A short story that tells the story of what can happen when depression wins.
The alarm calls out again, pleading with you, begging you to get out of bed; a stubborn siren barely audible over the brewing storm in your head. Why did you even bother setting an alarm; it's not like anyone wants to spend time with you. Nobody wants to listen to the insecure whining of a hopeless loser. The vicious record repeats new versions of the same song. Idiot. You can’t even remember why you set an alarm.
You try to focus. Frustration gets comfortable, and you pull the sheets over your head letting tears leave tracks down your cheeks. The trails left behind are just another reason to stay in bed. People already think you’re fucked up enough; do you really need to give them another reason to stay away from you. Such a schemer, the recording, it encourages your self-image. Repeating its message over and over, letting you know it’s normal to think like this. Assuring you that you do know something by providing you with the insurmountable proof that smothers any hope the light of day may try to impart. Not that it really matters now. You haven’t seen the light for months.
Dishes full of food clutter the surrounding space. Evidence of the wasted attempts to feed yourself, now symbols of another failure. Their putrid smell contributes to the musty odor coating the apartment, while the fruit flies keep the peace hovering only where food languishes. You don’t bother cooking anymore. Except for the rare occasion when someone comes to visit, bringing a meal and the expectation that you’ll eat it with them, you don’t really bother with food at all. Sometimes you’ll unwrap a found candy, popping it into your mouth with the hope of tasting a memory from when people could safely enter your private world. But now the sugary sweetness tastes rancid, and you’re left feeling swindled out of your saccharine memory. Everything else lost its flavor long ago. Just dry and flavorless bits of nourishment that only help you endure this hell longer.