I wrote this in a period of depression. Not sure what I think of it, but what’s interesting for me is how different it is from the pieces I wrote going through my depression aged 14-16, even when you ignore the fact that I used to write in a more lyrical style then.
Though I have not actively been learning how to write or actively improving my writing much until very recently, the simple act of growing up has improved my introspective, emotional pieces greatly (even if they are still far from excellent). I feel like I can write more abstractly and less explicitly (as in obviously, rather than x-rated…), and I feel like it’s a more mature writing style in general. Maybe I will post an old piece of writing here just for fun one day…
Anyway, on with the post. Just in case anyone else is reading this: consider it one giant trigger for everything depression-related.
The cavernous hole in her chest was growing. The self-wrought desolation crept and crawled from her dead core to swallow her heart whole, devouring every feeling but the anger and guilt that sustained it. Shadowy fingers clutched her stomach and crushed and squeezed, pushing the bile of self-loathing up her throat to steal her breath and burn away her excuses until there was nothing left but raw angry flesh. The sickness seeped from her pores to slither over her skin, raking its claws down her arms, her legs, and her torso, coating her in its foulness.
Eyes glazed, she stared into the abyss of her self. The darkness had chewed and chewed at her, ripping out memories and tearing at festering wounds, setting the poison free to scour her soul until she became nothing but a fragile husk. She was a hollow puppet on broken strings, a sad thing trying to dance the steps of a normal life. But behind her painted smile the dark emptiness had always been waiting to consume even the empty comfort of a life not truly lived.
The darkness filled her hollow limbs, taking control of them and carving and carving at the varnished and tarnished skin to reveal the foulness that had always lain beneath. And as the knife cut deeper into the fragile flesh, it found the true well of self-sustaining hatred. A burst of colour erupted from the washed-out blandness of her puppet body as the violent red sickness blossomed on the pale, scarred skin.
It oozed and it slithered and it dribbled from the cracks and the cuts as they tallied up her sins, and the puddles the darkness formed as it dripped to the floor retold her lies in crimson hues. Again and again the knife hacked and slashed, ripping away the fragile flesh to expose the vileness beneath, and the liquid sin poured forth like a fountain of divine retribution. And as the patches of undestroyed skin dwindled away to a bloody red nothing, she smiled.
The light began to fade as she hit the floor. The ruby darkness pooled around her body, cocooning her in the comfort of its familiarity. It was all she had ever known, and all she ever was. The darkness released her bloodless fingers from their grip around the blade, and the sad puppet danced its lies no longer.