Note: Earlier today, I found a prompt here on Prose.: “Write a poem about depression. How it feels. How you came out of it. How it has affected you. (no mass tagging please)”

It stuck with me. I decided to try to write about it, but eventually realized that I could not fully encapsulate everything I wanted to say, everything I wanted to convey, within the very restrictive word cap of the challenge: 15-250. This piece, at over a thousand words, is what I want to call the distilled essence of depression. Through it, I hope that any non-depressed readers with friends or family battling with the illness, will be able to understand some small portion of what their loved one is going through.

Read it. I don’t ask you to enjoy; simply, understand. Please, please, God, understand.

People (people here encompassing everyone from the average joe to even therapists and family members of people with depression,) often make one critical misunderstanding. It’s the reason why you always hear the same things after someone commits suicide: “I never would have guessed, they always seemed so happy, they were always so full of joy.” It’s the assumption that having depression means you’re always sad- that that’s the point, that the reasons depression is such a big horrible deal is because it sucks all the happiness, every last shred of pleasure, out of life. Anybody with depression can tell you a very different story. This one is a tiny piece of mine.

See, here’s the thing. You’re not always sad. You have good minutes, good hours, good days. You go to school and you go to your classes and you talk with your classmates and you can’t even imagine being sad in that moment; you’re joking, you’re laughing, you’re on a cloud. You go home and you flip on the TV and you turn on Skyrim and your mind melts into that wild fantasy world of monsters and magic, and nothing else matters; nothing can bring you down. You’re a warrior. You’re a sorcerer. You’re king of the world.

But then there’s the kicker. Your parents come home. You hand over the remote. You try to linger, but your mom says, “Don’t you have homework, sweetheart?” And what can you do? She’s right, you’ve got that World History assignment due tomorrow, and what about that English essay due on Monday? Three pages, remember? Or that sheet of problems for Geometry that you’ve been trying to tell yourself you’ve forgotten about for days.

Wow, you’ve got a lot on your plate, huh? Gee. You should get on that. But where should you start? You’ve got Geometry first thing in the morning, so that should be first priority, right? But you don’t know how to do those problems. You missed that day, remember? You didn’t go, because you were so close to cracking that you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed and by some miracle of the God you don’t believe in, you managed to pass it off to your mom as a bad stomachache.

Well, so you missed the day, so what? That’s your problem. The teacher told you to get the notes from a friend -why didn’t you tell her that you don’t have any?- so what’s the big holdup? And what if the notes you managed to find on the floor of the classroom weren’t clear enough? The teacher gives tutoring every day of the week except for Wednesdays, all you had to do was tell your mom you had to stay late one day. You know the teacher could’ve explained it in a way you understood, you know your mom would’ve been willing to pick you up late.

You’re too much of a coward, though, aren’t you? The idea of going up there and saying, I just don’t know, of telling your mom, I’m not the genius you think I am, it’s crippling. It makes you want to cry and, God, you hate crying.

Okay. Okay. Whatever. It’s one F. What’s one F? You’ll be fine. You can just let it slide, just this once. Why don’t you do that World History homework instead? That’s third period tomorrow, but all you have to do it answer some questions from the book, there’s only ten of them, you’ll be done fast. Now, where’d you put your book?

Oh, crap. It’s in the Journalism room, where you eat lunch, isn’t it? You left it there yesterday: The thing’s heavy as hell and your next class was on the other side of campus and you were already running late, so you had to run for it. You thought, I’ll pick it up at the end of the day, it’ll be fine. And then you forgot. Just like you forgot to pick it up today, too. Just like you forget everything. You’re so fucking forgetful. What’s wrong with you?

God, how many times have you done this? Can you even keep track anymore? You know they think you’re lazy, right? You’re a layabout. A nothing. You don’t care. You say, I’m sorry sir, I forgot it on my desk at home, and they hear, I’m lying through my teeth. Can’t you tell? I can’t make eye contact. I just didn’t do it. I just didn’t bother. I just don’t care. You know it’s what they hear. You know.

So what are you gonna do now, huh? Grab the book at lunch and do the work real quick before class? You know you won’t. You know you’re just gonna forget again. But will it really be forgetting? Or will you remember that it’s there and that you have to do the work, but you’re damn hungry and that cool girl with the Marvel tote bag who you’ve been trying to make friends with for weeks has finally noticed your Iron Man folder and it’s just one F, right? What’s one F. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

You know that’s just what’s gonna happen. You know it, you can tell. See? You’re already thinking it, you’re already planning it out in your head. God, what’s wrong with you? What is wrong with you? Why are you so lazy, so awkward, so forgetful, so pathetic?

