Chapter 1: Depression

Because this website is stupidly limited and constantly changes my format, I have removed the original format and text effects. Some things may not make sense because of this. However, I've added subtle alternatives to replace these. W.I.P DRAFT - WILL HAVE ERRORS. READ OUR READER'S GUIDE IF YOU'RE STUCK WITH HOW TO READ WITH THE WRITING STYLE AND SPECIAL GRAMMAR (ALTHOUGH SOME RULES/STYLISTIC TEXT ARE DIFFERENT IN EVERY CHAPTER DUE TO THE LIMITS). Summary: Right aligned text is inner voice/separate identity. Centre aligned text is extra simultaneous background information/beats/thoughts. 

I AM LOOKING FOR CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, GOOD AND BAD.

C.W: Eating disorders, self-harm, depression, swearing
MUSIC PLAYLIST (choose): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/32y4BlBSZN7ZRxJnuFbzWE?si=74JF1f39QU2VNgy0T1uK-g

Are you happy?

YES                                         

NO

Chapter 1: Depression

[Now playing: Forever - DXXDLY]

Our fragmented complex of memories crumbles in time’s final collapse as the nerves of our brain cave in. Everything; our past and present; falls before my dying eyes, but still, I sprint and I sprint through twisting paths, like the final dying nerve cell in Libet’s delay, desperate to feel one last touch, desperate to live again. But there’s no second chances.. All I can do in this moment. All I could ever do...was wait…

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[Now ending: Forever - DXXDLY]

The world ended while I was sleeping again...

Mourning doves and that; they dance with joy as if they haven’t got a care in the world. But a clock won’t stop fucking ticking over their singing, already halfway through their song. Not that I deserve to listen, anyway.

Like my dirty pale fingers that claw my face – my eyes not even open yet -, I can hear the waves of that far beach swashing and smashing cruelly into the gritty stone-fused sands; like a crushing tsunami of molten lava. Like the rough texture of my bandages and skin rubbing together; bandages like sandpaper; skin like its paper soaked into flesh. I should be dead--

Even the laughter of those idiots who think they’re right to be happy, unaware I’m stuck, trapped, rotting. But they’re carefree, without a problem in the world. Pure. Bliss. Its not fair…

Or..maybe..that beach, those people, are all in my head… That’s right, I’m not there, not Home, not anywhere. Whose--apartment is--this?

I recognise the old seesaw that creaks and sways through the breezy wind, skimming the edges of freshly cut grey grass. That nostalgic smell of alcohol and hay brings me back to a simpler time for a moment. Then, sickness, regret. And above, grey looms (like it always now does). Grey, cloudy skies of static.

Static--

That’s right… I know what’s happening; where I am. This has to be Uncle and that’s old place, a.k.a my new and first apartment.

I’m really just that awesome of a guy I had to ruin it I ruined everything fuck my life fuck everyone fuck everything FUCK—-

Woke up late; tick, tock, tock.

My heavy temples throb with static and regret. I lie in the mess of my bed, blinking at the ceiling, letting the weight of nothing (and EVERYTHING) press harder into my chest; tock, tick, tick.

Bliss is the perfect kid I used to be before all this shit, and it’s Bliss’s old painted clock that's tick-tick-tockin’ on loop. I remember that, too - when it was once freshly painted with bright and decorative colours. Now look at it; how rusty and crusty the paints are now, dull and pale, faded to black.

This cramped coffin of an apartment’s all grey ‘n gloom; all the lights’re off (fitting…). I’m just..staring at the dull ceiling of nothing..! That’s what I’m doing today!

GOD—JUST--How productive!

First day livin’ without em’, first day on my own.

And I slept through all of it...

Hats off to you, Neri! You’re a big 16-year-old boy now!! Oh golly!, what a time to have to move out!

The age I always looked forward to as a kid; finally going out to parties with friends, adventuring the world, and doing all sorts of stuff I’d see in those TV shows.

But I don’t have any of that.

And no mum, no dad…

I mean —last time I saw them was-…

That fire still lingers in my eyes, and the pain lingers on my eyes, though I can only see through one - the other bandaged up; like a sharp, piercing dagger, poisonous with no end--, like a disease, still carving the rot of my brain for the sake of trauma’s effect, but also ironic coping?

