"Hello, Teen Help at your service. How may I assist you today?"
It sounds so robotic and programmed.
It sounds like an auto-answering machine. Tinny, and word-perfect. Was there even a person behind this?
Or was it just someone who said the same advice over and over again for every single person?
That wouldn't help at all, would it? Wouldn't it just make everything worse and worse and worse?
I guess I just really negative, and doubt everything, including my own decisions. I doubt everything.
Why did I even call? I don't know. I really don't know. It's pointless. Useless. I know. I am pointless. Useless.
"Hi," I say.
"How may I be of any help?" the voice asks.
I knew I shouldn't have called. I never should reach out for help, the help I don't deserve.
"Make me happy again," I croak and then hang up, throwing the phone across on to the floor, and lying on my bed, staring at the constellation of dents and chipping paint on the ceiling.
My eyes slowly close, as all fades to black, pure inky black.
I sleep.
Sleep, sleep and more sleep.
Sleep always seems to cure everything, no matter what. Drifting off into a dreamworld where all my worries disappear.
Sometimes.
They don't always seem to disappear at the moment.
I guess sometimes, though, the real world influences the world when I'm asleep a few times too many.
YOU ARE READING
melancholia ✔︎
Short Storyall i need is a reason to live. a reason to keep living in this hell you call life. because melancholia is just too hard to control all alone.
