over the table and empty bottles all over the floor. He was cross faded.

You came home from work and saw him on the couch, your face fell. You walked over and started to pick up the pills, assuming he was asleep. Suddenly you felt a harsh hand on your wrist. “Don’t fucking touch those.” He slurred.