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Hey, guys! First and foremost, please don't judge my spelling! D: I'm Canadian!
Secondly, this is just a "sneak peek" - it's just a tester for a story idea, so I wanted to see if you guys like it, you know? If you don't like it at all, please tell me! I want you guys to be happy with what you read, so don't be afraid to tell me you're unhappy - I've only written this one chapter, so it won't hurt me to delete it. :)
Thirdly, welcome to the story! :D It's a much darker tone for those of you who may know my stuff, so please be wary!
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+ MARK +
I didn't know what I was doing. How could I know what I was doing? Clearly, I was insane – delusional at the least. No, this brought a whole new meaning to the term "insane," a meaning beyond what my damaged mind could ponder on. It was a meaning no dictionary could ever describe, one that an encyclopedia's own publisher couldn't put into words.
I was depressed, not insane.
To top it all off, I was suicidal, brought to the point where nothing in the world mattered. I mean, just think about it; why are we here? What's our purpose? Are we here to think, invent, reproduce, and, eventually, die? Just one human out of the other seven (and almost eight) billion, need not mention the countless other animals? For God's sake, elephants were learning how to paint as I drove down the highway, tapping onto my steering wheel to some oldies, looking forward to the minute I would die.
Everyone else in the world had a purpose, a meaning – we all were meant to wake up, feed our families (or selves) and slave off to work or school. And yet, those meanings meant nothing. They were meaningless, for none of it mattered. Within a couple of decades or two (a century at most), we'll all be forgotten – even the greats like Barack Obama (or the disgusts like Donald Trump) will be forgotten in a few centuries.
Which is a small explanation for why I pulled up to the curb, kicking open my car door as to introduce myself to a grey sky and cloudy excuse for a world, a world that didn't seem worth living in to me. May as well quit while you're ahead, right?
I walked around the car after quickly glancing down at my phone, earning a few notifications from my girlfriend, ones that I'd be sure to ignore for dramatic effect. After an entire three years of dating, you grew weary of the constant "Are you okay honey?" texts, for they didn't really express worrisome thoughts. (What did she expect me to be doing? Killing myself?)
No, it was hard to expect that from me. To be honest, I applauded myself on hiding my suicidal and depressing thoughts – cutting, thankfully, had never crossed my mind, so physical signs never showed. Sometimes I wish they had, for that would've given reason for people to care about me, for me to be encouraged to see a therapist rather than discouraged by my dark thoughts. I stopped wishing for that a long time ago, however, right around the same time I started to plan out my last day alive.
From the back seat of the car, I retrieved a small shoebox, one painted a deep shade of black to match the colour of the blood beating from my heart. (Plus, black was the main colour used to represent death.) It was one I'd put a lot of time into, one I'd crafted only in my spare time so that Lindsay wouldn't see – if she were to ever find out about this, she would do that thing she always did, placing her little hand on my shoulder and whispering, "Mark, it'll get better. We'll figure this out." It's what she always said and never meant – whenever we argued, she said this; whenever one of us was demoted at work, she said this; whenever one of us couldn't get home in time because of their busy schedule and "needs you to get the turkey out of the freezer, honey," she said this.
