Father comes to visit for the holidays and naturally he is curious about what the middle child is up to.
The oldest in one of the best grad schools in the world.
"How are your grades looking this semester?" I'm sorry but they're pretty average.
"Oh that must mean you've been too busy to study because you're working." Actually I haven't got a job either, Dad.
"Oh you sneaky old dog you, there must be a lady keeping you distracted from working or studying." Actually my girlfriend left me for the local douchebag a while ago.
Father then gives me a serious glance and asks: "what's the catch then? What have you been possibly doing that could have kept you from studying or working or at least building up a relationship!?"
"Have you been too busy with your friends?" Dad my friends all decided I wasn't worth the struggle and realized how much more difficult I make things for them.
"What have you been doing then this whole time?"
Could you answer the question if you were in my shoes?
I don't think any educated person could look at their father straight in the eyes after this and explain how you had been doing nothing. Exactly nothing. How could you not find the time to study or work or have fun if you did nothing!?
Is this what depression is? Coming home to a mother who's been alone all day and misses you, and slamming the bedroom door in her face when she asks those curious inquires about your day, she wouldn't ask if she didn't care. And then you put your head to sleep and ignore all your friends' messages and calls, distancing yourself from them, taking yourself out of their group slowly but surely. Think they'd make 6 to 7 unanswered calls a day if they didn't care? You wake up from your nap only to shrug off your siblings who look up to you, all he wanted was someone to play with, but you, you were to busy, doing nothing. You leave the house at night friends or no friends you need that buzz of substance that keeps you from caving in everyday, and you pick your poison, oh from caffeine to nicotine to anything that destroys your insides. Finally you come home and can't take it anymore, can anyone be this much of a disappointment, or a failure. It's unreal. You run to find shelter and relief in a box of stolen Xanax pills. No shelter to be found, your raging family had found the stash and consumed or dumped them all. You look around all you hear is anger and all you see is fear, shove your face into a pillow, can't break a tear. And now you know the world is done with you again you run to pray to god, trying to make amends. In the end you flip through your phone and realize you're done, you look at the battery and the percent is almost 1, won't matter anyway you failed at life the reaper is shooting bullets and you have nowhere to strife, write a quick letter, sit in the darkness, and wait for the sun, with it's rising you'll swallow your gun, with one loud pop and one blinding flare you'll take your life, like few ever dare. Then when it's too late the people at the funeral will sit there and stare,
"Where did we go wrong, all we did was care."
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this is a fictional piece of art.