She wrote it all to “whom it may concern,” and she didn't even know who that meant, or if it meant anyone at all. Did anything she thought concern anyone but herself? If not, that just underlines every word she wrote. She liked to use the Butterfly Effect when planning in her head how to explain why people should care. Everything concerns you, anything can change your life. But nobody cares unless they can see the exact point where things connect to them. And such a direct connection is a rarity.

She tried to write down everything she was feeling, but that's easier said than done. Feelings can't always be put into words and strung together to make a coherent sentence, because feelings hardly make sense. You think you have them all figured out, but when you try to lay them out so that they make sense to someone else, you get stuck. Her hand had also started to cramp, so it was shorter than she'd intended.




To whom it may concern,


I could say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Although maybe a bit sorry that this isn't going to be heartfelt, or sappy, or comforting to anyone left behind. I'm not even going to waste your time with goodbyes. Would you really deserve it? Call me selfish all you want. But if you do, you're selfish, too. What cruel person would expect another to go through a dead life, just to save others a few tears? And in case you were wondering, a life really can be dead. When you lose the will to live, when there's nothing left to keep you around, when you can't bare another second in your own damn shoes. Don't take it personally. It's everyone's fault, even my own. The world and all its people, society and the way we function. Our planet's beauty is stripped every second for the purpose of efficiency. Efficiency doesn't equal quality.

Religion bothers me. My number one thing that makes me want to leave. I hate when people believe in God, is that horrible of me? If you believe in God, you don't appreciate what an amazing coincidence our planet is. You're giving a made-up man in the sky credit for creating what is a beautiful coincidence. And it loses its beauty. How lucky are we to be born into a world with such slim chances of being inhabitable? So lucky, and I feel like I'm alone in realizing this. Not entirely alone, that would be ignorant to think that out of seven billion people, I'm alone in anything I think. But alone by default.

We treat other people like stepping stones. As soon as we get a decent foothold, we step right on their heads, pushing them down and raising ourselves up. But when something “tragic” happens to one another, we fake and mime sympathy until it's believed by everyone. Nobody really believes it, but we pretend that we do. We pretend like we're all the same, like we're equal. So fake, everyone's so fake. I've thought a lot about whether I should care about others or solely care about getting through my own life. I thought the world might have left behind the “survival of the fittest” ideology. Then I realized that what was deemed fit to survive in our world has just changed. Using other people is how to survive. How fake can you be? If you're believable in everything you do, you'll go far. Isn't that sad? No, not sad. But how else do you describe such a hopeless, lost, empty feeling? I sure don't know.

So many think that the fact that you're alive should be more important than the fact that you're really living. Those are the people that have never experienced the deep, soul numbing, life draining feeling that is depression. Well, that does sound a bit cliche. I'll try again. It's like a shadow that finds its way to every moment that could potentially be happy, and covers it before you can enjoy it. It's the kind of feeling that will always be underestimated until you've felt it. For me, it had no trigger. My life is great, but life itself brings me down. Some people go through hell and back, and it's no surprise that depression overcomes them. Not me. I just think too much, and notice too much, and care too much. In this world, all of that can be deadly.

“To whom it may concern...” What an interesting way of addressing a letter. You could say I'm writing this to everyone. Attention, everyone! This world is dreadful, and seeing as you all live in it, you should all be concerned. Or maybe I'm writing this to no one. Because no one concerns themselves with anything that is broken beyond repair. They get no glory for trying and failing. They get no recognition, and they don't benefit. So why bother?

Why bother, why bother, why bother. These words drill their way into my mind during the simplest of actions. Walking to school. Why bother? Telling someone it's going to be okay. Why bother? Trying to stop myself from falling apart at the seams, despite the fact that nothing I try ever f*cking works. Why bother? So I don't, and I fall deeper and deeper towards the point of no return. But once I'm that far, I don't want to return. And I won't.






I don't know how to sign this,













Sage Trent

P.S. I didn't know what tense to write this in.


She walked with an air of knowing what she was doing. Alright, everyone knows how to walk. But Sage knew. You'd find yourself watching her, mimicking her confidence in the best way you could. The way she walked with her head held firmly up, facing the world. The way the unspoken words, “bring it on” radiated from her. Shouting out to anyone who dared to question this girl. Bring it on, world. And so the world brought it. All on her shoulders, the feeling that she could sense coming but could do nothing about. And everyone thought she could handle anything.

