(A/n): This isn't exactly a short story, just more of a deep and depressing rant. I wrote this on a day where my depression was taking over. So here you go, my Gladers.

She battles demons in her head as she goes about her day. Though she hides it well, you can see it if you look closely. You can see she's giving up, in her dark, empty eyes. You can see the battles that she's lost on her thin, scarred arms. If you watch, you can tell when she's hearing the screaming in her head. She'll tense up, squeeze her eyes shut, and lay her head down on her desk in defeat.

The days when she's silent, when she's wearing long sleeves, when she continues to fiddle with her shirt; those are the days you can tell she's lost another battle.

Though you might ask her what's wrong, she won't tell you the truth. She will just fake a smile and say she's tired. And she is. She's tired of living. Of fighting. Of being.

This is the life, put simply, of a depressed girl. Bracelets, long sleeves, the dark, the lonely, the thoughts that won't go away, and the scars that will never let her forget what she has been through.

The depression is always there, even if it isn't active, it's always there. Even in the light. Even in the happy moments with laughter and genuine smiles. The depression waits in the darkness, watching. Searching for another insecurity or fear. And it'll find one. She knows it will. And when it does, it will taunt her, beat her, hurt her. The depression will make her pay. For what exactly? She knows it's nothing. That's what reason and logic say. But the cruel depression and the never ending darkness say otherwise. They will find a reason, a reason why she hates herself, a reason why she cries and cuts late at night.

The depression will never leave.

It will always be there, haunting her.