Depression

It’s dark in here. Dark and cold and clammy. There are other people here too, and they roll around moaning to themselves, pawing at the dark dripping walls, inhaling deeply, frantically trying to extract oxygen from the lank pungent air around them.

I gave up trying to breathe years ago. I don’t even moan, roll around or paw at the walls anymore. I did once. But there’s no point. I just exist. I am. And in some way I have reached a tranquil state. At least until the creatures darker than the dark around me come amongst us, and turn the moaning, pawing mass of bodies into a writhing, screeching, petrified pit of pure fear. They come swiftly and without warning, chilling my very blood, which I feel begin to pulse faster, like icy shards ripping through my long dormant veins.

Then they swiftly leave us again, and tranquillity of a sort returns until the next time. They will come again, as sure as the light will never come to this place. As sure as death will never come within my grasp. Instead, it lingers just beyond my reach. Death in this place would be sweet release. It’s so dark.