I was born with buzzing in my head. At first I thought bees. I am good at building honeycomb-walls. Little, sticky bits of ache slip through. But most of the happy grows wings to flutter away. It’s easier to leave than stay. I am not honeycomb-shaped. I am no shape at all. It can’t be bees. My mouth has never dripped liquid-sugar. More like oil spills. Still underneath-tacky. Prism-meniscus, bouncing light across its own surface. Things that are pretty to look at, but toxic once swallowed. Spilt-oil. Now that’s a thought. Maybe I have a leak. Engine-ruptured. Hoses, tangled and bursting. Shadow-sludge, dripping off grey matter. Then again. Oil cleans. At some point I would have been grace-filled. Well-kept. And I’m all sacrilege. Polluted. That doesn’t work. Something else. Buzzing. Thrumming. Ceaseless. But also phantom. Could be a hologram. That could fit. Substance-lacking. An idea. Haunting. All electric-shock, humming across my cognitive-cage. High voltage. Explosion-poised. Ready. The only flaw there is the amount of power it would take to sustain that type of operation. I am energy-spent. More of a frayed extension cord than dynamic force. Strong enough to shock but not enough for a constant surge. Like the broken fan-blade throwing everything off kilter. Tick, tick, clank. A window-unit AC. Not a new model. But the ones from a few decades back. Constant-rattle of hot air pulsing against busted metal, cooling-coil. Antiquated, useless. I function at 1,000 BTU. Max capacity. It’s so fucking depressing. Can’t keep up. Never enough. And then I’m crying. So now there’s the possibility of low-power electricity jumping against the rapid current of tears making a quick trek from my eyes to my collar-bones. I’m getting off-track. Track. Trek. And then it hits me. The droning, purring, buzzing vibration that never leaves. My depression owns a treadmill.

I died. I watched myself die and all that I could do was stare.

I tried running to catch myself but I couldn't. I tried shouting, asking for help but I couldn't. I tried stopping myself but I couldn't. You see, that's what depression does to you. You want it to stop but you can't. You care, but not enough. Neither did I.

So, I watched myself die.

I screamed, but my voice never reached you. Perhaps, you didn't want to listen to it. When I told you that I'm going through depression, you pointed at my head and told me 'There's nothing called depression. It's all here .' If you told me that you had stomach cancer, would it make sense if I pointed at your stomach and said ' There is nothing like cancer. It is all here .' We are in the 21st century. Why don't you take depression for real? Depression does exist.

When tears were continuously running from my eyes, I was not in a state of going around or meeting anyone or talking. Only I knew what it felt like. I had to suffer this and no one would help me. People questioned me if something happened, why wasn't I talking or why I always put on a serious facade. So I had to smile and speak something.

No one knows about that mental pain. No one likes to talk about it. And yes, everyone hated me for my negativity. I was tired of trusting people. Everyone left me. I had to deal with this on my own. It was very hard, so hard to stick on and stand strong but at last, everything went in vain.

I was so fed up with all that broken heart and people giving me false assurances. I didn't talk to anyone because I assumed that something was wrong with me. I ran away from my friends. I knew that I didn't have the energy for all of this. Finally, I had disappointed everyone so much, that they couldn't stand me anymore.

At last, when I had no one next to me, depression became my best friend. She gave me a shoulder to lean on. If you hadn't mocked at my pain and laughed at my tears, I wouldn't have let depression become mine.

Depression in me gave rise to a walking corpse. Earlier, I used to write, laugh and sing but now, I cry, sleep and scream. We were best friends but eventually, I fell for her. She never left me alone. She told me that facing our problems and working through them would eventually kill us.

She lived deep inside me. She started stitching my torn heart to make sure it doesn't tear again. She came to meet me every night and pushed me into horrible memories. She threw me into a never-ending black hole. She left me with no hopes and ambitions. She brought out the artist in me. I started craving beautiful pictures on my hand. She gave rise to an actress in me. I started faking smiles and acted like nothing could consume me.

She made me cry for no reason. She had taken immense control over me. She screamed at me every day and started telling me how terrible I was. She made me replay every mistake I had ever made. She humiliated me on a daily basis. She made it impossible for me to be happy.

