All she wanted out of her life was for it to end. She wasn’t so deep into her depression that she would do anything crazy, but she still wished to die.
She regretted the fact that she didn’t have the guts to end it herself. Stuck in a prison of self loathing. Voices telling her that all she did was cause problems. That she didn’t care about anyone, but herself. And, to be fair, it was sort of true. She didn’t care about anything, except the ending.
She counted days, weeks, months. To her, each passing moment was a step closer to the end she wanted more than anything. If someone were to ask her, on her birthday, how she felt about being a year older, she would say that she was happy, because she was one step closer to “it” being over.
If asked, she wouldn’t be able to point a single thing that led to her feeling this way. It was the whole, not the sum of its parts. Different events, carried over a lifetime – miles walked that couldn’t be seen physically.
She knew it was wrong; that it was hurting people close to her. Yet, she couldn’t escape it. It was her perpetual prison. An unbroken wheel, that needed to be destroyed, if only she could find a tool strong enough to do the job.
There didn’t seem to be one. So, instead, she continued to count the days.
1.7562 Billion Miles 