“Trauma”… What a weird thing.

God, now--this is nothing like my real Home. Nothing is.

I wish I could go back...I would do—anything...

I wanna cry. But I can't. I just can't anymore.

If my head is a faucet, then what do I do if I can’t run anymore?

Gazing at a pile of junk, my eye traces the black edges of that cross mum used to always make me pray to if I felt low.

…

When I go on my phone with a colourless blue glow like grey, the blinding, digital light, bombards my drooping eye. The open, numbing parts of the bandages I peeled to feel (something) expose almost skinless hands that tremble and struggle to tap.

They still have some black ash from the fire leftover…

Two hours pass? Three?

Scrolling and staring and tapping aimlessly on loop like a machine - eye blurred, not even focused.

Feels like I’ve only been awake for a moment and somehow still longer than I should.

That’s when they arrive at the bedroom door. Looming - the shifting shadows in the figures of people. They burn in black flames and their eyes flicker—the only realistic part of them, vivid with colours of familiarity. They grow familiar with the randomness of their fires. Most of the time they don’t even speak words (don’t have to); just mutter. Loom with hate—nudging, tugging, prodding me like my regrets. But in reality, they just loom; in the shadows of my room, they loom.

I turn my head, eye drifting round the somehow already a junkyard that’s my bedroom cell. What a mess.. All these unpacked boxes, empty rooms. Barely even have the essentials.

Don’t think there’s a difference ‘tween me and a building anymore...

If I was in a book, I’d rewrite the start.

There’d also be an audience..that’d be nice…

Uncle and some old relatives helped with unpacking last night – most importantly, the things saved from the fire (though still pretty burnt); Old, dusty CDs from Iris ‘n Dad; childhood drawings of imaginary friends and Illusia; Bliss and old friends’ Polaroid and memory book; and I see what’s left of his childhood toys.

It doesn’t move. But it sure remembers; it always does. Though ripped apart, headless, and traumatised, at least I still have his favourite childhood bunny—Illusia. But do I even deserve to have them...? They sleep tight, forced in my arms whether I like it or not. Maybe if I have what I had as a kid, I could be happy again…!

…

Suddenly, they slip out my hands ‘n spill into piles of junk —I groan and roll out of bed. Not cause I want to, but because I have to.

I consider showering—two weeks without one, and I feel my (leftover) overgrown hair and blistered skin agonisingly rebelling.

You don’t deserve warm or cold water, you deserve an icy coffin, you filthy, rotting piece of shit.

I don’t. I can’t. I’m not used to it anymore. Even last night (all I did was contemplate), when they brought me here—I told myself I’d try. That I’d fix my life with this fresh start, like they said.

I’ll do it tomorrow—-

—No. No, you fucking won’t.

I consider going out into the balmy grey sun.

The exit is right there. Do it, then.

...

When I shuffle into the back of the dimly-lit living room, it’s too silent, too..lonely.. Nothing but the low hum of the fridge..

..The Shadow People begin to flicker in so it feels less alone.. They seem bothered, eating and chatting at the table like a mocking memory.

Talking about what?

I don’t know. It’s hard to think.

That’s what you always say. Your mood isn’t an excuse.

--My stomach’s empty. The shadows aren’t looking, and I guess everyone real has left.

It’s—not like we’d do anything, anyways...

With lazy but exaggerated child-like movements, I yank the rusty fridge open with my dirty foot.

The droning light flickers.

I grab a cold can of vodka, sliding it into Bliss’s jumper sleeves.

There’s literally no food but mac ‘n cheese. I don’t know how to make mac ‘n cheese.. Ah. Microwavable. Thanks so much that solves ALL my fucking problems!; why I chose to run; why I couldn’t save them!!

Better than nothing.

God wait —I don’t even have a microwave!

I groan.

Barely even stirring it in the pan with a steak knife, and my mind wanders…--

The rays of summer sunlight seep through the window, tinging the kitchen counter with warmth. Mum, with her extensive flower-decorated braids, tied back, is guiding me to stir the cake batter. My Uncle’s watching the action movie with hot ‘n cheesy popcorn ready for me when I get back, while I take a glorious peek every 5 seconds. And my little cousins are darting around the house like monkeys, so fast it might collapse!, knocking over all the decorations, popping balloons, and giggling and snooping at the cake, begging for a taste like every 4 seconds.