She closed her bedroom window with too much force, but no one was around to hear anyways. She added another empty bottle of cheap wine to her collection behind her mirror. Never knowing when to stop, Sage had many drunken mornings, afternoons, and nights. They say drinking by yourself is a sign of alcoholism, but she just liked the way it felt and the way it didn't make her feel. When she was drunk, everything lost the edge that made her want to leave. It blurred those edges, and numbed the numbness. She would drink before she did anything, whether it was a shot or two or ten. It gave her the confidence to look the world in the eye. Alcohol was her back up net. Because with all the weight on her shoulders, no single person would have been able to catch her.

The strong smell of teenagers masked her wine breathe. Convenient, seeing as she was way past her usual school intoxication limit. She had no problem acting normal when drunk, but if you looked close enough you could always tell. The glazed eyes, and the way her words came out, weird in her mouth due to her trying not to slur them. That was the only thing she didn't like about what alcohol did to her. You could see it if you really looked. But her depression, strong and overwhelming on the inside, went unnoticed on the outside. Always.

Her first period teacher was a stoner, and wouldn't notice a student acting out of the ordinary if they strutted around the classroom naked. Nor, most students thought, would he care. But apparently he did, because Sage was pulled out of her second period class by the principal before it had even really started. He questioned her on her consumption of alcohol, and when it was apparent that she was drunk, called the police. Her mom walked into the office, her face confused at what emotion to take on. So a sequence of different expressions morphed her botoxed face, starting off looking shocked, then angry, then confused. How could her perfect daughter be such a f*** up? Sage watched this, internally amused. Then started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh until she felt a little sick. It was so funny how the one person who should know her best, aside from herself, was so oblivious. Later her mom blamed this laughter on her level of intoxication.

One would assume that being caught wasted at school would be grounds for concern. But why look past the surface? Clearly, to Sage's mother, alcohol was the problem at hand. So the house was rid of all alcoholic beverages, and the mouthwash was locked up. A solution that would seem reasonable, if Sage were a recovering alcoholic. But she was just a kid who wanted out of life. The kind of kid who thought too much about everything, and that made her question why she was still around. Seventeen, and all she wanted was out. She just drank to help her deal with all the things she couldn't face sober.

Sage never cut. She burned herself, instead. It was her way of proving that she was still there, because she still felt pain. She would see how much she could take, and it made her feel strong. Branded like a bull, the world making its mark on her. She couldn't handle being numb, but she could handle pain. Sometimes depression hits you overnight, and you wake up with a gun to your head, ready to pull the trigger. With Sage, the will to live seeped out of her until she didn't even feel the need to prove to herself that she was still alive. She knew she wasn't, and no pain in the world could tell her otherwise.

She was ready to leave. She had been for weeks, but that day she had everything ready. Vodka, pills, and a note explaining how this world took an innocent girl and showed her things that left her all alone and empty. Everything was ready, and she sat there crying. A person who really wants to be gone doesn't cry at the thought of dying. She curled up on her bed and cried until her face was wet and numb. Hours of convulsing sobs, and eventually sleep had the decency to grant her some relief. She woke up in the fetal position, unable to open her eyes more than a fraction of an inch. It was obnoxiously sunny, and the first thing Sage realized was that she cared. She actually gave an ounce of a f*** that the sun found its way into her room and was in her eyes. All the preparations were made, she had everything ready to leave her body behind. Everything was ready except her. But in a couple of weeks, months, maybe even a year, she would end up in this exact same position. Standing on the edge with the world pressing up behind her. Feeling like there's no where to go but to be gone. And out of nowhere the world would let up, welcoming her back.

Up and down, up and down. As happy as everyone always thought she was when they looked at her. Or just a few short moments away from being sent to the morgue. Sage could always see the highs and lows coming, they built up or they built down. Then they hit their peak and reversed.

Sage dropped the pill bottle, still full, in her sock drawer. She took a shot straight from the bottle, and hid that too. Her face was red and shiny, her eyes still swollen. In the kitchen frying eggs, her mom turned to say good morning and did a double take. Her smile faltered, but she asked no questions. She no doubt assumed her daughter had been crying over a boy, or a bad dream. Why bother digging deeper, why concern yourself?