Hunter Evans

Inspired by my sister's assignment this is a short story about depression and suicide.

Hunter Evans

Hunter Evans couldn’t get out of bed. What was the point? This depression gave him the emotional spectrum of a line segment. He didn’t want to eat. He lost interest in things he once loved. The only thing that kept him from going over the edge was/were the dark confines of his room. If he didn’t have to interact with the outside world, there were fewer chances of him finding something destructive to dull his pain. The irritating sunlight streaming through his off-white blinds didn’t elicit the slightest reaction in him. It was like he wasn’t there. A shell of the person he once was, he was forced to live inwardly drowning in his pain. His good days came with apathy. On those days there was no pain, only nothing. And he welcomed the nothingness with open arms. 

Minutes passed but they felt like hours. The hours felt like days. Time was becoming irrelevant. Time seemed to pass differently for him now. It dragged on, and he begged for it to stop. He missed the days of nothingness that used to break him out of the agony he felt. But they visited him no longer. Someone came in his room and told him he had to go to school. He didn’t know how long it’d been. Days? Weeks? Months? He searched for the strength to speak and managed to mutter “What’s the point?” The other voice didn’t matter to him. It was just a temporary interruption in his very permanent world. “Get up and go to school. Stop moping around. You are just dealing with teenage problems, it will pass. I let you miss one day of school, so buck up and get ready Hunter.” The voice was harsh and high pitched. He wished it would go away. It didn’t. The voice persisted. 

He dragged himself out of bed and got his backpack. He didn’t bother with changing clothes or with showering. What was the point? He had nobody to impress, and he would impress nobody.  By the time he got out of the house, the bus was long-gone. He caught a ride to school with the irritating nagging voice and got out of the car without saying a word. The familiar school looked like a prison as he approached its gates. Everyone shot him dirty glances as he took his seat in class. He could hear them talking about him. “Goth boy, go cut yourself.” “Why’d you get out of bed today, loner?” “We’d all be better off without you.” “You should just do us all a favor and kill yourself.” “Kill yourself.” “Suicide is the best gift you can give the world.” The voices of his classmates and his internal monologue became indiscernible. He had to make the voices stop. He would do anything to just make everything stop.

Throughout the day he attended all of his classes, but paid attention in none of them. He didn’t take his things out. He didn’t take notes. He was there for attendance sake, but the rest of him was elsewhere. He played the comments over and over in his head. He could not shut them up. “Goth boy, go cut yourself.” “Why’d you get out of bed today, loner?” “We’d all be better off without you.” “You should just do us all a favor and kill yourself.” “Kill yourself.” “Suicide is the best gift you can give the world.” “Die” “Die” “Die” “Die” “Die” When the bell dismissed him for the day, his head was reeling. The unkind words gnawing at his insides like a flesh eating virus. At the front of the school the irritating voice from that morning was waiting for him. He got in the car and listened to it drone continuously on the way home. When he got home he grabbed something from the bathroom and shut himself in his room. 

He sat on his bed, begging the voices to shut the fuck up. “Goth boy, go cut yourself.” “Why’d you get out of bed today, loner?” “We’d all be better off without you.” “You should just do us all a favor and kill yourself.” “Kill yourself.” “Suicide is the best gift you can give the world.” “Die” “Die” “Die” “Die” “Die” He took the razor he snagged from the bathroom cupboard and laid it gently against the base of his wrist. He dug the razor and dragged it up the length of his arm with as much force as he could. This was the only way to stop the voices and it would make everyone happy.  Blood rushed along the path the razor made, pooling on the floor beside him. Blood continued to pour out of him as his life ebbed away. The voices finally stopped. Hunter Evans really was a shell of a person now, just a lifeless body on the floor. Hours later there was a knock at his door. The voice informed him that is was dinner time, but the voice was met with silence. The door opened to his room and the voice saw the boy on the floor, surrounded by his own blood. Clearly it wasn’t just a phase, or if it was Hunter Evans would never have the opportunity to outgrow it. Hunter Evans was no more.