The Townhouse of Depression

  Today, I would like to share a short story that I wrote 1-2 years ago. I would say that this piece is not a complete short story. It is more of a section than a full story, but for now, I will continue to refer to it as a short story. This section is non-fiction, meaning that it is based upon a real event that I experienced in my first year of University.

The original assignment for this story was to create a piece of writing that described a room in great detail. I think that there are improvements that I can make to this story, but that will be a task for another day.

I hope you enjoy the story!

P.S. count the amount of times I’ve written “story” and express the number in the comments. 🤣🤣

The Town House of Depression

A long birch wooden table stands with its four legs on a grey carpeted floor. There were 8 chairs of the same wooden structure standing still, pushed underneath the table. The curtains in the living room were closed and blocked off the little light that was left shining through the windows. The day had seeped away faster than I anticipated it would. The walls were white, such a bland color. A boring white with no stories behind it. White might as well be associated with depression, like black and grey. It is empty, plain, and ordinary. White can be pure, but in this scenario, it is nothing. There was a glass door in the living room. It led outside to the pathetic little concrete slab people called a “porch”. The door in the living room did not have any blinds covering it up. It stood still, unopened, locked, and secured to the ground. There was a girl who had light brown wavy hair, and her skinny build made you think that she was unhealthy, but no one in the dorm bothered to ever ask. She sat on one of the birch chairs with her legs pulled up and her knees almost reaching her face. She was laughing hysterically. Her blonde friend with glasses was standing near her. They talked about silly things that did not make sense because it was 3 am.

The living room was silent with no person in sight. The blankets lay draped along the couches in an unorganized fashion. The pillows were thrown across the floor and lay upside down on the single couch seat in the corner of the room. The TV is in the middle of the living room. It stood on the stained coffee table. The TV displays a black void of darkness. The gaming controls were cold, and the remote controller was stuck between the couch pillows. The light in the kitchen was turned off. No human in sight. No sounds were coming from the townhouse aside from the three of us having deprived sleep conversations. Eyes traced with black and grey circles, bodies flopping around like zombies. Words came out in incomplete sentences; words escape the mouth with no thought behind them. Out of the blue, the brown-haired girl shifts her body towards me,

“You know we have counselors, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“You need help.”

Those words were uttered without hesitation. You. Need. Help. Were they meant to hit me hard in the chest, or were they meant to be meaningful? The intention behind those words and the way they flowed out of her mouth made me wonder whether she meant it in a good way or a bad way. How could you say something like that to someone knowing you are part of the problem, I wondered. Was it the sleep deprivation talking, or was it a genuine thought? Did she never feel pain? Did she never feel depression or homesickness? She tells me to get help, but to what end? I am not crazy. I am imperfect, but so is everyone. Everyone needs help at some point in their lives. It is not meant to be something bad or weak.