Category Archives: Darkness

Stories of Sadness, Depression, and other Dark feelings

The Game

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     It was dark, in the immediate distance. A bright white light illuminated overhead, I could feel it’s heat like a naked bulb. In front of me was a small round card table, the top covered in green felt, the stem made of polished dark cherry wood.
     I reached out and glanced at my hand. Perfectly oval, bright red nails extended from long, slender fingers. Fingers that reached out like spider legs from a open ended, ruffled trimmed fingerless glove. The glove itself was some sort of dark grey denim, with a machine sewn seam perfectly centered on the back of my hand. A white ruffled eyelet lace protruded from the top, and the wrist. I turned my hand over to glance at the palm. The ruffled lace was machine sewn into a white cotton liner on either end. The grey denim had dark grommets, with a black satin ribbon crisscrossing over the liner. It was tied in a neat bow near my heart line.
     My black hair fell to the side of my face into my peripheral vision, it was cut short just below the ears. The hair fell straight yet looked like humidity had caused minor frizz.
     I glanced down at the corseted top I wore. It matched my gloves with the exception of the midriff part made of black leather. The dark gray denim fit tight and kept my posture straight and perfect. I could feel the bottom of it near the sacral chakra and the top just above the heart chakra. The white shirt came up over my cleavage and covered it, white ruffled eyelet lace trimmed it almost like a ViVi collar. The sleeves ran down my arm and reached just to the inside of the gloves, but they were cuffed with a single white plastic button.
     Then a light came on across the room and to the left. There sat a man behind a table identical to mine. He had a thin oval face, his cheeks slightly sunk in giving him a ghoulish, ghastly aura. Smooth, thin white hair fell limp and lifeless under a black top hat sporting a light grey band. A thin long scarlet feather behind a single normal sized playing card, you could only see the blue designed back of, were tucked into the band on the left side.
     He wore what looked like a black formal dinner jacket, over a light gray vest with black buttons. His white undershirt bore the same eyelet lace as mine, only his sat high upon his neck. I tried to see his eyes, but they were shadowed by the brim of his hat. He wore black leather gloves, though they only extended past his long bony knuckles so only a third of his fingers actually showed.
     There was no background, there was no floor or ceiling. There was nothing but darkness, and the two of us.
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I Understand

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    The headache began from the frontal lobe, somewhere near the anterior premotor cortex. It was a constant pain that came from nowhere. Slowly easing itself in til it had reached the volume of pain it wanted, then resided at that point unmoved. The continual pain if left unchecked would lead to other symptoms. Agitation would increase like lightening on the nervous system. There would be a definite loss of the ability to concentrate, it would soon become impossible to keep focus for long periods of time. These two symptoms would lead to new side effect, restlessness. Restlessness would lead to a myriad of psychological and mental impediments. Sound thinking and reasoning would fall slightly off kilter. After time a feeling of desperation begins to creep in.
    Knowing the physiology would not stop the onslaught, not even taking an asprin would stave it off. The cure lies somewhere else. The only cure was to stop completely the compulsive obsessive disorder that had taken over. Like a demon, the illness snuck in without warning and possessed you. Controlling your thoughts and actions, manipulating your emotions and needs.
    It was an addictive itch, that fueled a burning inner desire when you scratched it. It felt good. The burning desire within you, the hunger and wanting. It felt good to nurture it. A slightly erotic and evil invocation, that feeling you get when it feels good to be bad.
    It started like most things, it was all done in passing. A small curiosity, a passing interest. Then it was almost a morbid fascination, like driving slowly past a car wreck. You had to look, what harm could one small peek do?
   But that small glimpse did something you did not expect. It awoke your mind to strange thoughts you had not experienced before. It opened doors to wild fantasies you never dared dream before. It took you to a place you had never known of, a land so strange and foreign you wanted to know every nook and cranny of it. Everything was new. Whatever you expected when you came here, you left with the first free taste of a very addictive drug.
    This was no ordinary drug, it was not one to dull the sense and ease the mind. It offers no escape, only bondage.
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Serial Killer

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    The blood was starting to clot and fall in globs to the floor. He continued to cut away the flesh from the bone in silence. He tossed the meat aside in large plastic storage tub.
    It was not the thin cheap plastic storage tubs you would buy at the local mega-mart, they were the thick sturdy kind that were hard to find. All storage tubs used to be this thick, when he bought them in bulk in nineteen eighty four.
    He wasn’t a hoarder. He just liked to plan ahead.
    He planned so well ahead it was eerily like ESP. Which he did have in some small sense. He had enough to know he would need those containers when he saw them.
    He didn’t know the economy was going to tank, leaving millions out of work. He had no foresight that the country was going to be so far in debt it could not get out, ever. He knew none of these things were going to happen.
    He did know Katherine, with a “K”, was going to want to go home with him last night. He knew she would drink one more cherry martini once he got her there. He knew how the whole night would go. Not so much because of ESP, though he was sure it held a part.
    It was due to his meticulous planning, and the fact the he knew Katherine was spelt with a K two weeks before their chance meeting at the bar.
    He knew more than how to spell her name.
    He knew where she worked, where she played, who she worked and played with. He would have made a great private detective. He knew her favorite color, her favorite drink, and (thanks to an online dating profile) what her perfect man would be like.
    For three hours he was that man. A night of role playing. A smile, a laugh, and unlimited charm. Then he brought her home and mixed her a drink.
    She wanted more, so much more. She’d found her perfect man, she wanted her happily ever after to start here and now. She was so desperate, so very desperate. She would have done anything he asked, anything.
    That was all he needed.
    Then as she neared the end of her drink, her flirting became slurred. Her movements became clumsy. She went to the restroom to urinate, and expired on the toilet.
    It was a stroke of luck he hadn’t counted on.
    He removed the wig of short dark hair, and took out the light brown contacts. He had both in every color. He enjoyed dressing up and playing the part.
   It added to the adrenaline rush.
    He could have been an actor.
    He pulled the last piece of meat off the bone and tossed it in the plastic container.
   He set the bones in a huge cauldron over the walk in gas fireplace in the front room. He left them to boil as he carried out the tub of meat to the woods.
    He walked for a few hours, and set the tub down uncovered. He said nothing and enjoyed the sounds of the surrounding woods. There was no one around here for miles and miles.
    After the bones were cleaned, he laid them out to dry on a large metal dehydrator he had built. Then he took the dry bones to a large industrial trash compactor located in the shed. Within minutes of the large machine’s whirring and cranking, it was over.
    He took the bone fragments and dust, added them to some bonemeal mulch he’d bought a few weeks before for the garden.
    He went down to the basement and cleaned the cold metal steel floor and the autopsy table.
    He had the house built at his own expense. Room by room, each by different construction crews. No one knew the floor plans but him, everything was built without question, to his specification.
    H.H. Holmes would have been proud.
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Forever

