damaris hope : d8 : fin

Here is what happens after you die: nothing. The pain ends, your brain shuts off, and you float into the void forever. No suffering, just you and eternity hand in hand. I don't understand why everybody doesn't crave death. Why don't they want to escape from their painful lives? For the small price of not existing, you never have to deal with another problem ever again.

I think I, myself, am a problem.

I don't fancy myself as anything pretty. I'm somewhat tall, my height coming to around five foot six or seven, but I'm thinner than paper. I resemble a doll made of string who has been pulled in all directions too many times. My clothes hang a bit too loose off my frame, so I'm constantly rolling up my sleeves and fixing the cuffs of my pants. My hair, chocolate brown, tumbles past my shoulders in loose waves. I keep it tied away from my face, usually in a ponytail, but sometimes in a bun, if I feel like putting in extra effort.

My skin is pale pink, and red patches gather around my nose. Age lines have already sunk into its surface, prominent on my forehead, around my eyes, and my mouth. When I smile, which is not often, I feel like I look so old. My hazel eyes crinkle, and my lips nearly reach the far edges of my face. I don't enjoy looking older than seventeen, so I don't smile often. If I had more money, just a little, I could afford makeup. I could cover everything I hate about my face until it's just a flat, blank canvas.

If only it was that easy to cover up the not-so-great aspects of my personality. I feel as if I'm a blight upon my family. We are all struggling, and I think it's awfully selfish of me to struggle more than them. Despite this, I make no effort to keep my feelings hidden. When I am sad, I want people to know I am sad, because I will still feel this way whether or not somebody knows. I don't verbally communicate it, but there are other ways to tell how people are feeling. I've lost friends who consider me depressing or seeking attention, but I feel that as humans we all seek attention and validation- even though some may not admit it.

I don't do much of anything nowadays. I barely help around the house or run errands into town. My favorite place to be is curled up in the corner of our worn brown couch, my knees drawn to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. There, I can sit in silence. My family doesn't try to talk to me because they know I won't answer. I'm not mute, fully, but my mouth stays shut more often than not. I prefer to talk inside myself, let my thoughts run wild through my brain.

People assume that, because I'm depressed, I don't care about anything. I think they are only half right. I don't care about myself, that's true. I have no care whether I live or die. My family, however, is the one thing in the world that means something to me. I hate how much of a burden I am to them, and I wish I could be better, but I fear there is no end in sight for the depression I've found myself in. I know my family wishes I were better too. I am sorry that I am a disappointment to them.

I belong to a family whose name has been scarred by tragedy. I lost two cousins, one in the 70th Games, one in the 71st Games. I was not close with them, despite only being a bit younger than they were. They are frozen in time now, forever young, and I will continue to grow older and older. There is a part of me that envies them. They did not have to deal with the aftermath that followed their demise. Sure, they suffered before they died. A knife in the eye is nothing short of painful. But they died. They do not feel anything anymore, unlike me.

Perhaps if I had siblings, I would have turned out more social. I always have been the quiet girl who kept to herself. My parents tried to coax me out of my shell, but I would not budge. The depression came soon after, when I was around ten or eleven. It was like a heavy, dark cloud had formed over me. I never tried to fight it. I let the darkness consume me. My parents did everything they could to help me, but there is only so much a person can do. They don't try anymore, not because they don't love me, but because we all know I am beyond help.

When Lily died, our entire family was thrust into chaos. There was no time for my feelings anymore while everybody was grieving. Paige's death only made the fire bigger. I couldn't handle the turmoil inside me. One night, I snuck out of the house and climbed to the roof of a nearby factory. Perched on the edge, seeing everything so far below me, hammered in the fact that I was nothing but a spec in the universe. Nothing I did would ever make any sort of difference. I was alive, my heart still beating, but I felt like a corpse.

I didn't jump because I was afraid the building wasn't high enough. I climbed down, walked home, and cried in my bed. I didn't leave it for a week. I hid under my blankets and plotted other ways to end my life. The thing that stopped me from acting on any of those was realizing what it would do to my parents. They had already lost two nieces, what would they do if they lost their own daughter?

So I stay, not for my own sake. I want to get better, for them, but miracles do not happen here, and perhaps one day I will throw all my care out the window and follow the path that death has laid out for me.