Blackness

Author's Note: This piece I wrote in the point of view of someone with severe depression, and what could be the worst of it. This piece is ficticious and is a creative piece.

With school folders in hand, the muted hallways scream in my ears and I wonder why I was born once again. While passing the couples that swear they're in love and friends that sound like a broken record reciting their times together every time they meet eyes, my mind wants dissolve and my stomach begins to eat away at itself. Inside me, my gut rumbles as it's calling for food, but I know better than to give in to the pain. One day, I hope, my starvation will pay off towards a leaner body. Nonetheless, I deserve the suffer my diet is punching me with. Continuing to walk face down, I lunge for my locker ignoring the laughter that I'm sure is aimed at my obesity. I feel my cheeks flush and as soon as I open my locker, I tug at my backpack and slop in my textbooks and journal. Wrapping my bag around my shoulders, I follow the tiles on the floor that lead me out of the school.

Throughout the bus ride home, my heavy heart only drops farther to the ground. My head leans on the fogged up window being rejected with every pothole the bus encounters. Amidst my thoughts, we pull up to my beaten up ranch style home and I step off the bus with the lingered bus exhaust surrounding me. Both of my hands are grasping the straps of my backpack with my fingernails digging into the stitching. Lining my driveway is a salty brown mush that blends into the blanket of snow layering over the ground. All of the trees are weighted down by thick buckets of white. Though I admit nothing compares to the weight I carry wherever I go, whatever I do. By the time I reach my front door, I stand there and come to a full summary on my life and how in the next few hours, I won't be in existence any longer; it's not like anyone will notice or care anyway. Examining the front door, I notice small details I haven't before. The moss green paint is peeling around the edges of the door and cracks are quite obvious in the molding. Precautiously, I turn around and scan up and down the road making sure no one was watching me and no one knows where I am. When all is silent, I acutely snap back to the door and shove my hand into my jean pocket grabbing a hold of the house key. Sticking the key in the silver handle, I whip my shoulder into the door and listen for the door's creak that gradually screeches louder.

"Hello?" I throw out into the blackness of the room and absorb that my voice sounds so alien to me for not using it the past few days. No one responded to my call, so I turned on the lights and ripped open my backpack for my journal and my black ball-point pen. As of now, I will proceed to paint a pleasing picture for the world by removing myself and all of the disgust that follows along with me. The pen, equal to the weight of my body, draws out my faintest memories from when I didn't know better than to be happy. Numbness surfaced my face when I noticed a damp part of the paper, where the words blurred together as if they were confused. Crowded in my throat is a lump of pain I let out in awkward hiccups. Outcrying to no one, my vision becomes disoriented and my cheeks are drenched with lonely sadness while the tears continue to rain down uncontrollably. I sign off my last farewell then drag myself over to the bathroom.

Last year, I was diagnosed depression pills for my constant bleakness. Instructions indicated that I'm highly recommended to swallow one pill right before I go to bed. Fearfully recalling this discipline, I stood in front of the mirror with knees that couldn't stay straight and with my eyes focused on the orange bottle of recently filled depression pills. Shaking like I have a terrible case of Parkinson's disease, I manage to wrap my hand around the bottle and twist off the cap. Attempting to quiet my tears, I set the bottle down to tie up my hair. For once I am grateful to be alone, for no one to see the mess of sobs and my last moments. Wiping my face I scoop up the medicine and spill out several pills, enough to do the job. Staring intently at the pills in hand, I listen to the silence of the house that helps drill in my decision. My elbow bends. My hand snaps. My throat swallows. Dropping the medication bottle, I fall to my knees and collapse on the ground, just laying there. Embraced by the cold floor, it pinches my skin and I realize that I can't move, but my eyes and ears are slightly functional. The bathroom entrance begins to appear fuzzy to me as I stare blankly out the door. When suddenly I hear something familiar, a door's creaking.

With the moments left I have to live and my rapidly decreasing knowledge of simplistic things, I recall who this person entering our house should be, my mother. I knew she would come home at one point. Confusion erodes my brain and I feel myself slipping away from reality even more. My mom calls out my name, as she would normally do, and her voice is left ringing in my ears over and over and over again. Dizzily I make out two brown shoes at the foot of the bathroom tile and hear a puzzled tone of voice coming from my mom. Once again, she repeated my name.

All at once, blackness overcame everything I ever knew and ever was.