Why are you so tired all the goddamn time?

Why can’t you decide anything on your own?

Why don’t you ever take initiative?

Why do you get so angry when the TV remote doesn’t work?

Why do you get so defensive when your mom asks you what’s wrong?

(It’s because you don’t know. And later, when you do, it’ll be because you can tell she won’t understand, won’t believe.)

What’s wrong with you? You’re fourteen, you’re in eighth grade! High school’s next year, the world is your oyster! You can do anything, be anyone! You’re making decisions now that will affect the rest of your life! You’re supposed to be happy! You’re not supposed to be failing five of your classes, you’re not supposed to be a part of the background, you’re not supposed to dread waking up in the morning so much that you’re afraid to fall asleep!

What’s wrong with you? Oh, you know what it is. You know. It’s what everybody else already thinks. It’s what they see when they look at you, like it’s written on your skin, on the shadows under your eyes and along the ribs that show through your skin (it’s not like you starve yourself, at least; you’re not that pitiful. You’re just never hungry. You’re just never hungry). You just don’t care.

You’re fourteen and the entire world’s ahead of you, you’ve got the vocabulary of a college graduate and the IQ of the average physicist.

And you just

Don’t

Care.

What’s wrong with you?

You’re supposed to be happy.

“You’re not depressed. You aren’t. You’re happy.” -Mom.

Greed is the sin of a man who has everything;

Gluttony is the sin of a man who needs for nothing;

Sloth is the sin of a man who can do anything;

Lust is the sin of a man who can have anyone;

Wrath is the sin of a man who knows nothing;

Envy is the sin of a man who wants for everything.

And Pride...

Pride is the sin of a man who thinks he has everything,

who thinks he needs for nothing,

who thinks he can do anything,

who thinks he can have anyone,

who thinks he knows everything,

who thinks he wants for nothing.

Pride is the sin of a man who is nothing.

Something of a companion piece to https://theprose.com/post/194714/i-can-taste-your-lies-on-my-tongue-like-secondhand-smoke

"Nyx."

"Hmm?"

Cory watched her, stared at the waterfall of silver-gold hair down her shoulders, and the shift of the curve of her spine as she walked. "Nyx, I'm scared."

That made her pause, and she turned enough to look at him over one pale shoulder. Her eyes were the color of cherries this time, and Cory did not like them. She smiled like glass (brittle, transparent), and brushed a strand of Cory's hair behind his ear. Her thumb lingered against his cheek. He could feel the sharp of her nail against his skin.

"What is there to be scared of, Cory?" She asked, as if she didn't know. "You know you have no need to fear the demons in the dark."

He knew no such thing, not truly. He knew the girl with the silver-gold hair needed him for something, and he knew the shadow at his shoulder would not injure its host. He knew he could no return home so long as the Sunwatch stood, now that they knew he wasn't entirely human. But he knew nothing at all about the demons in the dark.

He voiced none of this, but Nyx seemed to know his mind better than he did, and he once again wondered if the reading of minds was the gift she'd been given by the demons in the dark, as she told him again that he had nothing to fear; that the night would not harm him so long as he had a shadow at his shoulder.

Cory still did not understand, nor trust, but it wasn't like he had a wealth of other options. He was standing in an ashy field wearing nothing but a muddy hospital gown. He had no shoes, no coat, no food, no water, and no home. At his back was a Sunwatch cell with his name on it and a lifetime of fearing the night; in front of him was a forest and a great unknown that he'd been raised to fear with all his heart. And a girl with silver-gold hair who needed him for something she would name, but who had never lied to him.

Calder looked back at the Sunwatch wall, at how oddly small it seemed, from this distance. The shadow at his shoulder was quick to block his view: it did not like him looking backward, and not just in the physical sense.

Nyx released his cheek and instead grabbed his hand in both of her own, wrapping his fingers around her throat.

"Brother," She said, and he turned back to look at her, at his hand around the defenseless line of her neck. "Brother."

"I am not your brother," He said by rote, mechanical. Trained. Who was he to say he wasn't? He did not know his father. He did not know what constituted 'brother.'

They looked nothing alike, but whatever he was, she was the closest to it he'd ever found.

She smiled, doubtless tasted his doubt on her black tongue, and took a single step backward through the grass that painted her legs in soot. His hold on her throat forced him to follow, and he felt like he was the one being strangled.