We’re visiting. It’s my 9th birthday…!

It was my 16th birthday yesterday.

--But then, a little serotonin loosens my furrow. That creamy, cheesy, and hot aroma, warms me with nostalgic comfort from the bubbling water of the pan – the breeze feels nice against my cold palms, and I begin to feel..proud? I’ve always had my own knack for cooking! I’m actually doing something independent, being..normal!

Everything’s going to be okay.

Just when I think it’s ready - boiling hot - I overload it golden brown on a small plate!

Slowly, I compact a chunk with my almost (not irreversibly!) yellow teeth!

I swallow.

. . .

The plate goes into the bin.

Guilt swells in my throat like bile. It tastes like rock...

...
WHAT DID YOU DO?—

The shadows move- They glide toward me, silent and grotesque, as if preparing to gut me for my sins- To split open my stomach and spill out the rot inside- To scream at me until my ears bleed-

I bolt to the bathroom.

Hands trembling, I scramble to lock the door behind me. The handle rattles once—then nothing.

White noise…

I could’ve had a good morning.

I could’ve gone out to find my uncle and cousins.

Maybe today could’ve meant something.

Maybe- maybe- maybe I or we could’ve fixed things-

Why do you fucking do this?

[Now playing: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

“Why do I fucking do this???”

The words crack out of me in pieces.

“Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy--” I mutter locked on pointless repeat, sliding down the door ‘til my raspy, trembling voice breaks, ‘til I do.

With a shuddering breath, I hurl myself towards the toilet, fumbling out the vodka and breathlessly gulping it all down as I gag and choke. I feel a little bile clog my throat, overflowing in my mouth and out my nose like I’m an empty doll—then, I expel the squelching, tiny, filthy slop into the toilet before I can think—some into the alcohol. I still drink; I don’t care anymore.

You don’t deserve to eat after what you did.

My vision fades.

Dark.

Don’t you ever wish you could go back?

“Illusia?” a toddler’s slurring voice asks behind the door of the rusty, putrid slaughterhouse (or more like an old prison), turning the handle. I see the shadow of young Bliss, waddling in the room. He’s holding a piece of paper with a nervous and worried curiosity in his face, flickering between an excited smile. But then he sees me, kneeling by the toilet; a mess of vomit and bandages. First, he shivers before he can process. Next, his mouth gapes with drool, his eyes twitch his face into ugly and scared sobs; the paper slips from his hand and slides down to me as the outburst of high-pitched, frantic hiccups and gulping wails flood the room, rupturing my ears. But I see the drawing of Illusia and Bliss having a picnic..

Light…

I don’t know how long I’ve been lyin’ here on the cold, hard, pale tiled pale bathroom pale floor. I decay in a mess of blood, sweat, snot, tears, and any other disgusting fluids a human can expel. And yet, my head still feels numb. I sit, frozen in black, blank, staring at nothing.

Minutes? Hours?

I feel dead.

I might as well be.

Dark...

I wanna escape my past, but I find comfort in it. I’m trapped.

In the playground, the night is numb. “Don’t kill yourself, Neri…” Iris’s pastel blue eyes linger on the stars, while my eyes are on the road our family used to drive on - back when we had more free time. A moment of crickets chirping, and cars vrooming on the distant roads illuminated by soft warm oranges of streetlights. They flicker behind foliage and scattered trees. “How can I forgive myself? I didn’t mean to--but I- I killed a man, Iris! And Micheal probably hates me, too. Felix hasn’t said a thing to me in months. At least you won’t leave me, right…?”

Light.

The old, cracked mirror glares in horror at the first impression of the new me. I stare back—guilty of what I’ve become. And uncontrollably, my eyes begin to twitch and tremble—of course they do—but I’m too tired to, too drained to cry. My mouth attempts to blubber the closest thing to one, but sounding more like an animal’s moans, learning to make noise; struggling for breath and only able to breathe in, like my lungs have been stabbed, rapid(ly) through trembling chokes and sobs. With quivering hands I panic. I slap ‘n clutter the dozens of supplies and things and grab some mascara or something, and I force myself to smile to change to escape to be-..!

