Depression

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story about a man dealing with suicidal thoughts. (part of a short story I'm working on)

Submitted: April 14, 2017

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Submitted: April 14, 2017

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Deplorilby Horrible Stories and Allegories

No story is complete without its fair share of dramatic or bad moments, thus every story becomes perfect the more sadistic it is. The more horrible and interesting you can make a story the more interesting it becomes to a certain type of people. We will call these people the normies. I call them this because of their lack of being insulted or “triggered” these are the type of people that can most associate with a story about a mans body being horrible mutilated to the point of shredding bits of skin acting as bits of confetti. If that insulted you than you are clearly not the person that should be reading this type of material. However, to all normies or to all adventurous folks I thank you for taking the chance to read new literature. Welcome to a world of sadistic and deplorable stories. “Welcome to the wishing well, you wish for heaven, we give you hell”.

-Patrick Gaines Jr.

Chapter 1: Depression

It’s an average Saturday night. Everything is as it should be, the fire is burning, the dog is sleeping, your mac and cheese is dry and tasteless and you retched thoughts of self-harm and mutilation are as they should be. In your mind. You’re laying in bed, being the lazy slob you are, you, (if you can imagine it) are in your pajamas, a simple t-shirt and a pair of old and tattered boxers. Your dog being the ever-loving companion they all said he would be is silently laying by your bed side, his black furr is dirty from constant attempts to get to the small rodent in your back yard, of course, he has never succeeded in his everlasting quest and thus lays there, by your side in an everlasting life of discovery and disappointment. As you lay there, watching some mindless documentary of theology you remember your everlasting despair of your constant reminder of your sick mortality. Your existence is meaningless and futile in the world you live in. As for usual you start getting your silly thoughts, decapitation, electrocution, asphyxiation, all good ideas in your diseased mind. Your sick morality drips like hot oil through your demented mind. Your one and only thought at this point it your lack of worth. You shake your head, as if noting to some invisible entity that you’re sane. You light up a cigarette, as if that’ll help. It’s surprisingly smooth, the smoke rolls off your tongue like dead fish over the sand of an ocean, sure makes your mouth feel the same. You quickly get a short nicotine high, your head starts to kill you. “I promised I’d stop this..” Your broken promise to yourself reminds you of your lack of worth. You put out the cigarette. Your mind stops, all you feel at this moment is emptiness, sorry, remorse and hard, deepened depression. You try your hardest to get these thoughts out of your head, you turn to the one thing that has been able to keep you sane, you start to get out the bag you keep under your bed. The smooth yet sticky feeling of it sooths you for some horrible reason. You open the bag slowly, breathing in every bit of air you can from its contents. You, who is now less of a man then before, slowly begins to roll the contents of the bag into a bit of rolling paper, you light the end and take a few deep breaths of the substance. You sit and weight, in desperate need of your silly high. Finally it hits you, you move your fingers slowly as a sort of test drive, as hoped, it’s worked, your fingers move slower than they should, the world around you seems to slow down, it’s nothing but just you. The world at that time is under your control. You start to lay down, only to realize that it’s already been done for you, you laugh a bit at yourself for your stupidity. The documentary plays silently in the back ground of your thoughts. Your plane of existence starts to fade away slowly……It’s been hours but you finally wake up. You smile gently to yourself as you go over the events of the night before. As you look around you notice things have changed, the bag is all but gone, the only ruminitis are a small amount of green herb at the very bottom of the bag. You sigh to yourself and whisper to yourself, “Finally”. You get up and give your dog a light kiss on the head, he remains motionless as you walk past him. Your thoughts start to pile into you, you remember all the things you thought about from the night before. You simply can’t escape them, it’s as if a giant or horrible deity is slowly jamming it back into your skull. You know what you have to do, you slip your hand into your pocket, the sweet embrace of your pocket knife comforts you, you know it’s feeling well and it’s brought you moments of release when you had no other option. You gently pull your hand out of your pocket to feel the gently yet deep scares in your flesh, as you take your knife out of your pocket you gently start humming a song an old girlfriend showed you. You take a seat on the counter and begin to slowly dig into your flesh. Your blood, like your tears, starts pouring out, your bodies began to get used to it. You smile gently as if you’ve done some honorable dead to the world. As you begin to colipase from the numbness in your body you start to sing. “Last Saturday day night…I got married..me and my wife settled down, now me and my wi-“ You break into tears before you can finish, finally after months of trying, you start to see the sweet blackness of death. You finally, finally…die, all moments of your life have lead up to this…you did something right for once.

Personally, I’ve never lived alone but seeing how I am when people leave me for a few hours it terrifies me. I’ve been suicidal, to date I’ve taken 5 attempts on my life and for anyone that has tried it you know why it’s such an awful, terrifying experience. Depression will eat at you, it’s like a tumor or some sort of deathly mosquito. There was a time when I smoked to try to ease myself. At first it was only cigarettes but after time I needed more. Pot seemed to work, it set me in a good set of minds and made me think I was a god, I had controlled time. It was wonderful but I was mature enough to acknowledge that it was a poor choice. I stopped for a good half year until my friends got me hooked again. I’ve lived with depression my whole life. If you do as well, I implore to get help, don’t end up like some people I’ve known.


© Copyright 2017 ford prefect. All rights reserved.

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