Advertisement involving the word ‘blue’

I envisage this advertisement being shown on TV with the text below as a voiceover for corresponding pictures. Music should be played in the background, perhaps a simple repeating piano melody, preferably one that will become stuck in the viewer’s head for days.

Life can be blue sometimes, wouldn’t you agree?
You have all those endless weeks of feeling low instead of on a high.
You don’t want to get out of bed, let alone go to work.
You just want to curl up and cry, with something for comfort and support.
You don’t want to talk to people, so you start to take more and more time off.
You are angry and sad,
“Why is this happening to me? What did I do?”

At the end, the following message should be displayed as white and blue text over a black background and the music cut out suddenly, in the middle of the pattern for additional emphasis.

If depression is affecting you or anyone you know, take a step in the right direction. (white)
www.beyondblue.com.au (blue)

“Why do you bother? What’s the point?”

Sometimes they’re right, there is no point in washing my hair when I’m going to work tonight. Other times I know they are lying to me. I don’t know what they have to gain from it though, with me dead, then who will they torment? I can’t willingly give the voices us, I can’t give them to somebody else.

I at least know they are lying to me. Those hundreds of suicides, those are people who never learnt to cope. I can cope. I am stronger than they are. In the end, I will beat them. All the same, right now I don’t need them. Spending time with my boyfriend shouldn’t be interferred with, it’s my time. It’s my life to do with what I will. It will never belong to the voices again.

The words rained down on the girl’s head harmlessly. She had heard them all before, and could probably use them to form a more coherent sentence than that. She chose not to swear however, there was no point in that, like anything else.

Once she had done a deal, cutting as hard and fast as she could, just so that she could swear for a week. She had needed to take out her frustrations somehow, in a way they would notice.

The boy she had verbally attacked didn’t know what had hit him. This presumably mild mannered little girl had lashed out at him, using big words he could hardly even understand. He didn’t even know what he had done wrong. Of course he had forgotten, to everyone else, his barbs at her were the smallest thing. But for the girl, they were taunts and reminders of her father, something she didn’t need at school. She got quite enough of that at home.

The barrage was continuing outside the girl. She wondered when the hitting would start again, or maybe this time he would be too drunk to aim properly. That happened sometimes, and he blamed her for moving out of the way. Told her to ‘take it like a man’, but she wasn’t a man, much as in those early years she had desired to be one to escape. Her father had always wanted a boy, not what he perceived to be a weak, pathetic girl.

The girl snorted involuntarily. The man abusing her, stopped. He didn’t think there was anything funny about what he had to do to keep this wayward child of his in line.

“What’ss sso funny?” he slurred. “Want me to make things better for you? Not happy with the life I give you, clothes off my back and food on the shelves?”

The girl almost laughed aloud. Clothes off his back, yeah right. The couple of T-shirts Sal had been able to get away from him were all in the rag basket. The girl always happily used them for the dirtiest jobs she could find. The pig wouldn’t notice the difference anyway, he didn’t know what clean was. All her clothes, she had stolen money from him when he was passed out on the floor, and begged at school. Everyone else there had though she just wanted something to eat, it was relatively common to scab money for that reason. She didn’t ever eat though, except what Sal could put together.

Sal was a life-saver. She was a wonderful cook, able to make the ends of what was in their cupboards form something vaguely like a meal. He didn’t eat anything much, what little he had was take-away, apparently his ‘delicate constitution’ couldn’t handle anything else. The girl wondered who had told him this, as he always took the time to use air quotation marks. Anyway, everyone knew that junk-food was bad for you, made you fat. What she had learnt in biology was that drinking did exactly the same thing, no wonder her father took up most of the couch.

Drinking was a weak, coward’s way to escape. Her method was so much better, albeit not cleaner, but longer lasting. The hit she got from cutting rivaled any feelings of relief he got from those cold cans of beer. These days, he was going for the heavier stuff, drinking vodka more often. The girl could only hope he drank himself to death before he got in the way of her plans. She would never end up like him, she had promised herself that.

