Her heart was beating, but lay broken under the crushing weight of the pain and her lungs felt heavy, breathing had never been this hard. Although her hands were covered by the soft warm pockets on the sides of her grey fleece jacket, they were dead cold; they shook, and they shivered. At this point though, she had gotten used to it. She had learned to embrace her pain, and live with her demons; her arms and legs paid the price of the devil, with cuts and scars, carved by their owner, covering the majority of their surface. However, her pale, tear stained face told a different story, concealing her ongoing trauma with a smile so wide, it displayed an array of perfectly shaped teeth, flawed in their colour by years of smoking tobacco. By her expression, one might say she may be having the happiest day of her life, almost as good as a mother meeting her battle bruised son after a perilous war torn decade, or even a doting father meeting his newborn daughter for the very first time. This mask of false joy had kept the ‘best’ part of well hidden from others.
If there's anything that anyone knows about depression, it’s that you never know when it hits, but when it does, it hits like a fucking avalanche, you’ll never know what got you until you’ve fought your way out of it. Some do drugs, others go for a run, but in the end we’re just searching for that tiny space, perhaps a hole, that gives us shelter from the terrible reality of the world. But when you’re lost in the dark, empty abyss of loneliness, no matter what you do– no matter how fucked you get, there is always hell when you come back down… But, even hell can get comfy once you get settled in. Now, to an outsider, it may seem so easy to just speak to a loved one, or someone who you think may understand the stuff that you’re going through, but no, it’s not as simple as you think, it never is.
Some days, you’ll feel sad without knowing why. Like you lost something precious but forgot what it was, or you miss someone you never met. But this is just the beginning, you see, It progressively becomes worse. At times, you’ll lay in bed at night, and think about everything that’s going on, wanting to scream and cry but, don’t want to wake anyone. Instead you just sit there and the pain just breaks inside of you. You’ll never tell your feelings to anyone, maybe in fear of them not being able to understand and not take you seriously, or perhaps you don’t know who to talk to, because in that situation, nobody seems like the right person to talk to, nobody seems trustworthy. No matter how hard it is, don’t show your feelings, because these days there is no trust, there is no humanity, humans suck, so you just learn how to fake a smile and how to force a laugh because it’s so much easier than explaining what’s wrong with you because when you are lost in an alternate existence between dream and reality– trapped in the realm of depression, ruled by utter self-loathing– you begin to think that nobody understands what you’re going through because you yourself don’t know what is wrong with you.
Over time, you become indecisive; sometimes you kinda feel like crying, kinda feel like dying, kinda feel like sleeping your life away, kinda feel like screaming at the top of your fucking lungs… This is exactly what she was going through. Sometimes she would either eat too much or starve herself, she would sleep for 16 hours straight or have insomniac nights, she would fall hard in love or hate passionately, she didn’t know what ‘grey’ was. At times she felt she was getting better, but then she would find herself laying awake in bed at 3:47 in the morning trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with her twisted mind. All the while she had been pretending everything was alright, that her world hadn’t collapsed– but remember this, when you’re born into a world you don’t fit in, it’s because you were born to create a new one– at this point though, when your soul, the very core of your being, has been enveloped, consumed by the eternal darkness of your demons, there is no escape. The only way to get over it, is to live through it. Depression is like a nightmare, it really is. But how do you wake up from a nightmare if you’re not asleep?
She went about her daily, mundane chores that day, just like any other day. Her attitude and behaviour then, and that of her’s over a year ago– before the wave of depression hit her and absorbed her into the depths of her own mindless misery– had undergone no change whatsoever. She greeted the people around her in the same cheerful voice and with the same brilliant smile, doing a flawless job at concealing her inner agony from the world around her. You may think that an odd good deed here and a small act of kindness there would be enough to convince a person suffering from some mental illness to realise that there are those who care and love them, well, you’re terribly wrong. In comparison to the enormity of depression, any amount of superficial positivity would be equivalent to a drop of love, into a river of sadness, that flows into an ocean of indifference… It makes absolutely no difference at all.
