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Depression, mini story starter 1 |
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<center>like the title says, this is my mini story starter i was tellin you about. its called depression, cause i wrote it one night when i was feelinr eally really down. which seems to happen alot, if you didnt notice. anyway. here goes.</center>
sitting here in the darkness, the pain quickly fading as i become numb. in my mind, i am screaming, and crying, longing to be held, to be comforted, to know someone is there. as the clock strikes the midnight hour, i look up from the papers of which i had been staring.
there, crudly scribbled in a handwriting that is my own, are the wishes i hold for myself and for others, the darkest of desires, the needing, the wanting, to release. slowly i read to myself of what i had just written, and in my mind a plan begins to form, one of desperation.
too much i have been through, and i can stand no longer. standing, i walk to through the darkened hallways, lit by the meager light of a single lamp, its bulb dimming and flickering, soon to go out.
distantly, i could feel the coldness of the winters night setting in, seeping through the walls and windows, i the only source of warmth in the room. it didnt matter, for in my mind, i was already dead, and would no longer feel warmth, cold, pain, pleasure, sorrow or happyness.
i am done.
it no longer mattered who remembered me, for they mattered not, and they, too, will be forgotten. i pause outside my elder's door, listening to their snores as they slept peacefully away, in a blissful moment to themselves, lost amid their dreams, the calming, soothing, healing dreams most have when asleep. the dreams i never have.
walking on, i cross the den, the flickering of light and shadow playing upon my eyes, mixing with the fears i normally see, the horror which forms behindmy eyes, that no others know. yet, i no longer feared them; their claws, reaching for my arms and legs, no longer threatened to peirce my flesh, and i cared not if my death was by their hand.
at a distance they watched, as my demons always did, with their cold, dead eyes, seeing yet not, knowing i was there, and that i no longer feared them nor any other. behind me they followed, in the shadows, where no other could see them.
soon they would be gone from me, these demons, these nightmares that plauged me, sleeping or awake, for every moment of which i breathe, and live, and walk. soon, they will be gone, as with the pain, and the sorrow. no longer will i deal with my parents, nor my brothers. no more of the distcusted looks of my peers, who look down upon me with each day i roam the halls of the school. no longer.
with each step i took, through my home and to the bath, left in my wake was blood, from my nose which had been broken by my father, in his fit of rage. the pain was numbed, now, as was my heart, as i readied myself with careful, measured, yet shaky, breaths. stepping to the cold tile of the bath floor, i shivered, and was blinded as the, seemingly, brilliant gold of the light filled the room, greatly contrast to the dim, almost pitch, blackness of the halls outside the small room.
running an icey bath, i slowly slipped into it, unable to surpress the gasp as the frigid cold enveloped my already numbed body, sending a sharp pain throughout.
slowly, i raised with a shaky hand, i drew forth the kitchen knife of which i had been carrying, and drew it, slowly, across my flesh, the blade almost sharp enough to make it painless, each blade carefully cut to precision and care by my father, a care he never shown twords me. closing my eyes, i let my hands fall to the water, shaking gently. no more, i repeated to myself, as inside i was screaming, in a distant, sane voice buried amid the choas, sorrow, anger and anguish. it was not too late. i could save myself. i could live on.
should i stop? i began to doubt, as panic began to rise. should i try to save myself?
but what would it matter.. i am nothing. no one would miss me, no one would care. tears would be shed over my grave, but why had they not cared for me while i was alive? why did they not care before now? anyone could see my pain, painted brilliantly in my work and art, yet none cared to take responsibility. no one bothered to care. so now, i lay here, blood pouring thickly and spreading through the water and spidery patters, in a form of its own art, style, and brilliance, in my mind.
what should i do?
 Silver_Flame118 · Sat Mar 19, 2005 @ 02:55am · 0 Comments |
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