Today’s interesting topic is on suicide. I have a couple of questions for any of you religious people out there. Can anorexia be counted as suicide? It is a disease that many people die from, and I would say that the numbers are growing. An arguement that I have heard is that because it is a disease, it isn’t a suicide. It isn’t the person’s fault that they die, because they aren’t in their right minds. I would agree with this, but then, depression is a disease too. It dodges up your brain chemistry so that the person can’t think straight, perhaps even persuading them that suicide is the only option left.

Another arguement is that suicide is a matter of state of mind. So, if you die, and you didn’t want to die, it isn’t a suicide. Does that mean that the people who jump off buildings, and then change their minds half-way through, and decide that, no, they didn’t want to die after all, aren’t committing suicide anymore? So how would you define it? The same could apply to the more dangerous jobs out there. Changing you mind about dying, and then dying anyway, because you can’t be saved, is it suicide? I don’t think it is.

Oh, and exciting, I now have readers in the U.K. and Finland! Google analytics is great, tells me everything I could possibly want to know. I would have expected to see peaks around the dates on which new chapters are released, but so far it appears not. Weekends also appear to be drops in visits. Never fear, there should always be new material on the site, if you visit once a day. Especially now I am on holidays. *laughs manically* I can’t wait to get started on more writing.

I am in a good mood. Coming from spending an entire day with David, watching movies, eating cookies (that I made) and generally enjoying each other’s company.

~ Darkthorn

Julia woke to Ishton looking down on her. She cut off her scream before it started out of her mouth, making it into a kind of whimper, before realizing how rude it was.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, “Bad dreams.”

It occurred to her that the elf was probably sensitive to her thought patterns, and she tried to still her racing heart. As her breathing slowed, the memory of the dream returned. She wondered why she had had that particular dream again.

“Calm, June,” said Ishton, “All will be alright. You are healing well, physically. The mental scars may take longer to fade.”

Ishton looked away from the tears streaming down Julia’s face uncomfortably. He could indeed feel her distress, and it disturbed him. No creature this young should have suffered so much. He wondered what could be done. He was no mind-healer, merely one of the body. Perhaps Blackmain would know of another of his kindred that could assist him. The physical rape that Julia had undergone would be hard enough to overcome, yet alone the deep-seated issues that were present. Julia’s tears stopped suddenly, her face once again only reflecting the discomfort the burns were causing. Ishton felt things settling, and a prickly mask dropped over her thoughts. He wondered how this could be, most humans, unless naturally protected were wide open to his unconscious probe. He focused, trying to bring her back, but soon realized that this was ineffectual. She was remarkable, similar to Blackmain, but without the control, who had taught her?

Her well-worn hands dictated that she was working class, but this didn’t sit congruously with the situation that Blackmain had found her in. What woman would deserve such torture at the hand of Cimon? Ishton didn’t understand humans and their stupid classification system. All men and women were equal, no generals. Foremost, no one had the right to hurt another. If June had provoked it however, that was her free-willed right. If she wished to hurt herself, that was her choice.

Julia looked up at Ishton, “Thank you for your concern, but all will be well.” She had things back under control, she wouldn’t let go this time.

Blackmain appeared in the doorframe, his thin form barely making a chink in the light. It stuck Julia how tense he seemed, considering how safe the two had proclaimed the house to be.

“What’s wrong, friend?” Blackmain asked Ishton.

Ishton glanced over to Blackmain, before refocusing on Julia. “She is healing well. Her system is hardy. You guard her now, she is discomfited by my presence.”

Blackmain frowned at Julia, who quailed under his fierce gaze. “He will not harm you. We would not harm one,” he paused and Julia shrank back further, “one of your beauty.”

Julia started. These men thought she was beautiful. But how? The King had not found her attractive, and the servants had whispered and gossiped behind their hands when she had passed them. She had been told all her life that she was too thin for traditional beauty. Perhaps elves had a different view of beauty. Still, it would do no harm to stay quiet. No need to raise suspicion about her heritage.

The Darkness beckons to me.

It whispers in my ear,

Come to me.

.

Those things which you fear most:

Being alone, lonely and lost

Will never ever happen

If you come to me.

.

I can take away all the pain.

I can make you oblivious

To the world outside,

To all the problems

In your life.

.

Freedom for everything,

The little voice whispers.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

No more rejection.

No more pain.

No more.

.

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