My child was not sick.
She never told us if she was hurting or in pain. She wouldn't show us. She would sit at the dinner table and internally be crying out in pain, but just quietly be drinking her water through a straw. It was so unexpected when she fell and died. One moment she was there and the next she wasn't. That's how easily life can be taken.
My child was depressed. She was not sick.
Depression is not a disease. It's not a sickness.
Before you ask if she took her own life, she didn't. When I said she would drink, I did mean it. When I said she wouldn't show it, I meant it. She did not starve herself. She did not kill herself.
My daughter was murdered.
My daughter was killed by me.
I killed my daughter, because she wouldn't tell us anything. All I could imagine was her laying there, stuck in her own thoughts, stuck with the demons in her own head. Her depression got to her a year before I killed her. My husband- and her father- left two years ago, right before she was diagnosed. She was so upset, so much so that she sewed her mouth shut. She wouldn't say anything about feelings because she couldn't.
i don't know anymore. this really messed me up just writing it. i started crying.
hope you had fun.
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Inspiration
Randomjust me being inspired enough to write a little, but not enough for a story. most of these aren't a lot of words. these aren't stories! i'll just hate myself if i don't write them, even a little bit.
