*May contain triggers for people who suffer from depression, self harm, and/ have suicidal tendencies.*
Monday, March 21, 2016
U.S.A.
13 years old
A fictional story about living with depression, self harm, suicidal thoughts.
Every day I dry my tears, and I hide. I hide my feelings behind every little thing I do. I have a mask. The front of the mask is shiny and happy, while the back is drenched in the tears cascading down my soul. Driven by my never ending thoughts, and chased by the white rabbit of war in my mind, I live through the hell that chance has thrust me in. Sometimes I see the glimmer of hope, and all it does is shrink, eaten by the darkness. Day after day I get up, brush my hair, eat, get dressed, and wander almost aimlessly through the routine of life stuck in a stiff wooden puppet. During the night, when no one can see me, I shed the skin of the puppet, and cry. The pain. The despair. Sitting distraught on my bed, confined in the four pale green walls I have called home. They listen to me banter on and on about how I can't go on any more. About how each day grows dimmer, and dimmer. How life doesn't feel worth while anymore. The dreams I once held dear in my heart of how I was going to attend Harvard University, become a lawyer, help the right people win their cases, and have a family; well those disappeared long ago. Now I'm stuck working the 9-12 shift at McDonalds, and attending the local community college barely passing. So every night I go home, and cry. Sometimes the tears will bring me to the ocean, and sometimes the tears will turn red. Red as roses. Red as wine. These are the tears that a shame me the most. That need band aids as my tissues, tears that I still feel in the morning. The tears that remind me of my mother, who has felt the same demons as I do, whose demons have won their battle, the demons that have moved on to me. The only thing that pulls me through is not wanting to end up in a never ending drunken haze, or stumble through the hallucinations of street drugs. Not wanting to be found dead in the ally ways or hung high from a branch. That's not how I want to be remembered. I patch up my battle scars, the new and the old. I stand in the crowd, blended in, stuck in my little wooden puppet, and go through life trying to find my way.
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The Collection
Short StoryThis is a collection of essays and short stories that I have written on current events, topics that have been through my mind, and problems that have been around for a while. These will be fiction sad none fiction. They will have the date my age and...
