It was just too loud
I pressed the record button and stepped back, sitting down on a wooden chair, placed in the centre of my bedroom.
“I used to wish for something physical. I wished someone had hit me. Or that someone had died. At least a funeral would have been a valid reason to cry. My depression kind of hit in waves, though it was always manageable in the end. Though, in hindsight, I should of knew this was coming. They always tell you to be careful for what you wish for: too bad I didn’t listen.
Sometimes the worst place you can be is in your own head. It’s calming most times—like a sort of mind palace to hide away when life becomes too much—but that day it was just crowded. I always liked the silence, really. The way I could block everything out and just recede into my own mind—it’s comforting really. But right now too many thoughts are running and I can’t concentrate, but the hospital’s too loud so I guess I’ll just stay here.
When I got the call, I was browsing TikTok and talking to Liz. Mr. Johnson? Layla. A car crash. Not looking good. Get here quickly. Surgery. Might not make it. It’s mostly muddled to be honest. I remember the sirens, the cops, the questions, interviews, reporters—loud. Chaos. I’ve always had problems with sensory overload, but this—this was just too much.
A few hours later she was pronounced dead. Drunk driver. Lucky he died on impact. Lucky was a funny word to use. Lucky. Why is it that it’s lucky he died and a horror that she passed? Why do we place one life over another? Why did he place his life over her’s?
Every thought is a battle.
My Depression was being sad and not remembering why. Now it’s being sad and being jabbed with every memory of her. 7 years. 7 years down the drain. Her love. Her hair. Her face. Iloved her more than life itself, but I guess that doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. Life is fragile and so were we I suppose, by proxy. She proposed. I still have the ring.
One of the hardest parts of life is trying to decide whether to walk away or try harder. That day I decided to try. I was crippled, barely moving, a clone in my place. Thats the problem with getting attached to someone. When they leave you, you just feel lost. I suppose it’s a lot like she’s Hansel and im Gretel. Lost, stuck in the woods. They lay the breadcrumbs and they’re supposed to follow. But what if Hansel followed and Gretel didn’t? Leaving their half to figure it out—put back the pieces that once were, never really getting it just right—gaps that’ll never be filled. And yet, I kept on moving, slowly but surely, moving towards—well, what are any of of moving towards anyway?
That first week I woke up in sweats. Picturing her death over and over, the empty bottles on the scene and in my room. And in my head I expected her to be there, right next to me, holding me as I cried. But all there was was empty space, the crease she had left already gone. Why can’t I wake up. I don’t want to wake up. Why won’t she wake up? And suddenly nothing ever mattered anymore, and all I wanted was to sleep forever.
I went to the bathroom and filled the tub. My fingertips grazed the water—icy to the touch. I stepped in, clothes clinging to my body, and fully submerged my head. One, two, three—longer. Seven, eight, nine—longer. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty—I was a minute and some odd seconds in when I finally emerged, coughing up water, sinking onto the tiled floor, slowly, every ounce of me giving in.
Every breath is a war.
You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness. Therapy’s fun but not really helping. Though, nothing’s really helping, so why should that matter? At the end of the day, I’m nothing. I was always nothing. And if that’s the case, am I even worth helping?
They say to follow your heart. But if my heart is in a million pieces, which do I follow? The one lonely piece telling me to try harder, or the billions telling me to walk away? It’s sad when the people who gave you the best memories, become a memory themselves. We used to do everything together. I don’t trust easily, but I trusted her. I believed in her. We were gonna get married. Married. And now we’re dead. Pain just changes itself, I guess, and the sun decided to just stop shining for me.
You’re taking her death so well. You seem happy. I’m glad you’re moving on—taking care of yourself. It’s almost like the iceberg model—people only see what they want to. But underneath the surface, it’s always worse than it seems. Life is almost like a game to most people. Keep moving, keep on winning, and don’t look back. Maybe then, it won’t seem to hurt as much.
I don’t think I’m winning anymore.
I turned off the camera, the red dot’s insistent blinking halting from my touch. Everything became mechanic—almost in slo-mo. I barely recognised I stepped on the chair until I stood straight ahead, a noose in my right hand. This is it. I looped it tightly around my neck. I didn’t picture my mum or siblings. I didn’t think of Layla or Liz. For the first time in my life I was thinking about me. As my feet left the chair that’s all I was thinking about: Me. My choices. My decision. My body dropped and my throat gasped for air. Wanting, needing—what? anything—Something. I tried reaching for the chair but it was too far away and—
Chara Anderson—DOD: 28th January 2026; 23:48.