Depression Short Stories

The Girl.

From my bedroom window I see a girl walking out of her home across the street early in the morning- everyday, Monday through Sunday. I didn't mean to look but I saw her one day- a rainy Saturday night to be exact- five years ago. I mean of course I had seen her before. We lived on the same street. But I had never noticed her. But that night I did.

She ran out of her house, mascara smudged down her pale cheeks, mixing with tears and rain before slowly rolling off of her trembling jawline. Her clothes were rugged and I could see the desperation in her eyes as she stopped at her gate and looked back to the front door. I could see a shadow but nothing more before the door slammed heavily behind her.

I had pulled open my curtains fully by then, which was anomalous at this time of night in this neighborhood. She stood for a few seconds, trembling​ from the icy rain. Her lifeless brown eyes reflected the the street lamps glow, giving them a fake sense of emotion. Her hair was falling out of her top bun in messy chocolate curls. And even as she stood there; crying, cold, scared and broken, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

And then she looked up and saw me.

For a moment she just looked curious, but then fear replaced her delicate features, and her face crumpled before she took off running, only to fall a few meters ahead. She slowly got up onto her knees, her shoulders shaking and her head in her hands as she cried.

I moved from my stupor, running to my bathroom to grab the small first aid box we had and running down the stairs, slipping into a pair of shoes and running out into the rain.

She was still there. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted up to the sky, the moon's silver illumination tainting her body. I slowly walked to her and she looked towards me cautiously. I knelt down beside her and held out my hand.

Her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed my hand and held it tight, like her life line. I observed her quietly, silently noting that she had cut her knee in her fall. She had a cut on her cheek, blood slowly mixing with the cheap mascara that rolled down her cheeks in her tears. The skin around it was slightly red and I knew from experience that it was likely to bruise by tomorrow. I quickly took her hand from mine and opened the first aid box, pulling out a disinfectant wipe and cleaning her knee. I could feel her staring at me, a silent question of why going through her mind, but I just continued to wipe before pulling out a flouresent green plaster and sticking to her skin.

I looked up then. Into her eyes, before slowly reaching forward to wipe her cheek with another disinfectant wipe. As I applied another plaster (electric pink this time) she smiled at me slightly and I, slightly blushing returned the gesture.

"Thank you..." She whispered before looking down at the soaking pavement. I stood up, gaining her attention before reaching my hand out to her in offering, she took it and I pulled her up.

I walked lazily through the rain with my fingers entwined with hers, until we reached the end of the road, where a small playground was situated. I sat down on a bench under a tree and she sat next to me quietly.

The silence didn't last long. A sniff. Another. A small cry. Whimpers became sobs and tears rolled heavily down her cheeks in a cascade of pain. I just held her. I held her while she cried about the neglect, the abuse, the lonelyness, the sadness, every pain and sorrow that ate her up inside I let her cry out on my shoulder, in that old playground, in the rain, on a Sunday evening.

When she walked out of her house today she looked up to my window. A smile graced her lips as she waved crazily at me. I let out a laugh, grabbing the last of my bags before meeting her downstairs on the day she would leave her pain behind.