Depression

The hounding persuasion directed him to the woods as soon as he was assured they were all asleep. Meticulously, he tread past the bedrooms and down the stairs, as an eerie guidance dissolved all impatience as though it couldn't be considered feasible.

Through the kitchen, he delicately picked up his boots and reached for the deadbolt, taking hold of the golden thumbturn before turning it counterclockwise with the calculated maneuvers of a predator stalking its prey before the initial lunge.

His fingers and thumb flexed when the deadbolt was extracted from the doorframe, so every shift and slide could be minimized. His wrist and hand as well, hardened and firm, saw to it that not a single unanticipated sound came from the door.

When he did get it open, the door, worn yet dignified in its loose hinges, threatened not a single squeak or squeal, but he hadn't the time to offer gratitude. Once he stepped outside, the rain water left behind by the afternoon drizzle soaked his toes before he stepped into his boots.

The lack of light pollution was festive, at least in his eyes, which gazed out from behind the old mask. The clouds were still condensed and grey, concealing the moon and the stars as though the veil knew of his intentions.

This was his element, albeit recently discovered. A newfound sense of power came with stepping into the omnipresent shadow. As circadian rhythms began to compensate, so too did his embodiment of the power it granted him. To make it complete, he had at his belt a well-tended knife that secured his dominance in this ecosystem as the Alpha predator.

Up the small hill he went, until he reached the tree line leading into the thick woods. Even during days prior to his recent discovery, they played up here, and a crude yet worthy path was carved through vines and brambles. The path behind a fort in construction bestowed a path leading right, behind the treeline of the many houses going up the street.

He knew that he was alone up here. It was the middle of the week, when most tend to be asleep without a stir. He had been doing this more often than he'd ever dare to admit, but it was anything but nefarious. Something about it felt right, and his youthful ignorance conveniently allowed him to cast old habits and standards to the wayside with literally zero effort.

The silence hardly budged against the heavy footsteps, which chewed and crunched the leaves and sticks carpeting the otherwise dirt path. He felt like he could run and do so fast, swifter than he ever could with the sun up. The urge would be resisted, as he sampled this darkness with a more diverse palate than anyone he cared to know.

To consider how fun it would be if his friends could be here to relish as he was in this journey was intoxicating for only a moment, before he remembered how the solitude was the true benefactor. Indeed, he felt as though embracing what lied within with something real, something tangible, was as therapeutic as it would be concerning anyone who dared to catch him in the act.

He was in his element, and truth be told, the intrinsic matching the extrinsic put him in a peculiar state of being. He could interact with it, being the observer and center of this duality. But then, pray tell, what does that make him? An embrace more encompassing than any pity his family could offer him would be the first thing that he would realize as he strode forward, in no rush whatsoever.

He'd eventually realize that he couldn't escape it even if he wanted to. There was nowhere to hide, no way to distract from it. Yet, compared to most other methods during the time of which he feels sluggish and sleepy, here he feels one with it. But then, does that make him the victim, or the assailant?

Another thought comes to mind. Has it always been a part of him? He hadn't considered it until quite recently, and truth be told, he'd imagine that it'd matter not regardless of the how or why. How do you escape it, or make it go away for good?

You can't. Once branded, it seems to stick and stain for eternity. Such must be the nature of life, after all. Perhaps life implies such a nasty, inevitable mess, for it certainly is the same case for a number of his friends. Some manage to scrape most of it off, or pretend they did anyhow, while others have smeared it beyond repair.

Life must indeed be chock full of such gunk if it happens to everyone in one way or another. To consider those who demand they are innocent or pure, free of excrement, well, maybe they deserve some.

But what do you do, pray tell, if you're caught in a massive wad of it? They say nothing close to fulfilling respite in the moment besides petty distractions, which are all temporary at best. It is as though they remain distant because they've either overcome it and don't want to risk getting their hands dirty again, God forbid, or they truly haven't had the guts to do so in the first place.

Those people.

Well, there is not merely a single answer that you either haven't heard yet a thousand times or is the one and true path to eternal cleanliness. What can be said for certain is this; if you get stuck, you do whatever it takes to remove as much of that shit as possible without smearing it all over yourself. It's harder to walk around in thick gunk than stains that may never truly go away, but are easier to cope with and manage.

…

He considered going back, and this time with little effort. He practically floated back home, and would be sure to at least manage to get at least 6 hours of sleep without totally screwing himself further for the days ahead.