A short story about the rare times I convince myself to get out of bed. CW for depression, its thoughts. Scars, their pain, and the small moments of happiness
The boy stared at his phone, taking in all of what he was. He for a strange reason wanted to get out. He blinked harshly, tired tears peaking out from his lashes as he remained silent. It was moments like this, waking up again from the gentle hold of sleep and harsh hold of reality.
The paint from earlier still coated his skin, his dark room only lit by the tv streaming vines. He spoke no words, but he slowly sat up, feeling the weight of his body try and force himself back down to the forgiving but uncomfortable bed. He flopped back down, taking a few moments as the hand of depression gripped down on him again before he sat up again.
He watched the light from the tv in his cave like room dance across his skin, showing the shades of paint, the faint lines of skin and scars from his lifetime. He slowly stood, the weight of his body causing him to stumble. Depression laid next to where he once laid, beckoning to come back to the bed they shared together. The boy did not listen.
He opened the door and walked out the room, immediately blinded by the bright lights. The paint was clearer on his darker skin, the scars too and depression a aggitated buzz in the back of his mind. 'come back, hurt again from within, lay with me!' it called, but he did not answer.
Walking further towards the front of the house a man sat on the couch, his mother boyfriend. He looked to the boy and smiled happily. "Look who came out!" That made the boy want to hide, but he didn't respond.
Opening the front door, unlocking its screen door he stepped out from under the porch cover until he stood in the sun. He moved to the grass, and laid down in it. Taking the gentle scent in as he began to smile for the first time in years.
"I will win against my depression."
