Maybe Memories

I guess you could say that it first started happening when I was ten. It was then, in the wonderful year of two-thousand and four that these horrible fits of depression first started to arise. Reasons? Oh, yes. There were plenty of reasons, good ones too.

It all started on June fourth of that dreadful year. You see, I had a best friend. Someone that meant the world to me, and understood everything I was thinking, and I never had to speak one word. She was there to protect and guide me, and save me from the world. Something I couldn’t do for her, unfortunately. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t save her from her abusive, coke-head step-father. But worst of all I couldn’t save her from herself. I was too weak to save the only person that ever truly understood me, and trust me I’m paying for it now.

On that one summer day she did the worst thing she could have possibly done. She killed herself with a knife to a heart and a dozen or so tiny white pills down her throat. My best friend had removed herself from the world, and left me there all alone and drowning in the depression. It was so strong then, as you could only imagine suffocating me completely. The loss of my best friend had weighed like a thousand tons of brick in my heart, casting me down to the bottom of the lake of despair and I couldn’t find a way out.

I found a way though, and at the time I thought I had beat this horrible thing that had plagued me with the worst kind of grief. But how wrong I had been. I had only drug myself to the surface, the waves still crashed around me, fighting for revenge. And just now have they succeeded in twisting their lethal ways around my ankles and tugged me down.

I’ve been silenced for so long now, and finally I think it’s time to speak out. This is my story. This is my life, with a few name changes, but everything that you will read is completely true. Nothing is a work of fiction, unless of course you believe--as I do--that everything your mind ever sees in a work of fiction and we’re all just characters in someone’s story. Someone who can use us as they please and dispose of us whenever they feel like it. Someone that has decided to have an unjust vendetta on my troubled character since the beginning and use me as a way to take out all their anger. And now, I choose to retell the fate of which has been cast upon me.

I only hope you choose to listen. Either way it doesn’t matter. I decided that these past memories finally deserved to be put on paper to be exposed to the world.