It was back. The dark, gloomy feeling of hopelessness, she sensed it clawing at her, a demon not-so-subtly forcing its spittle out of her eyelids. Ridiculing her, the imp laughed at her misery. Acute canines sank into her lower lip; the slight pain of anguish was copious to ephemerally distract her from the despondency of, of- of what?
There had been no sudden deaths in the family, no calamitous diagnosis of some incurable malady, not even a dissatisfactory mark in school to bring her down. Yet it was still here.
The girl recalled the first time Depression had sojourned. Together they sat in her desolate room, staring at the vacuous wall, not even bothering to muffle the sobs with a pillow. Depression tarried sans her consent for weeks; then a day arrived that she woke up absent of any despair. She smiled that day.
Something else that she remembered was the first cut she had placed on the back of her hand. Averse to the mere possibility that she could accidently commit suicide (she didn't mind the thought of dying, but she's much rather defenestrate herself from the forty-second window or something of that nature), she didn't slit her wrist. Not that it actually would make a difference: technically, she knew, the chances of her bleeding to death either way were rather slim. Still, the cuts appeared only on the back of her left hand. Always the non-traditionalist, she didn't use a razor blade, nor did she use a knife or any other typical tool of the trade.
She used a staple.
An ordinary, plain metal staple, she had used. It didn't even occur in the bathroom. When she entered her biology classroom, and no one was paying any mind to the front of the room yet, she picked up the ebony stapler and squeezed the jaws of it in her right hand. Once she had what she was craving, she placed the utensil back on the desk and continued to her own.
Amidst the silent chatter she opened the tiny object until it resembled an insect's rapier. Still unnoticed, she slid both hands into her lap and dragged the miniscule sword across her skin. It left but a white scar. Again, she pressed the weapon to her hand with more force this time and ripped herself open. Grimace and whimper both went unobtrusive as a faint crimson dot specked her body. Slowly, a ragged line spilled over the crevice. Encouraged, or perhaps discouraged, by the lack of attention, she lacerated herself again, viciously. Repeatedly, she sliced and slashed and gashed. Tears and blood both flowed freely, now.
And still no one noticed, or no one cared.
Something urged her to lick at the fresh wounds. The metallic flavor barely registered in her mind; the pain was too numbing. So numbing, in fact, that the rest of the entire day passed by in a haze.
This about brings us to the present. Standing in the bathroom with a razor in hand was the same girl who vowed never to be in that position. And yet there she was, gripping the blade between her thumb and middle finger. Swiftly she swiped the metal, titanium the box said, across her wrist. Instantaneously the blood poured. It was raining red. Weeping, the girl sank onto her knees. Death rang the bell, she was sure she could hear it. No! she thought frantically, slipping under the blanket of darkness. Help me!
A/N: I hate this so much. This story, depression, everything. Anyone notice that the girl is nameless?
By the way, the title isn't what it is because I want help, it just happened to be what I picked.