#depression He'd been sad since he was a child. Sometimes it was just the sort of sad that weighted his bones, kept him on the ground. The sort of sadness that would make it difficult for him to open his eyes and look, the sort of sadness that both clouded and clarified his vision. His world was tinged with the black blue of sadness and the faded greys of loneliness, but this was the kind of sad he knew how to deal with. Years of practice had allowed the young man to force the brunt of the sadness away, to allow him to paint on a smile on his hollow mask'd face each day. Sometimes it was the sort of sad that gripped him in a grasp so tight that he had trouble breathing and his legs would give from underneath him. He would howl blindly, clutching to his pillows in his empty bed. He would scream his sorrows until his throat was raw and bloody. He would plow his fist through the walls, gouge thick lines of red down his arms as he clung to himself as the sobs shook his thin body. And sometimes, though it was rare, it was the kind of sadness that would pierce through his heart and soul and leave him covered in blood and bruises with a hole to be filled with drinking and fucking and making jokes with people that didn't consider him their equal. He would rather have been laid across the rack than had to endure the endless pain and suffering. But the sadness never abaited. It never left him. Always, always there on his shoulders, filling him like a lead weight. It pushed him down into his seat and into the bottles that he so readily consumed