mercy, I pray

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story (A4 page, font size 11) showing the thoughts of somebody suffering from depression. This short story describes the subject's thoughts and tension.

Submitted: July 29, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 29, 2012




I look up, up at the sky. I then look down, to my hands, blue from the cold. To the right I can see the shore, stretching out for miles, and in the distance, I can make out a cruise ship, and the small, wooden boat only a few metres away. How I ended up here, how this happened, well, that’s to be explained.  One thing I can say, is that I messed up. Again. Maybe you’re wondering why I messed up. That’s another of those annoying mysteries to be explained later. The sun, setting in the angry red sky above, burns, and it feels like it’s burning through me, through my eyes, into the darkness inside my head. The sand tickles my foot, and I wriggle my toes and allow it to slip through the spaces between, as I try to remember what it was I did to make things go so wrong. I want to hate everyone, I want to blame everything, I want to block out everything that makes me feel bad. Everything that makes those people at an advantage. All those I’ve loved, all those I’ve hated, all those I’ve felt so damn confused about that I can’t get them out of my head. Mercy, mercy’s all I ask for, and as I stare into the bleak distance, I know that right now, it’s the closest I’ll be to getting it. Turning on me, betrayal, and the thoughts cloud over my mind. I consider forgiving those who did this, and on the other hand, I consider punching their faces until my own knuckles break. I regret things, we all do- even those who say to regret nothing. In fact, often these are the people who regret the most. It’s natural; thinking back and recognising what you could have done better. It just so happens, that when I think back, my entire life could have been ‘done’ better. My eyes begin deceiving me, and go blurry. I’m not crying, my eyes aren’t wet, but I’m tired. I haven’t slept in days, and I haven’t had a ‘decent’ night’s sleep for months. I think about praying, but realise I have nobody to pray to, and I’ve no idea what I’d ask for. The waves skip along the beach, delicate, elegant. As I shake my head, the waves are no longer skipping, but crashing. Chaos, panic, the two words circle my mind. Laughing, I pull my knees closer to my body, and wrap my arms around them. The waves, still prancing around, come closer, until they’re touching me. The moon’s out now, and I know I cannot stay the night on the beach. I’ve nowhere to go, nothing to do, nobody to trust. The waves draw closer, now covering my feet, and I ponder returning home. I decide I’ll do that, seeing as Home is where everyone goes when they’re confused and doubtful. I imagine my own home, which is certain to be a cottage with roses around the door, or something equally as quaint and beautiful. Home’s where I’m going, I’m sure of that now. I should have known that nothing stays perfect for long, and that’s when the realisation comes to me. I don’t know where home is. I’d like to say I don’t have one, but that can’t be true. Everyone has somewhere, surely? Just some people need help finding theirs. I’ve remained strong, even though mostly I’ve felt weak, but never as weak as this. Never as clueless, never as doubtful, never as unfaithful. It’s stupid, and I know I need to sort myself out. If I could write a letter, I know exactly who I would write it to. I know what I’d say. But I have no paper, no pen, and no fucking idea if the recipient would even bother to read it. Piles of stones stand along the beach, and I pick up a few, putting them in my pockets. My finger traces the sharp, jagged edge of one, and I wonder where the rock came from originally. I pick up another, a smoother one, and stretch out my palm. This one should be spared from my idea, so I drop it carelessly back onto the ground. I stay standing, and remove my shoes. I shrug my bag from my shoulder, allowing it to drop onto the floor, making a pile. I pull out my ipod, and press the tiny headphones into my ears, before turning the volume up to full and playing ‘Leave out all the rest’ by Linkin Park. I don’t know where home is, but I’m sure as hell about to find it. I carefully step into the water, and feel the icy water begin to numb my feet. Jumping back out, I wonder what to do next. I wander a few metres, push the wooden boat into the water, and get inside. I row out; row until I don’t know where I’m going. Well, I don’t know the location; I just know that it’s my home.  I stand, and jump out of the boat. Needless to say, I sink.

Looks like I found home.

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