A collection of short stories
a City’s Worth of Stories
You Say “It’s Dead Inside,” I say “It’s Depression”
People talk, but I don’t listen.
People move, but I don’t see.
People care, but I don’t notice.
Because of this darkness deep in me.
Days fly by and nothing changes. Same routine over and over: wake up, eat, go to school, come home, eat, shower, sleep.
If someone tries to speak to me, all I hear is a distant buzzing noise.
If someone tries to go in front of me, to make me move out of the way, I just keep on walking, not recognizing the action.
If someone tries to help me, grab my hand, touch my arm, pat my head, I shy away. It burns me. It hurts me. I can’t bear the agony.
There is a monster inside me, clawing at my insides, causing me not to feel anything except for pain and fear.
Fear for what my family would do if they found out.
Fear for the pain that could be caused by cutting.
Fear of death.
I don’t know what to do.
It’s as if there is a wall between me and the rest of the world.
No one knows how I feel, or else I would have been on pills long ago.
Someone in my class would call me dead inside, if they knew about it, but I know better.
It’s depression.

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Chapter 2

Never Have A Stalker And Rent A Hotel Room That Overlooks A Cliff At The Same Time

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