”GOD DAMNIT!”

--But I’m shaking so much the black smears in my exposed eye and bandages and-

You cant escape what you are.

Behind gritted teeth ‘n a fake smile so forced, I scream, slowly turning my face from desperation to be “beautiful” or “handsome” rambling, “I’m pretty I’m pretty I’m pretty I’m pretty…” into infuriation, uglily giving up into wheezing “sobs” against the mirror, “I’m ugly, I’m ugly, I’m ugly, I’m ugly…”

In my reflection: one eye, grotesque and dark, grey-purple with spotted black mistakes—once 2 lavender eyes full of life and colour...now one blind, covered as if preserving, both eyes full of death.

“I’m sorry…Bliss…” I murmur to that better, perfect kid I used to be.

But Bliss is dead. Now.. Now, I feel too ashamed even to call myself by that name. So, I’m no body……………

I’m ashamed of the broken mess I see now: Still wearing Bliss's specially knitted jumper from mum, now worn out and too tight for what I’ve become. It used to be patterned with multicoloured, geometric colour block patches - mainly bright and yellow colours — now, faded, pale, black. Black from the dirt and darkness of a miserable present I smother myself in. Even the abominably painted neons I only recently started using – not only on the jumper but on the trousers.

How disgusting.

Suddenly, uncontrollably, violently, my fists beat my head.

Still wearing his old, unfit, and baggy pyjama bottoms, torn to shreds with bruises like the jumper. Once a light vermillion of course because it was dad’s old clothes lent to me—now ruined with faded darkness, too.

What a fraud.

I smash my hollow cranium harder, knocking the bone like a door.

Scribbled skin.
Imperfect Doodles. Scars.
Ugly mistakes.

Can’t—do—ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pound my fists against my skull, flinching at every gnawing, cracking, carving pain in my boiling brain. Like falling upside-down down a tight hole, head splitting, cutting into each stabbing rock. It’s mutilation I know, but I can’t control it. It’s brainless and moronic and pointless, but I can’t-.. Over and over and over--

If- if only it never happened- if only they didn’t change- if only they didn’t do this to me-! to us-!, I- if only-!

Something strange brushes against my fingers.

[Now ending: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

I pause.

A great, crumpled forget-me-not, tangled and paling in my overgrown hair. This isn’t a normal flower; far from-.. It’s as if the sun bloomed —a supernova of life, an intertwined blossom in itself.

Exactly?, I can’t tell how many, but it looks large enough to have held nearly a hundred petals. But now…only one petal remains; the trauma of torn tissue at the base tells me they might’ve all been recently plucked out.

One petal remains..

Hypnotizing……………… —

—It doesn’t belong.

Not in this world, at least.

From its middle, it burns an abstract everlasting flame of a shining white light, lingering like the faint pain from the housefire.

Where did this come from...?

...I- I--don’t remember...

Dark.

It was so much easier back then. I don’t want change, I don’t want growth.[KJ1] [KJ2]

In a gentle haze of overgrown grass swaying under the golden sun, a burning figure in white murmurs to me from atop a hill. As the flood of flaming neon swarms in from beyond, they hand me the forget-me-not with a gentle smile in their eyes. “You need to remember, Neri… Otherwise, it’ll repeat again..”

Light.

...Why would they do this to me...?

Suddenly, an existential darkness; it races through my nerves and ruptures my mind. 5840 times. It shocks every wire of my brain 5840 times. And it all bleeds out as the thought.

The thought that changed everything.

Dark…

I wanna go Home...

Through the staticky, cheap, and old camcorder left on and pointed at the lukewarm sun at the end of winter that melts the snow around the lens, smothered by the airy breeze, I see us back when we were kids – giggling and playing around.

Iris points, sprinting towards the forest path. “Hey, it’s Mr. Snow-snow!”

Felix follows (bumping into a tree or two). “Oh wait!—wait, it is!!!”

But Iris hangs her arms upon closer inspection. “Well, at least what seems to be left of him…”

Bliss wails to the skies, cluttering his remnants more across the floor. “Noooo!!! Mr. Snow-Snow, I will avenge youuu!!!”

