Depressed (wattysShort)

Part 4

Every morning seemed to have been pervaded by a glum grey atmosphere. Her mum spent hours with her, arms wrapped too tightly around her, hugging her too closely all the while bringing up topics to lighten the mood. She talked about the hobo across the street who was embarrassed by grandma Hillary and Mr and Mrs Collins fighting again. Weightless seamless topics that ordinarily wouldn't have been shared with her.  Her mother knew it was just too soon for any motivational talks because that would immediately jump-start memories of that day and although she layed down forlonly on the bed thinking about it, it might hurt a lot if the topic was brought up. She was too sensitive to her mothers words and body movements because she felt in them a slight scolding. Something that screamed"
"Get up from there, are you the first to fail" but she covered it all with a niceness too scrubbed clean. Jones knew her mother wouldn't be displaying this attitude if she knew. If only she knew.

Jones was slow, lost in a viscous haze, shrouded in a soup of nothingness. Between her and what she could feel, there was a gap. She cared about nothing. She wanted to care but she no longer knew how; it had slipped from Jones memory, the ability to care and sometimes she wondered how she had gotten to this point. Sometimes she woke up flailing and helpless, and she saw in front of her and behind her,  an utterless hopelesness. She knew there was no point in being here, in being alive. It had not happened because she glimpsed at a live she wasn't in. A life where any mention or reference to her would be somehow linked to past tenses. Her mother's animated and cheerful attitude would have died like a dried up flower without care and water. Huge purple bags making a home under her eyes, her hair held carelessly in a messy bun. She would be shredded - torn between sorrow and more sorrow asking random people she came across if she had not been a good mother. She saw her mother drowning endless alcohol;and that alone made her sad because it was because of her she would slide easily background  to her past life - a life she fought so hard to escape. With her eyes clenched shut that day, her mother's hands banging at the door and the rough feel of the rope in her hands she saw her mother's coffin. Her own mother would die because of her - of course the only reason for her living was no longer living.
Urghh this wasn't what she wanted. This was not how she had envisioned her life. Imaginations of her life always started on a bright sunny day, surrounded by flowers and artwork - her art work. Even thinking about it warmed her heart. A whole museum dedicated to her, her paintings held firmly to white walls. People moving along, some stopping to stare at the abstract works chattering along with their partners. The art school had always denied her admission. She worked on projects for long, denieing her self  sleep,  her mind constantly racing with new ideas and always checking for inspirations on the net. She worked too damn hard too see herself fail this way. She sometimes felt the strong urge to walk into the administrators office shoving the painting to his face asking what was wrong. Explaining how much she worked on the project. But of course she couldn't do that because her attitude alone would disqualify her. 

It was there and then it occoured to her that she couldn't do this. She dropped the rope and opened the door. As soon as she saw her mom, her face lined with worry, eyes a lot greaner with that lopsidedness her lips always took when she was sad she was glad she didn't do it. May be not glad but relieved, because she knew right there this was the person that would loose the most. That would feel the pain the most. She opened her arms for Jones to come in for a hug and she did. Her flowery scent warming her - a scent she had grown to associate with her.

Jones had not mentioned what happened to her or what could have happened. She was scared that her mother would be thrown into an eternal panic. She was sure a new guardness would grow within her. She would read meaning into everything she did  her eyes following her every movement like a hawk and insisting always that she see a therapist, annoyingly lingering too long when she kissed her good night. Jones knew her mother would panic - panic she was sure would never meet an end.
Her body had taken a new laziness and slugishness. In her mind she thought of doing something - may be reading a book but the energy to put those thoughts into something concrete erroded her. Was this what it felt like to be depressed? Often in the middle of eating she would feel a crushing need to cry and the tears would come, the sobs hurting her throat. Her days were stilled by silence and snow. 

        The end

An: I'm entering this book for the wattys. I don't know what to expect but I pray is a success. Its actually a very short story and I feel I should add more but I want to see how it goes first. I've got nice ideas but it depends on how much attention the book gets . Thanks again for reading. 💖💖