However, once she was back home, locked away from the rest of the world, she set her emotions free. There is only so long one can hold on before they let go. But when she let them run loose, she fell hard, with no one there to catch her, crashing down onto the cold hard floor, broken and alone, on which her demons danced around, tormenting her fragile soul, tearing it to shreds. She had become so desperate to seek refuge from her excruciating mental tribulation that even the most extreme means were not good enough. That night was just like any other night in that week, she stood over her bathroom sink, naked, and drenched in blood, her blood. A pair of scissors in her left hand hovered over her the wrist of her right. A steady trail of warm blood trickled down from a fresh cut on her right shoulder to her elbow, where it dropped into the bloodstained sink, drop by drop, in a steady rhythm. All was dead quiet except for the sound of beads of red blood dripping, echoing along the walls of the sink and her soft, muffled whimpering. The atmosphere was cold, but her hair was wet and frizzy with sweat. Her curly brown locks stuck to her moist skin, and hung loosely over her tense brow, covering her bloodshot eyes. She no longer held back the buckets of tears, this time, there was no going back. She didn’t care anymore. Her eyes burned as a flood of tears meandered its way down her cheeks and slipped into her mouth from the edge of her parted lips which had been bruised purple by her, banging her head, in utter madness, against the walls, in hope of the physical pain taking her mind off the horrors that lurked in her head, but in vain.
She was the wound, and the blade. Both, the torturer and the one who is flayed. Her grey eyes slowly rose, till she faced the monster in the mirror in front of her, staring back into her eyes with an expression unfathomable anger, mixed with that of raw pain and pure hatred. She was scared. Her bosom heaved with every shaky breath she took. It hurt, on an emotional level, to even breathe and with every heartbeat she grew weary of herself and of the world. It hurt to live. The feeling of hopelessness reverberated through her bones, her skin crawled and tingled, as if her flesh was trying to escape this mortal prison. She was barely holding onto life, but she was just hanging by a thread. She couldn’t take it any longer and she let insanity take over. Lowering her gaze to her trembling bloody hands, she let out a guttural groan of anguish and despair before she drew her weapon towards her wrist. As the tip of the scissors touched her skin, she closed her eyes for the last time and pressed with all the strength she could muster. This was the deepest she had ever cut herself and the physical trauma was like nothing she had felt before, but only a trifle compared to the hell she was suffering inside her head every single moment of her life. Warm blood exploded from the cut, spewing out profusely, in sync with the beating of her heart, from her torn veins. It flowed over her palm and trickled down the length of her quivering fingers until it poured into the sink. She could feel the cold metal press against her bone now, the throbbing of her strained heart beating in her chest and the twisted sense relief that had begun to seep into her tortured mind. She moved the blade upwards, splitting the surface of her pale skin like a knife cutting through butter. With every passing second, with every inch she cut, she craved more and more of the pain. Despite the excruciating sting of the blade, the experience was, in some inhumanly wicked way, blissful.
She stood in a pool of her own blood, the scissors dropped to the icy, square tiled floor with a clatter. Her left hand gripping the elbow of her right forelimb, her fingers wrapped around an inch deep gash stretching from the wrist of her right hand, all the way to the front of her elbow. Blood covered every square inch of her arm, pulsing out of the slits carved into her veins as it poured onto the ground rapidly. She let out a weak cry and tossed her head backward, her eyes rolled back in their sockets behind closed eyelids. Her hands dropped to her sides as she collapsed, her back pressed against the wooden door and with a soft plop, she fell into the puddle of blood. Her torso swayed to the right as she took her last breath before her head hit the tile with a thunk. She lay naked and motionless, in a bloodbath, on the wet floor as the blood kept oozing out of her arm and shoulder for several minutes after, until it eventually stopped; and once again, the silence returned, this time, for good.
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