Content Warnings: Self-Harm (Sometimes Graphic) Imagery, Suicidal Ideation, Depressive Thoughts
This is a speculative flash fiction story.
Blood drips from Shia’s wrist as she pierces the piece of glass into her skin. Shia’s almond eyes glance into the standing mirror in front of her. Tears flow like rivers down her cheeks, and her swirling thoughts of darkness seduce me, the demonic spirit of depression living inside of her. And I desperately want to know how much she’ll bleed for me, how far I can push her this time.
About to utter more depressing statements into her mind, Shia screams and drops to her knees, hitting the nightstand on her left. A glass falls to the ground, and lukewarm water soaks into the carpeted floor and her skin-tight jeans.
Once her breathing calms, she tightens her hold on the glass piece, drawing blood from her palm, and says, “I hate living this way. What I would give to have just one night off from despising myself and my sickening depression.”
Sad child. She doesn’t understand. Chronic depression isn’t something that can go away that easily. The only thing that can silence the demonic spirits of mental health conditions is its counterpart: the light spirits. As they grow stronger, we diminish. But we can only be completely removed if the human learns a specific phrase.
Never. I’m a part of you. You’ll always feel this way, low, depressed, worthless.
She sniffles, more tears pouring out of her eyes. “Why? Can’t I just feel happiness again? Why must you be here, tormenting me, and not letting me breathe?”
She really shouldn’t be surprised that I’m here. Not only has she suffered with multiple mental health conditions over the years, but these last few weeks, she has slowly relinquished more of her will to her depression and therefore, to me.
Each time she uttered words of hate and claimed she couldn’t handle living anymore, a part of her life seeped out, and I grew bigger, more demanding.
Two days ago, when she dreamed her life would be over, the light vanished from her eyes, and a hollow space where I could flourish opened wide.
Although the glass shard stays glued to her wrist, Shia screams, and her hand shakes. Her mind is an open vortex for me to invade deeper into her soul, making a home out of her misery.
Foolish girl should know by now that her darkness feeds her mental health conditions. If she continues to serve an all-you-can-eat buffet, the demonic spirits of anxiety, stress, self-loathing, and so on, that take residence in her mind, just like me, will continue to grow.
Again, she screams, and her eyes are bloodshot. But she still doesn’t pull the glass away or cut deeper. She clearly doesn’t understand the darkness’s role, or the light’s role either. But how could she, when she’s never believed in a higher supremacy before? Never really felt or understood the power of light inside of her.
“I will fight this!” Shia loosens her grip on the glass. “I can fight this.”
Perhaps I am wrong. Maybe she does know how to rid herself of me.
“Devil…” Shia starts, and I take a deep breath, preparing myself for evacuation. “Seriously, why me? What did I do to be born this way?”
I let out my breath.
She was so close.
I am dangling on a thin wire.
You’ll never amount to anything. I taunt her with the words that started her down this suicidal ideation path.
Shia shakes. The torment of that night flashes in her mind. Another job kicked her to the curb, unwilling to put up with her neurodivergent brain. Boss after boss kept throwing her deeper into despair, leaving her with no hope and ripping at her seams, letting the light trickle out of her. But that night, that boss pushed her straight to me when he confessed that he never thought she had it in her to do anything good, not with her severe OCD. He said she makes more of a hassle for the company.
Down in the gutter, clothes drenched from the rain, Shia had stared at her reflection in the puddle as she leaned against the office building. That day, her eyes turned dark, and her chronic depression took center stage, but now, as she looks into the mirror, and she sees something different, light dancing in the corner.
Shia squints, trying to see the light better.
No! This can’t be happening! I scream every depressing thought I can think into her mind, but she is too focused on where the light came from to hear my negativity.
The light sparkles again, and Shia’s eyes widen as she realizes her necklace’s crystal is causing the reflection. Shia grasps her hand around the pendant as memories of her mother giving her the necklace shadow over my darkness, and the light spirits start to grow.
I hurl more depressing thoughts at her, but she can’t hear me.
Shia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Devil, I rebuke you,” as she drops the shard of glass.
At her words, my mind fogs, and I’m ripped violently away from her.
Desirae Gracyn (she/her) is a nurse and neurodiverse slash queer writer. Working with patients, she has seen how powerful words are in healing and escaping, and it revived her childhood dream of being an author. She predominantly writes fantasy and hopes to help others escape in the worlds she creates.
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