It was late at night, and he was stuck in yet another depressive episode. He sat there with the box cutter poised over his arm, ready to cut down at a moments notice. There were already dozens of scars carved into his arm, and here he was, ready to make another. For a year now, letting himself bleed had been the only way to feel relief. To free himself from the countless anxieties and traumas always forcing their way into his head. It was a welcome break, one that he’d do anything to get, even self-mutilation.

Except even that no longer provided him any respite. The pain no longer distracted, the blood no longer captivated, and the marks no longer satisfied. So he sat there, and he looked at his marred arm, and he looked at the box cutter. But if this no longer helps, he thought to himself, then what will? If this outlet is removed from his life, what would replace it? What would give him the break he so desperately needed?

He set the box cutter back into a small wooden box, with renaissance-esque art adorning the cover. It sat next to a lighter, as well as a tiny packet filled with white powder. The powder was from Prozac pills he had been prescribed, and he had hoped snorting it would give him some sort of high. No such luck. The box was set back where it belonged, in the bottom drawer of the dresser, under some clothes.

The young man laid back on his bed, trying to think of something to get the bad thoughts away. When things got like this, he usually went on self-destructive episodes where he did anything for a quick rush of dopamine. But that was no longer an option, as his last bout left him under closer supervision than before. He thought back to when things were simpler. When he would just have to play a game, or hang out with friends, even read a book, and he’d be on top of the world. Now games had become boring, he was distanced from his friends, and he couldn’t make it through a single page.

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Feeling reckless, he decided to text an ex of his. What do you think it is that motivates people?, he typed into his phone. The last time they had talked, it was about his intents to die young, likely by his own hands. She had been trying to convince him to keep going, she talked about how she was worried about where his life was taking him. Or rather, where he was taking his life. It didn’t reach him, not really.

Time after time again, life had beaten him down. Had thrown the absolute worst it could at him, and he had taken the hits. He’d gotten back up, and kept on walking forward. But ever so slowly, he started to realize he was never really satisfied, or content. He realized that he could count the times he had been happy on one hand, just three fingers. Thinking on that, he came to a devastating conclusion. If most of my life I’m in absolute misery, then what’s the point of getting back up? There’s no promise of good times, and even if they do show up, they’re short lived. He thought this, and felt a deep dread stir in his heart. What’s the point of moving forward? There was none.

That had happened years ago, yet here he was. Still moving forward, still stuck in agony with no outlet, still getting back up. He had only tried once to leave the world early, and it had obviously been unsuccessful. The second time he was going to try, he instead went to his therapist. He had described one of his recent episodes of self-destruction to her, and almost broke into tears. I just really want to die, he had told her through a choked voice. That landed him in a psych ward for a couple weeks. Death still sounded appealing to him. The ultimate release from the living hell his life felt like.

As he rested his head on a pillow, he checked his phone for a response. No dice. Hoping that he might feel better in the morning, he turned off his phone and got ready to sleep. It was late, and the Remeron he was taking knocked him right out, so he drifted off quickly. Into the void of the night, hoping for a better tomorrow.