"Brother. You have nothing to fear from the demons in the dark."

Another step.

He did not look to the side, or up, or down. Only at his hand on her throat.

"Okay."

The steady blink of the light in the hall was what brought Cory back to wakefulness. The flash lit up the backs of closed eyelids, disorienting, and he almost expected to wake up outside, under the stars. Nyx would be there, flicking the flashlight off and on, speaking in morse code to the demons in the dark.

He opened his eyes. Everything was dark, except for the steady blink of the light in the hall.

Nyx was not there. He could not hear her; the only sound was the humming heart monitor. He could not smell her; the only smell was the antiseptic. He could not feel her. He was not alone.

"Mr. Aradak," Said the Man, who was dressed in a white lab coat. There was no name tag. "My name is Doctor Joseph Olson. You've been in an accident."

There was blood on the Man's coat hem. Cory wondered if he knew. He wondered if he should say. He did not think so. He wondered if the man (who was no doctor) could tell that Cory knew when he lied. He wondered if he should say. He did not think so.

"Oh." He said instead, and watched the man by the steady blink of the light in the hall. Starlight filtered in through the windows, but Cory knew he was not meant to see the demons in the dark. "Where's Nyx?"

The Man's face twisted. It was meant to look like sorrow. It did not. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Aradak. Your friend didn't make it. She passed away early this morning. During the night."

Cory did not correct the Man when he said Nyx was his friend. He did not correct the Man when he said Asteria was dead. He knew better.

"I see," He said instead. The light in the hall blinked off. Blinked on. Two more times. "Can I leave, then?"

The Man smiled. It looked like a grimace. "Soon," He lied, and stood up. "we just need to run a few tests."

Cory nodded, and the Man walked away. The light in the hall turned off, and did not turn on again. Cory looked back toward the window. Nyx looked back at him through the glass, hair like silver-gold in the starlight. Her eyes were like opals.

Cory wondered if the Man knew that the glass was the only thing separating them from the demons in the dark. He wondered if he should say.

He did not get the chance.

The car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, tires leaving black streaks on the sun-bleached asphalt. August watched the hood start to smoke with a detached sort of interest.

A sharp pop escaped the vehicle, and the passenger door burst open. Something human-shaped slumped out of the car, blood dripping onto the pavement.

August sighed, the sound coughing its way out of his damaged speakers to choke on the air like a dying wheeze. Sometimes being a Tender, a robot designed to care for the ill and injured, could really cramp his style. He got up from the bench and trudged toward the bleeding human, every step hobbling and groaning, old joints rusted and strained.

The injured man -and it was a man, August could see now- reached a hand out, three of the fingers facing the wrong way. He tried to say something, but the words passed his lips as a fountain of blood. August imagined something along the lines of ‘help me.’

“Shh, it’s okay,” August soothed, as best he could with a voice like a skipping record. He reached out a hand, feeling the human’s pulse jump and skitter under the lacerated skin of his throat. “I’m a Tender.”

The words reassured the man better than anything else August could have said, and he relaxed. Blood burbled past his lips with every wet breath. When August pushed him onto his back, prone, the man didn’t struggle. When August clambered over him to straddle his broken ribs, and wrapped metallic hands around his throat… still nothing. When August squeezed, the man hardly jerked. August wondered if he could.

“That’s it, nice and easy. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take all your pain away. Just you wait and see.”

The human twitched and trembled, one hand coming up at last to scrabble at August’s fingers, but August’s grip was truly steel and all he did was press down harder. The man’s eyes went wide, and then, slowly, they went blank.

By hesitant degrees, August relaxed his grip. The man’s limp hand fell from his without issue, and August leaned back, straightened up. He became aware again of the smoking car- it was now truly beginning to burn.

The sound of groaning metal surprised him, and he turned his head, watched the handle of the backseat door rattle. Someone was trying to open it from the inside, but it was stuck. August pushed himself up, walked to the door, and pried it open with synthetic strength.

A bundle immediately hit him around the midriff, and August looked down to find a small child, her hands tangled in his jacket, golden pigtails stained red from a head wound that crept from her temple to her ear.

“Please, Mr. Robot, you have to help my Daddy!” The girl sobbed, the tears already in her eyes beginning to escape. “He’s real hurt, please, you gotta help-”

“Shh, it’s okay,” August promised. He put a hand to the back of her head, guiding her to cry into his shirt. The other hand found the back of her little neck, and squeezed. “That’s it, nice and easy. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take all your pain away. Just you wait and see…”