Flying

She’s constantly tired. All the time. She can’t concentrate anymore. Can’t do anything that used to be normal for her before it got her.
It’s hard to follow conversations. Hard to make sense of the letters on the paper she’s supposed to read. Hard to keep from zoning out.
And sleep doesn’t solve it anymore. She’s always sleeping but the leaden fatigue won’t fade.
It all started about four months ago. Not all at once. It started off slowly. She didn’t think much of it. Thought that maybe it was just a passing thing. A lack of motivation that would disappear soon. Or maybe just her body telling her to slow down a bit. But it wasn’t. And it only got worse. And by the time she realized that something was wrong it was too late. She was too far in to be able to get out on her own. Nothing was able to cure the tiredness that slowly took control of her. The activities she once enjoyed so much… reading, dancing, music… it all just seemed to burden her. It made her tired. But even after twelve hours, or sometimes even more, of sleep, she was still tired.
She isolated herself from others. They couldn’t do anything for her, anyways. It was too late. She couldn’t be reached anymore, no matter how much someone tried to reach out for her. To pull her back out of the hole she dug herself. But the darkness was too strong. It swallowed her. Slowly crept its way into her life, preparing to stay.
And soon after the tiredness, dullness followed. Everything just became the same, dull shade of grade. Where there used to be bright colors now everything looked the same.
Standing here now, at the edge of the building, she couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment at which she stopped caring, but she knew that somewhere along the lines it happened.
It all just seemed kind of pointless to her. Why care about a person who’s going to leave anyway? Why care about dying when it’s inevitable? Why care about getting hurt when at least it makes you feel alive again? Exactly. There’s no point. It doesn’t matter. So she started getting more and more reckless, just to be able to feel herself again. It started with stuff at least considered normal. Bungee-jumping. Cliff diving with other adrenaline-junkies. But it soon got out of hand. She started willfully putting herself in danger.
And why should you be checking for cars before crossing a road when you don’t care about being hit anyways? Why not go alone through dangerous area at night when it doesn’t matter to you if you get shot? Why read the leaflets when it doesn’t matter if you overdose on your medicine?
But those things weren’t able to help her forever. And it didn’t help keeping her sane.
People around her found many names to label her sickness with. But honestly? She didn’t think she was sick. As long as she could still make herself feel something she was perfectly fine, wasn’t she? And when she finally admitted to herself that no, she wasn’t perfectly fine, and she couldn’t go on making herself feel things, it was too late. She had isolated herself. And the more she isolated herself, the worse she felt about it. She wanted it all to stop. But the only way she could think of led her to where she is now. On the ledge of this building, gazing down into the streets. It was in the middle of the night. No people passing by on the road beneath her. Good. She didn’t want to cause any more harm. She had already done enough of that.
So she jumped. And for a moment, it felt like flying. Then - nothing. Thick darkness wrapping around her. It was over.