Jacksepticeye Imagines

Depression

WARNING: VERY TRIGGERING!!! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO IT!!

Are you still here? Good. Here we go.

[Jack's POV]

I wake up in the middle of the night with a shadow hanging over me. I know it well. It hovers over me daily. It never stops haunting my every thought, my every move. Whatever I do, it's there, waiting for my reaction.

Depression.

It hangs over me like a stormy cloud. It never goes away.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull myself off its comfortable surface. I have to get up, I tell myself, I have to do something about this. And I know exactly what I'm going to do.

I crack open the bathroom door....and there it is. The razor.

I go to it and softly, gently place it against my skin. I rub it side to side. I feel the burn, the pain. It lets me know that I'm still here, on this wretched earth, this horrid place of Hell.

I have no purpose. What's the point of me being here? I don't need to be here. Something inside of me is gnawing at my soul, telling me that I should do something to save everyone from fooling with me.

No....I can't. What would Ma think? What would Mark think? What would Poods think? Bob? Wade? Ken?

They wouldn't care.

Yes, they would.

No, they wouldn't.

Yes, they would.

NO.

I let the razor drop out of my hand. Blood dribbles down my arm, to my elbow, then dripping to the stark white tile beneath my feet. I watch as it rivers down, across my skin. It makes me imagine myself drowning in a river of hopelessness, of fear. I wish I was there now. I would sure be a lot happier, I just know it.

Suddenly, there's a knock at my door. I stop staring at my own river of blood and study the outside of this room. This is the only room that makes me feel safe. Why should I leave? I'm perfectly fine in here. What makes me think I - ?

The knock comes again. I sigh, knowing it's not going to stop until I answer it.

I clean up the blood on the floor and on my arm, before bandaging my wrist, like I'd never done what I was meant to do.

I stalk across the living room, zombie-like, and open the door.

A bright young girl stands in my presence. I say she's bright because of what she wears. Her fleece sweater is a sunny yellow and her blouse underneath it is a soft pink. Her jeans are faded, but still hold the color of being gently used.

"Can I help you?" The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.

She looks at me funny, "Um, is this Norma Dyke's house?" She asks me like I know a random stranger named Norma Dyke. Sounds like a fake name, anyway.

"No, my name is Jack." Damnit, why do I have to ruin everything?

She smiles, instantly making me want to return the gesture, "My name's Linda."

Linda, I note, probably also a fake name.

"But my friends call me Lindy," she concludes.

Then the odd moment comes when I find myself smiling. I haven't smiled in a long time. So, why now?

"May I at least come in?" She's trying to invade my space. Who does she think she is?

"I don't have a map or anything," I tell her.