I decided that I did not want her to be a part of my life again. I hated her and I hated myself for ever letting her in my head and loving her. I needed help. I wanted to break up with her. The only way I could break up was by giving her my life and I did it. I died. Peacefully.

If you had helped me when I came up to you, if you had heard me and tried to comfort the crying face hiding behind a pretty smile, I wouldn't have died.

Just a request: Everyone undergoes a phase of depression at one point or the other. When your dear ones come to you, comfort them or be ready to let them run away, forever. I did not run away because I was afraid. I ran away because the only way to escape fear was to trample it within my feet. This was my way of escaping it. Don't allow others to run away, like the way I did.

#depression #contest #love #life #pain #article #depressionkills #competition #breakup #suicide #sad #cry

The hunter in the tangled thicket looked out through bloodshot eyes at the forest clearing before he ran toward his prey. He felt his anger boiling up from his cauldron of festering rage. Why did his father dislike him so much that his only childhood memories were of beatings and scathing remarks? He still had the scars that his father had inflicted. Even his mother hadn’t wanted him. Sometimes, she even sent him to bed without supper for no reason at all. Now that he was no longer a child, he could finally get back at all those who had caused him grief. His world was a dark, foreboding place as he tried to keep his escalating insanity in check.

A young woman was kneeling on the yellowed grass in the open space, picking wild strawberries and humming a little melody. Why should she be happy when he was so miserable? He took careful aim with his rifle, imagining she was a rabbit, and shot her in the back. She moaned as she flailed her limbs, trying to survive as she gasped her last breath.

The huntsman smiled to himself as he pondered his name, Chase. It was such an appropriate name for one who preyed on others. Running over to his young victim, he prodded her with his rifle but she didn’t budge. He wiped the saliva from his toothless mouth, slung her over his back, and headed back into the forest to the little dingy cabin where he lived.

“Ma! Pa!” he yelled, still trying to attain their approval after all this time. “Here’s another one for the barbie! Stoke up the grill!”

I hate the pain on Anna’s face. It distorts her features. Her tears escape to the ground. A tiny puddle of false hopes and broken promises. She's probably thinking about *him*. “Don't worry, I took care of him. He won't hurt you, again.” Her skin is like velvet under my touch.

I don't blame her for running; I must have startled her. A person can only be hurt so many times before they begin to expect it. It's natural to trust less and question more. “Stop,” I yell. She must not be able to hear me. We tumble to the ground as I try to wrap her up and comfort her.

Her words hurt, but I know that I'm not what she says. It’s my job to make her feel better—to release her from the pain he put her through. I will not fail—not again.

She bites at my hand as I hold the rag over her nose. Her nails claw at my face.

I think I see pieces of my skin underneath the chipped black nail polish. A drop of my blood falls on her skin. “Trust me. It won't hurt anymore…” I pull her up into my arms. “Sleep, my love. You're safe now. You'll stay with me.”

#thriller #microfiction #flashfiction

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes dart to the monitor. The drum of my heart continues to strum with that light tick, that same tick that has kept my eyes open ever since the doctor found that cluster of life-sucking cells in my brain that grow like a muscle on steroids.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I don’t want to sleep. If I let my eyes close, there is a good chance they will never open.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

With an unnecessary gremice, I shift. The tubes in my throat and arms pulse with an objection, but I ignore them. I pull the thin piece of linen that is my hospital bed sheet up to my shoulders.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The moon is full tonight—not a good sign. If I were a wolf, I could howl at the sky like it was my last night on earth, only to wake and find the sun the next morning. If I were a vampire, I could feast on the blood in people’s veins, no remorse in my soul. If I were the devil, I could kno the fear I invoke with the shadows.

But I’m not a supernatural: I’m a human being killed by the destructive force of my own cells.

Beep. Beep...Beep.

My head thunders at the slight change in altitude on the monitor. That last red line falls slightly lower, then the next, then the next. For once, my heart alters away from the clock.

Beep...Beep. Beep.

Time has always been an enemy of mine, but never as much so as now. It’s running. Running. Running. It’s running away—from me, and—I’m not fast enough to grab onto it and—and—slow it down.

Beep beep. Beep.

I gasp for a breath. The voice in my head whispers what it has since the moment I found out I was dying, This is a battle you can’t win. Time is the only Savior before these poisoness cells are your destruction.