--STATIC--

--Micheal’s smart hair zooms by, “Wait guys! Look! His stick nose, stick arms and flower crown!!” he rummages through the remaining corpse of nature; bits and bobs sticking out from the melting mass of snow (that is ‘Mr. Snow-Snow’)

--STATIC—

The dark room is silent. Nothing but the fuzz of the camcorder, and Bliss’s fingernails drawing marks on the table. His gaze is unfocused under the camera.

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...”

Bliss looks under the camcorder. “I don’t even know what Micheal’s doing nowadays—he’s always so isolated. I guess I’m still not used to this new area…” he then begins to shuffle towards it, “I guess that’s just apart of li-!”

--STATIC--

Light...

[Now playing: derealization - LochHaven]

Crushed up drugs (salvia) on the bedside table.

Hand in hand, eyes dead at the shifting now vibrant skies. Cold skin, I cradle. Yet the world of endless flesh and eyes and endlessly echoing sounds and fruit flies, and all unnaturally animated colours – they always quiver back to grey and gloom somehow, someway.

I’m back Home. Except I’m not.

I am lying in my old, comfy bed of warmth, which is also cold and harsh and itchy. My Home, and the apartment, distorts. Beaming patterns and shards from the disordered chaos of fake neon I'm Home. --I'm Home. But still, this doesn’t feel like Home.

Whispering to him, “I know this isn’t real, it’s just nice to pretend, isn't it...?”

One moment I’m in, one moment I’m out. I can see the warping ceiling as a beautiful sea of stars. There are no windows; the air is thick with the wind's icy whispers.

Suddenly a fragment of hysterical laughter. Or a giggle of bliss? It cracks me. A moment of peace.. ..?

The barely hanging clock on the wall ticks backwards—freshly painted but still depressing and dull..?? Despite everything being in reverse, painfully sluggish, the world outside keeps moving forward. Few cars drive down rain-flooded streets. Dogs barking, crickets chirping.

4:37 AM.

My legs throb, floppy and tireless as if I’m a broken machine forced to march, to march by puppet strings.

Everything was perfect...

Here they come again.

The shadows hover. I know they’re real. They carry cut birthday cakes and presents (even though my birthday was yesterday) as if mocking my dead past, whispering about subjects I just don't want to understand anymore. But one shifts—they burn in a familiar, daunting white light. The scary light hurts my eye with a heavy spark of deja vu. Flinching, I half-cover my eye yet half-peeking. I can vaguely make out their strangely (un)familiar hand?, when they gently place a lavender candle on the table.

They light it. And god, I know exactly who’s lighter they use.

A toasty, dim flame brings unwanted safety to the darkness. And filling the room flows the dreamy scents of lavender, grass, and nothing.

The light blinds me (probably). I flinch away like a vampire freak and cuddle into Illusia……………--

--The eyes of the lavender align with mine, plug into my thoughts, calm my soul with glows of old. I try to breathe, gasping for air under my shallow stuttering breaths of teary suffocation:

...In...

But it hurts. Nothing but chokes and coughs blurt out.

Maybe I should sleep it all off. Maybe this has all just been a bad dream…?

My weary head throbs.

My vision blurs.

I sink beneath my blanket.

And finally, I drown, fall into that familiar, in the warmth of that one thing that never changes:

Darkness.

Pure. Still. Endless.

The only place where time doesn't exist.

The only place I can still be him.

Away from this wretched house, I’m forced to call Home.

Away from reality, life wants me to inevitably grow up—

to seethe.

A- A- Alone.

(and in the end-)

Dark.

[KJ3] Echoing, the darkness of the abyss surf blissfully, echoing, loudening.

[Now playing: Dreamcore – daniel.mp3]

If a flower blooms in winter,

If its petals fear the wind,

Then what is left to reminisce?,

If there’s nothing left to give…

If my head is a faucet and I can’t run,

Then what should I do?; if I’m no longer free,

If I count to 3, and I’m not here,

Then the winds of life have shifted my thoughts to fear…

If I count to 16, and I’m not here,

Then who will be with me here in the darkness of my head…?

If my head is a faucet and I can’t run,

Then I’ve forgotten how to live.

It starts from 1.

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