Lost water

Chapter Three

I sit at my messy desk. Just sitting. There are no tears. There would never be enough tears to show how I am feeling right now.

I look around the dimly lit room. A twin-sized bed sits in the corner, along with a nightstand. There are papers scattered everywhere; on the floor, on the bed, the desk.

This is all they are going to have left of me. They won't have anything else except this room to inspect, the pictures to study, and their own memories to dwell on. They would never get to say hello again.

It needs to be worth their time.

My body involuntarily moves; slowly but surely. Each step my feet take makes a small tap when they hit the floor. My arms pick things up from off of the ground; trash, miscellaneous papers, a few clothing items, and throw them in the trash.

I sit down now, slumping my body in the chair, exhausted from the small amount of moving I just did. Things have become harder for me to do lately, even simple tasks. Taking out the trash becomes such a inconvenience that my body won't move from the bed, cleaning dishes, even picking up the phone runs me of energy. Nothing is as easy as it was before.

Everyone says that depression is just a way of getting attention or just an excuse for not doing anything. They then assume it connects to suicide, which they automatically say is an easy way out.

But none of this is true.

You feel like you can't do anything, either right or at all. Your body doesn't seem to work, and you can't eat or eat too much, which makes it worse. Your body is dying from malnutrition and nobody can help, because it's too late by the time you tell someone. You don't want people to notice you at all. You want to die, which eventually will happen if it escalates soon enough. But you can't seem to die soon enough...

I want to be gone now. All of the scenarios that go through my mind don't happen, and it makes me angry. Why can death take people I care about? Why can't death take my life instead? I'm never going to amount to anything good anyways, but the people I cared about had families and successful lives. Why take that from them when I'm standing right in front of death, asking to die?

When I think of other people's lives, I find it selfish on my part. Some people can't even get any of the things I have, and yet I'm going to kill my self. I should feel privileged to have anything like this; a home, a bed, clothes. But when depression clouds your mind, you can't feel any of that.

I can't feel anything. I feel absolutely no emotions. I can't feel the joy that my only friend had brought, or the sadness that I apparently should be feeling right now.

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