My demise. Here. Now. I’m not ready to die.

But my vision is clouded by my own eyelashes, and mist overcomes a room I know isn’t fogged. I see a light go on. Then off. I wait for it to go on. But it doesn’t.

I want to be the one running. I want to win this race against time, against the poison of this...of this...disease. I want to lace my shoes and sprint down the track, outrun the world, leave it all behind.

There’s a light. It shines over my vision.

Beep. Beep. Be—

Memories fade into the steady rhythm of my run.

Up and down dusty mountain paths. Through fields. Past elk and hundreds of trees.

Near highways and houses that seem a world away, when they are really just a stone’s throw.

When I run, it’s a different place. A different reality. To me, more real than the place I found myself not a year ago.

Injured. Broken. Entire life turned upside down. Like a dream I have never woken from.

I used to run, climb and jump like it was nothing. For the sheer love of moving. Then suddenly, I couldn’t move at all. Suddenly, I had to work my way back from zero. Frist, a wobbly stand. Then, take a step. Then, stumble down the hall with a walker.

But that was then. Now, I can run, again.

There is still pain. Still healing. Still scars and memories that haunt me at night.

Running is not as easy as it once was. But I train hard, with dreams of my first full marathon.

Dreams of a triumphant comeback. Twice as far as I have ever gone, before.

I tell myself that’s what I run for.

But really, the training is an anchor. In a world that still seems a dream, it is familiar. Real. Visceral.

I run because it drowns out the memory of my own screams. Because it grounds me.

The smell of dusty earth, a reminder that world is still the same.

The elk glancing up at my presence, a reminder that I still exist.

The aching legs, a reminder that my body is still working, even if not as well as before.

I forget my worries, my sorrows, my interrupted career, and just run.

Again, and again. Farther and faster.

Until the day I stand at the starting line of a full marathon. Fall into the practiced rhythm as the buzzer sounds.

This time, my steps pound over asphalt. People and cars replace elk and trees.

But the run is still the same. Ignore the crowd. Ignore the noise. Keep the pace I practiced over a million footfalls.

Last year, I could barely stand. Now I’m here.

Not the fastest, not the slowest. Just another face in the crowd,

But I know what I overcame to get here, and that motivates me to keep going.

I push through hours of single-minded focus, to pass the finish line.

Victorious.

I came back from it all. Fought thorough all the pain and doubt to cross that line.

But as my exhaustion wears off and my breath steadies, I find I don’t feel any different.

What I imagined as a great comeback, fizzles into another name in the crowd.

I feel little elation or sense of victory.

I’d wanted to prove to myself that I was better. Back to what I used to be.

But I will never go back. Things will always be harder than they once were.

The marathon, full of people and cheering and electrolyte drinks, it ended up just being another run. Another moment with only myself and the steady beat.

Maybe I didn’t run for the marathon. For a comeback or recognition or a record of my time.

Maybe I ran just because I still could.

Maybe, that’s enough.

Mud, it drags her down, she claws and gasps, the filth enters her mouth, drowns her lungs.

Still she kicks, screams, reaches for the sun above her. She wants to escape, to lie, to pretend she isn’t dying.

They threw her into the waters, disgusting and full of trash. It was where all unwanted things are tossed. They gave her the power though, the power to escape.

She merely had to reach the surface, to stay afloat, to fight her way achingly to the shoreline.

If she can, then she is free.

From the pain, the judgement, the life of a slave.

Too long did she pretend it was normal, too long she never ventured forth her questions.

When she finally found her voice, they threw stones, whipped her and in the end, they did the worst thing imaginable.

They left her alone, they left her to die.

In the blinding sun she is dragged into muck so foul, and a smell of rot and decay surrounds her.

Soon her limbs will cease moving, her eyes will glaze over. Flies will pick at her rotting flesh.

Like so many thrown away, she will be a floating corpse.

Such is life in those who are uncaring, unfeeling. For those who run from all the pain.

She doesn’t have the strength, she loses her battle, the layers of garbage wraps around her body, pulling her further beneath the dirty waters. She is dead.

It lasts only a moment, a terrifying moment of unfeeling lifeless existence.

