Life’s a Game

A short story about a girl suffering from depression, who writes a suicide note detailing that pain. However, once she’s remembered all that she’s lived through, she decides not to go through with the suicide because it would undermine everything she has fought for trying to keep herself alive and happy. In the end, it’s too big of a gamble. She realized that life isn’t a game but it’s everything that she is. She accepts this, accepts her pain, then moves onwards.



I’m in a bit of a dark place right now. Depression consumes my thoughts and makes a map of everything I don’t care about. I’ve fallen out of love with you, out of love with life and out of love with myself. I am empty of what I once was and completely fine with the prospect of dying. There was a girl with years of misspent lives under her eyes and that particular shade of weariness clouded her existence. It burnt to look at the world and how it changed into a hell of a thing she couldn’t even bother to save. I’m indifferent to that suffering. I don’t care. That girl never wavered in her carelessness. It was all she clung onto as lights became dimmer. One dying thought and the world is dark.

Like the sound of a camera shuttering with the force of a dying reel, every day became a slow moving picture which did not say a thousand words, or any words for that matter. It was completely silent. For a sound so at peace with itself, it drove her to a quiet sort of madness. Her own fall into the oblivion of insanity was a slow and destructive one. Limbs caught on cracking structures and she collapsed with them, their foundations ringing with the sound of inadequacy. That poor girl; she had failed herself. Circumstances challenged too hard and instead of fighting or bending to their whims she strayed from their sights completely and acquainted herself with the very same situations that ruined her. This girl decided to laugh. Manic and confused, she laughed for she saw the mechanics of life and death and decided that death was the more appealing option. She won nothing and lost. She had misplaced her mind. Her new home became an internal mental asylum for the desperate and dying.

White looks good with her tired completion. The kind of exhausted that looks neither trying nor endearing but so obviously sickly it leaves people in a constant state of fluster. No one knows how to act around her. Their stares which were once hostile things become foreign. Who are these people again? Are they testing her? Perhaps they’re part of the audience and they watch as she falls deeper and deeper into her own skin, lost in the tired wrinkles of imperfection. She is no longer pretty. She is no longer optimistic. She is no longer wise. She is no longer mad. She is worse than nothing; she is something that had failed to live. A failed life despite living, despite creation constantly surrounding her. The game had been too harsh, the conditions unfavorable. The rules were fickle and contradictory, misplaced things and she had forgotten to heed the most important one: never let yourself go. She had all but flung her body off the cusp of whatever had been keeping her on earth.

At what point did you look at one another and stop wondering about your sister, mother, friend, teacher, student, and stranger? At what point did the reflection become more real than the individual, depending on a lack to survive? That same reflection just a taunting reminder of everything you had become. Every reflection is against us in ways which we only wish to know. They’re talking right now; whispering about how tortured you look. How easy it will be very soon. She had fun with it at first. She had made amends with the mirror and all its familiars. But now those mirrors are broken. Those shards are used to create more pain. More scars. Mirrors are not a friend to the depressed.

Sharp pain, convulsing and dominant struck her to her knees and bent her existence in half. The type of pain which she had sought and used to her advantage for too long. She grew clumsy. A severed hand cannot be replaced by optimism and a smile. A jagged mutilation running deep through layers of skin and veins cannot be cast aside as a mere blemish anymore. Scars were made to remind us humans that we’re fragile things, that we’re breakable. So it’s best not to be too self-assured in the game of life, because just one swipe across the heart and you’re a corpse. Cracks in the glass never ceased to exist because she never regretted breaking the surface in the first place. Regrets are all well and fine but their implications are what make them a force rather than a reminder. Regret, the demon, paid her a visit. Stole a piece of her indifference and made her desperate. She looks at her surroundings and wonders no longer. What had the word: content, ever mean? Was anything ever full of wonder or is wonderful just another ordinary word? She stripped her skin off one layer at a time and stood in nothing but blood. It wore her well.

Her refection looked on as crimson drowned her legs and rose to her neck, tendons straining against the pull of her restraints. The pain made her thrash about, convulse and snap into every minor attention of detailed agony. Each nerve screamed to be recognised amid the miasma and the girl couldn’t even retch away the sorrows of fault, her reflection stopping her from action and keeping her hypnotised by the loathsomeness of it all.

You have reached the land of futility, depression said, and you will never leave.

I’m in quite a dark place. Thinking is the best part of it. Unfortunately action has taken the reins and I am at the will of whoever is driving my thoughts to die away from me one murder at a time. Life had often been a masterpiece and now it has taken control of what I knew and loved and wished to become and hung me by my weak neck, snapped the bones and seeped the blood from me. She couldn’t become any more dreadful than being strung there; a broken mess upon the beauty of the world while the players laughed and the audience cheered. How foolish of you, they scream, how foolish to think you could ever survive this change. A thing watches as I fall deeper and it smiles something sharp and promising. I am at its mercy and what can I do? Except bend my head and look away as I am killed again and again.

I’m in a dark place right now. The light had hurt to look at. But then I wake up and I’m still alive. I am surely, despite everything, still breathing. I promise myself that as long as I keep waking up alive I won’t halt that process. Life’s a tender thing. It’s too big of a gamble to end it. I’ve never been a gambler, my poker face is awful. I’m a sore loser at the heart of it. I don’t want to lose to the dead. I’ve lost myself, my joy, but life’s a long, long thing. Perhaps it’ll return some day, along with this new perspective. I am myself. Even when I wish that self was dead. I am myself and I am alive.


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