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     She looked at the photograph from her wedding.  A small tear began to form in the corner of her eye and a lump began to swell in her throat.  She remembered that day like it was yesterday, though it had only been two years before.  She thought he loved her and it would be forever.  She thought she was going to finally be happy.  All the fairy stories she’d read, all the dreams she’d mustered up in her head growing up.  She thought he was different than all the other men she had encountered before.  She thought he loved her.    She set the picture back down on the end table.  The tears poured forth out of her like a storm that would never pass.  The pain so sharp like a steel beam forever embedded into the center of her.  Creating the wound from which she would never heal.
     Her heart was broken.
     Forever was just a fairy tale.
     She glanced at the picture again.  It was just a blurry mass through the tears.  A square outline of run together watercolors, like a child’s painting left in the rain.
     She cried more thinking how her love was used and thrown into the garbage.  How worthless she was to the one man she adored and loved with all her heart.
     The one man she trusted.  The only man on the whole planet who’s opinion mattered to her.  The only person whom she wanted and desired approval from.  He did not love her.  She thought he did.  He did not accept her.  He rejected her.
     Was this all life is?  One disappointment after another?  Was she to live forever one pain to the next with only lulls of distress in-between?  Was this Life?  Was this all there is?
     She began searching.  Searching for an answer she knew she couldn’t decipher to a question she couldn’t phrase.  Searching for a direction besides the one she was on.  Searching for another emotion to feel, another way to see this, another way to think.  Searching desperately for anything to stop this pain.
     For a second her anguish turned to anger.  She thought he was different, but they are all the same.  They say they love you, they lie.  Love is accepting, patient, and kind.    If he loved her he would be with her. If he loved her he would help her through her problems not run away.  Run away like a child.  Her anger was fueled finally.  Not like a man, who stands up and faces his problems.  Not like a man who stands up and fights.
     Her tears had stopped and rage had began to fill her.  Where a steel beam had resided in her center now a fire of hate burned.  Burning slowly churning within her.  He said til death do we part, maybe it’s time for a funeral.  The fire within her began fuel her thoughts and motivate her to feed it.  Yes FEED it.  Make it grow.  End the pain, replace it with Hate.
     She turned to his things and began to destroy them one by one.
     Like he destroyed her.
     Everything he cared about.  Gone.
     As he did to her.
     She turned and glanced at sea of broken.  Broken like her insides.  Broken like her heart.  She still felt no better, she was not done.  She pulled his clothes out of the closets, out of the hampers.  Off the floor in the bathroom where he left it to lay for days.  She threw it all in the bathtub and lit it ablaze.
     She stood numbly watching the fire burn, but the heat could not warm her.  The pain was beginning to slowly creep back.  There was nothing left of his to destroy.  The walls began to grow black from the smoke.
     Black like her dead heart.
     The heart he broke.
     She sat on the floor and watched the ashes glow in the black tub.  It was all over.  She hugged her legs to her, but she would find no comfort there.  She knew she would never find comfort again.  It was all a lie.  All of it.  There was no fairy tale ending.  There is no reality called Love.  Love does not exist.
     It was actually freeing to accept it.  It makes logical sense.  Love is just a story like Santa Clause.  Something we tell people to make them happy, but it’s not real.  She used to believe it was real, but now she knew the truth.  It was just lies, things people tell each other to get things.  To do things for them.  To manipulate.  There was no such thing as Love.
     If there was no such thing as Love, then was no such thing as Caring.  In order to care about someone you have to love them. If Love is a lie then it’s true that nobody cares.  Care is just a lie.
     If this is all there is to life.  Going from one disappointment to another, one failure to another.  Nothing but pain and desperation.  Nothing but loneliness.  If Love is a lie, there is no reason to live.  There is no warmth, no caring. She didn’t want to live in that world.  Where no one cares for anyone, no one loves anyone.
     She felt so alone.  No one cares.  No one cares she’s in pain.  No one cares that she was in love, that she was capable of love.  In a world where there is no Love.  No one cares.
     No one.
     Especially not the man she married, the one she thought would love her forever.
     Forever ended.
     The steel beam was beginning to form in her center again.  It was just a splinter now but in an hours time she would be back to tears.  Tears that she knew would never stop as long as she breathed.
     She could end her pain now and not have to go through it anymore.  Her friends would tell her to pick up the pieces and move on.  To find someone else, but why would she do this to herself again.  Love isn’t real.  There’s no sense in trying.
     She felt calmer now.  It was easy to open the medicine cabinet and grab the pills.  After all, it was all a lie.  Life was all a lie.  Marriage.  Love.  All a lie.
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