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depressionShe had been sad for so long that she merely assumed it was her personality. Lately, however, it seemed her depression engulfed her entire world. The pain was a raging ocean and she was drowning.

Her career was slowly collapsing around her. She didn’t care any longer whether she scored that beloved corner office. The one with two large windows in the place of dreary white walls.

Her marriage was empty and lifeless. She and her husband did not wear their rings anymore. Even though they live together, it was akin to one living with a ghost. She could feel the presence, but she was completely alone. He didn’t understand her pain. Happiness is a choice, he used to say. He didn’t understand why she simply refused to shake it. At first they fought daily. Eventually, she stopped fighting back. Then, she stopped talking. He stopped too.

She rarely spoke with her friends. At first she just thought everyone was just busy. Eventually, she realized she had nothing to say.

She caught her mother in a web of lies. Her mother couldn’t be trusted. False sympathy. False support. Her mother was still consumed with her own grief.

Her father passed away when she was a child. Her only brother died fighting in an unjust war.

She was keenly aware of her sickness, because she knew there was something inherently wrong waking up every morning in deep pitted misery because she actually woke up.

Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose. Nothing.

These were the thoughts that ran through her mind every moment of every day, for months.

She was a smart girl.
Before her sickness took complete control of her life, she made a killing as a Senior Manager at a prestigious law firm. She had been madly in love with her husband. She enjoyed lounging while eating gelato, reading paranormal fantasies on the beach, and kicking ass at work. Sure, depression had gripped her for as long as she could recall. But, she was only actively sad when humming on idle. In the good days, she was rarely ever idle.

She was still a smart girl.
She knew how people should behave when faced with certain dangerous situations.

That day. That afternoon. In the middle of a scorching heat stroke kind of day in mid-July, she punched Wachovia ATM into her iPhone’s map. Several places popped up, and she found the perfect walk up ATM. She parked her car 8 blocks away, and strutted down the sidewalk in her flashy red heels, her skinny Joe’s Jeans, and her most spectacular Gucci handbag. She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulders and pretended she was intently focused on something in her phone.

She smiled as she felt the the overwhelming presence creep up behind her. She felt a soft nudge in the center of her head.

“Do not turn around. Give me your cellphone.”

She handed it to the angel man behind her.

“Now, give me your purse.”


He tried to pull it off her arm, while keeping the cold pressure on her scalp. She attempted to shove him off of her with a wimpy kick back, and smiled.

She. Finally. Smiled. She smiled as her left heel broke. She smiled as he shoved her to the ground. She smiled and held her breath.

She used as much feign force as she could muster and buried her purse into the concrete, underneath her aching body. She smiled because she felt fear, she felt pain. She felt. She smiled and he pulled the trigger.


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