The Contract

The bleakness of my condition was horrifying, even to myself. Here I sat, alone in a graveyard, wishing for the reprieve of change or the relief of death.

 

The wind whispered the lyrics of depression and the sun, an annoying hindrance to my dark mood.

 

I was lingering at the threshold, the next to the last step on a rotted staircase, and in my indecision, the opposing forces rushed to deliver me to the second story or plummeting to my demise.

 

I have been offered a second chance, but the guidelines are strict and there lies an underlying clause that cannot be wavered.

 

The pen hovers above the dotted line, ink dripping from the tip, labored breath stirring the shadows.

 

I am met with the decision: sign in the contract of life or fall away into the abyss?

 

“Sign it.” A voice whispers, a deep dark voice. It’s hot stinking breath on my neck.

 

The mesmeric qualities of this voice sway my decision: the pen scratches the paper.

 

“It’s over now.” I said, but my voice was distant and far away. I realized I had left it with my body.

 

I was falling, despite my signature. I had been warned about making deals with the devil and as usual, I had been heedless.

 

I felt not the air flow that usually accompanies falling, only the sick sudden sensation of dropping. There was however, a tight compression surrounding the peripheral, as if I were sliding down a hollow tube meant to deposit me at a certain location.

 

I am the drug in the needle entering the vein.

 

Entry was the best part, the sting of the needle, the warmth of the liquid, but once inside, the feeling loses it’s potency, becoming numb with indifference.

It’s good though, the numbness. It delivers one away from the pain, the past, and the memories.

 

The aftermath is what sucks. Everything comes crashing back so fast, another dose is required just to cope and comprehend . . . Aahhh, there it goes.

 

I am envious of those who can get high on life. No more pain. No more remembering. No more hangovers. And best of all, no more accidental overdose, unless of course that is what depression is: too much life.

 

Hmmm, I’ll contemplate that on my way down.