Warning: This story contains themes of depression, self-harm/suicide and possible gore. If you are unable to handle it, don't read it. If you are, by all means, continue.

I want to die.

Really, what is the purpose of me living? To live until I can't live anymore? To live, and just let live, until death claims me? I really don't understand. Sure, there might be aspects to life that are worth waiting for, such as having a great, fantastic wedding with a perfect husband and live a good life with your kids.

Too bad those ideas don't appeal to me anymore.

Instead, what appeals to me is this dark, desperate feeling that claws inside of me, wishing for escape. I think it's my soul just wanting to seek freedom. Freedom from this pitiful world that's gone to shit. And each day, this feeling grows stronger, frantically tearing me emotionally and mentally.

I feed it everyday with ruminating, negative thoughts. But I don't know how much longer my mind can take, before it breaks.

Just what is it that makes life so horrible to me? To be honest, I'm not sure. I have two parents (who are still married, by the way), great best friends, and an awesome boyfriend. Not to mention I'm in my last year of college, finishing up my psychology major. Hah, what a joke. A broken person studying the mind, in order to therapize others? I get a kick out of it when I think about it.

Yet shelter, love and education doesn't seem enough for me. It never seems to be enough. Or maybe, I want nothing. If I have nothing, would I begin to appreciate things more and stop being so pessimistic?

Nobody I know understands me. When they ask about my depression, they seem to think it's temporary, that it will go away and things will be normal again. They seem to think there's simply happiness behind my cheery façade. They don't see that my smile disappears when they look away, and they don't feel the sense of dread I feel that creeps up on me.

They will never understand that it's never temporary, but ongoing. The feeling might not always show externally, but it is always present internally.

Then they ask, "What about doing something you like? It will distract you."

No, it will not. Because I don't feel like doing anything. I don't want to do anything except stare at the wall until time disappears into nothing or until I fade away. They don't understand the loss of desire to do things.

However, I do know one thing I desire: Death.

***

My brain zoned out during anatomy lab as my professor continued to lecture us about the types of tissues in the body.

What should I do when I go home? Mope about my sucky life? That seemed like a good option, considering I wasn't in the mood to study or play video games. I laid my head on the table and closed my eyes, returning my mind back to the onslaught of anatomical information.

"However, there are subtypes and particular subtypes for all of these. We'll start with the simple squamous epithelium. As you can see on the powerpoint slide, the cells are flattened..." my professor's voice continued to drone on.

Ugh. When would this class end? What was the point of going to class anyway? Staying at home in my bed as I rotted away seemed more appealing.

My phone vibrated then, indicating I received a text from someone, or to be more accurate, my boyfriend, Richard.

He had texted, "You're amazing and I love you. Have a great day."

I smiled halfheartedly and responded, "Thanks. I love you too."

For some reason, his confession made me feel worse. I concluded it was simply because I thought to be undeserving of him, and that he needed someone who was emotionally stable.

Turning away from thoughts concerning my relationship, I focused on the microscopic slides of tissue instead. Sure enough, it seemed to drive the horrible feeling away.

An hour later, I left lab early and rushed home to my small and quaint apartment. It held an aura of tranquility and peace, but I knew it would not last long before I tainted it with my thoughts once more.

Drearily, I called my mom when I arrived home. When she picked up, she immediately launched into a lecture of telling me to be careful, seeing as she read a morning article about a serial killer running loose in New York City.

What were the odds, really? Out of 8 million people living here, would a serial killer come after me?

But deep down, I secretly wished he would. It wasn't like anyone would care much anyways. I was a person to be forgotten easily.

***

"What are you doing?" my boyfriend asked, as he furiously clicked away with his mouse to keep up with his computer game, Inferno 3.

"Nothing," I replied shortly. Then I added, "Staring at the wall, I guess."

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked, concern in his voice. He paused to turn around in his chair and look at me.

"Sure."

He walked over to me and sat on the couch before cradling me in his arms. "Something's wrong. Tell me."

"I just..." I struggled to find the words, as we surely had gone over this plenty of times. "I'm just feeling down and depressed, I guess."

"Why? What happened?"

I bit back the urge to scream at him. Nothing happened, duh! Why can't you understand that being depressed doesn't always occur with something horrible happening? It just comes without warning.

"Mood swings, you know," was my response instead.

"I see... do you want to do anything? Anything you want."

"No."

I sighed, feeling guilty at my lack of words for him. All he wanted to do was make me feel better, but I just couldn't. At the moment, nothing could lift my spirits. "It's alright, you can go ahead and play your game. I think I'll head to bed early."

I felt his lips brush the top of my head before ducking down to kiss me on my lips. "I'll join you in a bit. I love you, good night."

"Love you, good night," I echoed.

I went to bed and closed my eyes, feeling the buildup of tears behind my lids.

Like I said, no one I knew ever understood me.

Something I had to write to get off my chest. Mixed with real and fictitious thoughts.