Short Stories

Celly sat on her bed, looking out her bedroom window.  It was mid-afternoon, and   she had gotten home from school a few hours ago.  

She let her eyes wander lazily over the scene outside, but soon she had to look away.  Celly turned away from the cruel sun and pulled her blankets over her head, burrowing as far down as she could go.  It was dark all around her.  Her breath was warm as she breathed in and out.  The blankets were nestled all around her, protecting her.  A self-made cocoon.  

She heard her mother call from downstairs.

"Celly, it's time for dinner."

"I'm not hungry," Celly called back, trying to make it sound as though it were a perfectly acceptable answer.

She heard her mother's footsteps coming up the stairs.  Celly whimpered.  "Please, please, just leave me alone", she moaned to herself.  Her mother came into the room.  

"Celly, it's time for dinner," she said again.

"I'm not hungry," Celly repeated, frustrated.

"You have to eat," her mother said.  Oh no, here it comes, Celly thought to herself.  Her mother proceeded with her usual harping about how if she didn't eat she would be sick and end up having to go see the doctor, etc., etc.

Celly reached her hand out to her radio and turned it on at full volume.  The sound ground her nerves but it was a lot better than listening to the sound of her mother's voice.  Her mother finally gave up and left.

"Six eighty news time, six thirty one.  It's time for traffic and weather together, on the..."

Celly shut off the radio and pulled the covers around her tighter.  She soon fell asleep.

Celly awoke the next morning from a deep and heavy sleep, and immediately cursed the sunlight through her window, the opening of her eyes, the listlessness that weighed her body down.  Consciousness was too much of a burden for her.  But she had to go to school.

She stared up at the ceiling, the thought of having to go through four entire classes making gravity pull her down even more.  She tried to muster up enough energy to do something, at least.

Her mother wouldn't be able to stop her from staying at home in bed, but Celly knew she'd have to listen to her constantly telling her that she was lazy and going to fail.  If she went anywhere else, she'd be alone with her own thoughts for the whole day and she knew she couldn't stand that.  So school was the only option.

Celly dragged herself out of bed towards her closet, picked up a blouse and jeans up off of the floor, sat down.  Her hands were utterly useless as she attempted to button the blouse.

She would have cried but she was too emotionally exhausted for that.  She sat with her back leaning against the wall, vainly trying to call some of her strength back.  She eyed the booklet titled "Depression" that her doctor had given her a few weeks ago, lying on the floor.  It angered her.  No. No, I will not be a label, her mind fiercely stated to the empty room.  She picked it up and threw it in the waste paper basket.  

She realized with mild surprise that that brief moment of anger had given her a little strength.  She finished dressing, threw an apple in her bag (out of habit, not because she was planning on eating it), and headed out the door.  The weakness hit her again almost at once.  She leaned against her front door.  Damnit! I can't do this anymore.  

She leaned more heavily on the screen door behind her.  She felt it?s steadiness holding her up, as she was incapable of doing so herself.  "You have to go to school," she said to herself.  "Concentrate on making it there.  The rest you'll worry about later."  She took a few deep breaths, gripping the door behind her.  Having regained a bit of strength back, she walked down her front steps, and made her way towards school.

It was last period of the day.  Celly's head was spinning.  If she had to spend one more second in that room she was going to scream.  It was her turn to conjugate the next verb.  She could barely even stay in her chair, much less go through all the thought processes it would require for her to give even a half-guessed answer.

"Celly?"  the teacher called on her.

"Est-ce que je peux aller au toilette?"  Celly tremblingly asked, on the verge of a panic attack, her nails digging into her arms.

"Oui.  Jamie, la prochaine?"  He had barely even blinked.  Celly was glad.  She stumbled out of the room and into the washroom around the corner.

After safely locking herself in a stall, she began to sob.  I can?t do this any more, I can't, I can't.  Her head is swimming.  No one understands me, not one single person understands any of this.  All of her "friends" had decided she had changed too much ? they didn't want to hang around her, she frightened them.  Oh yes, she knew that she frightened them, even if they didn't admit it.  She remembered once mentioning to one of them how she didn't want to live any more.  None of them had ever looked at her properly again.

Celly continued to sob, all the while an idea forming in her mind, around the edges.  She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling that if she let go she would shatter into pieces.

Her mind whirled again.  "You're not depressed, you're just lazy,".  Her older brother.  "Welcome to the real world."  Her father.  "You have nothing to be depressed about.  You haven't lived."  Her mother.  "You're too young; you don't know what you're talking about.  We know what's best for you, how can you possibly know?"  Her art teacher.

The school bell rang, but Celly didn't register it.  I hate you Celly.  You never should have been born.  All you do is hurt other people.  All you do is cause them pain.  Echos of what she'd been told her whole life.  

Her sobs die down.  She becomes weak again, and her arms drop to her sides.  She slides against the wall onto the floor.

Her whole being, every atom in her body, yearns towards sleep, a sleep from which she would never awaken into consciousness again.  The thought is calming, soothing.  She sits there and hears people come in and out, chattering, laughing, talking.  She stays until all the sounds are gone.

She looks at her bag, thankful that she has remembered to bring it with her upon leaving class.  She reaches into it and pulls out what she needs.

She gets up, opens the door and goes towards the sink.  Celly takes one of the paper cups provided.  She fills it with water.  She is ready.  Her head isn't spinning any more.  It is clear.

The sound of the door opening startles her and she drops what she is holding.  Willie and Danielle walk in, laughing about something.  The sound is strange to Celly's ears.  "Hi Celly,"  Danielle says.  Celly leans against the wall and closes her eyes, as the other two girls take in the scene.

Celly looks up at them and sees the concern and love in both their eyes, intensely real, reaching out to her, saying so much without words.  She closes her eyes again, and, allowing them to embrace her, lets her tears fall once again.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There is so few fiction out there about suicide from the suicidal person's mind...or from any perspective, for that matter.  So when we were asked to write a short story for school this is what I came up with...it cause a bit of a fuss with the school administration   

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Geoff Mcmullen's picture

I was reading a story by tha poet and read your comments inviting him to read Celly.
I am very glad I did. You are very good at story telling and I agree this should be and I think has a very real probubility of being published. An important subject that has been ignored by society for to long.
You presented her perspective so well it brought back through 30 years of life feelings that I'd long since suppressed. That is a very well written story that I will pass along to others.
Good luck on getting it published.

Anna's picture

Just wanted to comment on how much i liked your story. I think that submitting it to be published would be a very good idea.
Your writing decription brings the reader into the situation , i would like to read more of your work.


Dan Griffin's picture

makes me weep for the person who has nobody to enter their world and give them support. if you (anyone reading this) feels they have nobody, you will find a friend in me. nothing is worth giving up everything.

wonderful story by the way

Jon Proesel's picture

Wow. In my mind, this is an excellent piece. Please, continue writing.