Rooted in delusion, by Anonymous

Darcy relished the sight of the little blue pills swirling away down the drain.

The act was purely symbolic; she hadn’t actually taken her medication anytime remotely recently. Nevertheless, she felt a freedom as she turned away from the stained porcelain bowl. A long-absent sense of joy welled within her as she tossed the now-empty container in her trash bin…and reached for her favorite knife.

* * *

Once, Darcy had been crushingly depressed. Suicidal even. One by one her friends, family, and even a psychologist or two gave up on her. Everyone was fully aware that more was the matter than just depression. And as the scars on her wrist added up like tally marks for her worst days, Darcy learned something in her solitude: Death wanted her. Everyone assumed it was the other way around, but Darcy—in her new clarity of mind—knew better.

Gradually, it became true that she wanted Death back; the thought of something—someone—actually wanting her gave her a feeling so warm and fuzzy she could have burst. Concluding that happiness was well within her grasp, she hatched a plan.

She would take a life. Darcy, who had never hurt a fly, would end that sacred spark, and when Death came to collect, she would confess her true feelings. The plan seemed to be fool-proof. Ironing out a blood-red dress, putting on her black pearls, and straightening her hair one last time, she prepared to take care of one final matter. Grasping her pills, she readied herself to destroy her last link to sanity and liberate herself.

***

Darcy gripped her helpless victim firmly, knife glinting in her other hand. Silent, the poor soul didn’t struggle; resistance from this madwoman was quite obviously futile. Darcy had snatched this soon-to-be-ended life from the store around the corner, dragged away from any chance of salvation while engaged in the innocent behavior of hanging out.

Darcy’s eyes glinted menacingly as she raised her knife. She was so close…but she hesitated. Shaking herself, she regained her composure. The result would be well worth it.

Darcy slashed horrifically through her victim—once, twice, seven times. A crazed, feral laugh ripped itself from her throat as she triumphantly towered over the mutilated, still form.

Right according to plan, a black, putrid cloud of smoke appeared in the middle of the room. The fearsome, tentacled thing parted to reveal…a man about the age of his summoner. Shifting on his trendy Nikes, he pushed back his hoodie to reveal…an expression of disgust.

“Why…why would you do that?!” came the accusing question from Death. He fell to his knees, running his hands through…the pile of leaves and stems. “This was an innocent plant! Defenseless! What did plants ever do to you?” The demands were voiced in a higher pitch than Darcy thought was appropriate for Death.

“I…I just wanted to see you…” Darcy’s voice trembled. This wouldn’t do, not at all. “I love you…” His face displayed blatant shock. He stood up and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Let me help you.” Nodding, she followed him out the door.

***

Jake was glad he had come over to investigate the creepy laugh emanating from his neighbor’s open front door.

Seeing her standing over a mutilated plant with a knife, he had jokingly reacted like it was a terrible thing she had done. But when she had gotten upset and, shockingly, made a confession that she loved him, he remembered that rumor had it that she was unstable.

Thankfully, she agreed to him help her. Jake had hope. And since she had gotten back on her medication, she had stopped addressing him as “Death”…at least most of the time.