An arm splashes through the dirty water, a warm hand encircles her wrist, she has one last chance. She blinks.

Her hand grabs hold, and she kicks once more, it’s painful, each muscle burns. She must escape, she must get away from the grime. She is pulled to the surface; she opens her mouth coughing and hacks up sludge. The person who pulled her up is gone, but a feeling a warmth stays on her skin, a light touch of life.

She has new energy, she swims towards the shore, somehow it is closer than it was before.

Her hands find the sand and rocks. Bleeding, covered in filth, she drags herself onto land.

Her breath coming in heaving gasps, barely living, but she has escaped the darkest depts of death. It starts to rain.

Cool freshwater rolls across her tender flesh, washing away the blood, the slime. Tears burn her eyes, she pushes herself up, on shaking legs she takes her first steps on new land.

She isn’t whole, not yet, she isn’t clean, but the rain continues to cleanse her. Each step brings her further away from the dark waters behind her, from a past so vile it killed her.

The whispers of the people who harmed her are far away, the bruises are fading, and her body was being washed in a purifying shower. She smiles, the first of many. She had to run, to run far away. To live, she escaped.

Her small steps change, from timid to strong leaps, soon she is running freely, laughing and alive.

You can’t always escape the darkness in life, but you can run towards the light. So, she will keep on running, she isn’t ready to die.

As the path split in the old dirt road, the runner wept and did as she was told. She knew this day was coming. Still, she kept on running. Her hiding place was very close. 40 or 50 yards at most. She could see the birch tree, finally. Like a ball player sliding into home, she extended her arm with a groan. Her gun, now pointed at him. She whispered “You will never force me to run again.” He lay dead in the leaves. For the first time in years, she could breath.

By: Benz

©8-6-19

It started the first time I looked in the mirror and was scared of what I saw. I've been running ever since. I run until it hurts, and then I run a little bit more.

I run from everyone, but mostly myself.

Once I was running in a marathon, and I reached that point where my brain emptied. I was aware only of my breath, of the pattern of the pavement hitting my feet, and of the warmth of the sun. All of a sudden I felt the presence of my Uncle who died over a year ago. Alzheimer's. It was a profoundly beautiful and sad moment which I don't understand but for which I am thankful.

As I question myself in the interest of personal growth, I think about my habit of running. For me, running is a rejection of the status quo. A desire to get to a "better" place. Mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally. But to dig deeper, I have to examine what it is I am running from. What did I see, that first time I looked in the mirror?

I saw bad. I saw my dark side. I saw the scary underbelly of the human spirit. I saw what religions seek to absolve one of. I saw the opposite of everything my parents were teaching me to be. And I have been running from her ever since.

Forty some years later, I realize I can't get away from her. I can't run from her. I can't exorcise her. I certainly can't drink her into oblivion because drinking only encourages her presence.

Forty some years later, I realize. I have to accept her. That side of me, there isn't inherent shame in her mere existence. Everyone has a dark side. Some let it out more than others, that's all. Encouraging the good and shaming the bad, that was just my parent's way of controlling me. I learned it was how to control myself. Shame the bad.

But then terrible things happened to me. And I couldn't separate me being bad and my life being unlucky. I ran harder. I ran more frequently. I ran from jobs, relationships...I ran right into more hardship. More turmoil. I ran away again. Life got worse. I ended up thinking I was such a horrible person, I didn't even deserve to live. Why waste air and space on such human detritus as I had become?

Forty some years later, I realize. Control is an illusion, and sometimes a delusion. I didn't create a world that rapes and beats little girls. I didn't cause that to happen from being bad.

I still wince when I look in the mirror sometimes. I'm not proud of a lot of decisions I have made. It hurts me that my struggle to achieve balance knocked so many other people out of balance. I see that darkness in my eyes and I want to run.

Control may be an illusion, but the power of choice is not. Every day I make choices which change the course of my life in small and large ways. Every day I make choices which change the course of others' lives in small and large ways. Which aspect of me do I want to allow to make those choices?

I still run. Short distances and long distances. But there are times, also, when I choose to stay. Forty some years later, I realize, if I've made a bad choice, I need to love myself extra. That small shift has the power to change everything.

I don't want to stop running. I just want to change the direction. I want to start running towards things instead of away from them. I'm a runner.