A Monologue for Will

Depression, or whatever this is is not a lot of fun. As if it would be. I’m not used to crying like this. I'm not used to crying at all. I thought about saying that to someone, anyone, but it's like my mouth has been glued shut; all that I have left now are the tears and the tight ache in the middle of my ribcage where something bright used to live. The sobbing comes from there, welling up through the rawness of my throat to bleed silently into my pillow. Yeah, I thought about writing poetry. Too goddamn cliche. Where would I write it anyway? How could I show it to anyone?  I don’t know if I could bear it if nobody even saw. Because it might mean that nobody cares enough to check, and I couldn’t handle that. 

    Now I can’t stop thinking about it. How Charlie is probably the best kid I have ever known, and even though he did a lot of things that I strongly object to I just want to hug him and tell him that everything will get better everything will be better, the worst has come and gone, but I don’t know if that’s true. And I’m worried about him. And about me. And I should probably go to sleep now and stop thinking but I still have homework and I feel anxious and I just can’t bring myself to lie down.  because for some reason it is very important that I do. I feel stupid and needy and I really want to find that picture I drew because it might help. But only people really help, . There’s a pool of snot on the carpet and I just don’t care enough to do anything about it. It makes a nasty sound. I don’t want to worry Violet with this and I’m not sure Blue would understand. I’ve been crying ever since a bit before I climbed back in through the window. It was fast at first, fast tears, and now it is a sort of eternal drip and I really don’t even want to go to school tomorrow because I know it will be so hard. I honestly don’t think I would make it through the day, and suddenly I'm not sure I even want to try.

    I wish Violet would actually talk to me, I wish Blue wouldn’t interrupt me. I really want to call them, apologize over and over again, but it's nearly two o’clock in the morning and I don’t want to be a nuisance. I hate phones. And speed dial. And this distance that's grown up between us. And my back hurts and the string of snot running from my nose has latched on to my hand and I don’t even care enough to wipe it off and my mouth has been hanging open and I hate that and I feel small and fragile and cracked and utterly, completely alone. I might be seriously contemplating suicide, but I think I still have a lot more to give the world before I can let myself die. Unfortunately that means more suffering on my part. Death seems like such an easy release.

    I sometimes wish that what I had been told about myself as a child hadn’t been quite so contradictory. On the one hand you’re smart and nice and generous and whatever, on the other you can’t get anything done you’re lazy you never apply yourself try harder not good enough you suck go away. That may have contributed to why I am the way I am sometimes. I don’t know but I’m really glad to be seeing a counselor again, because I think she’s really good even if all that makes me uncomfortable and stirs up memories I thought were safely buried, but no I didn’t because I didn’t think about them because they were safely buried. And now they’re not and I feel like a wreck a train wreck everyone dies except a bit of left frontal lobe and the amigdala, which was living in the Sahara at the time of the accident. We have not ruled out the possibility of terrorism. And if there’s anyone reading this I apologize for everything. But I won’t explain. I’ve tried too many times to explain the way I think, and it all seems self explanatory to me. I think I’ll sleep now. I hate complaining like this which is a complaint itself. Goodnight.

    I'm done screwing with this for tonight. Feel free to edit and revise as much as you want.