If depression was represented in a person; I would kill it slowly and painfully. I would watch as it bled to death, or burnt it slowly, or some form of ridiculous torture. I would enjoy every second of it, and so would depression. Everyone would be happy.

I would make it slow for all the pain it has indirectly caused me for existing, for the pain it has caused others, for acting like a kamazie bomber (killing the body it inhabits. I would kill it slowly like it slowly kills the people i love.

Id kill it slowly for having the audacity to ruin my life when all its doing is ruining its own. Id kill it slowly for causing me frustration to the point where I walk around in circles till my feet hurt, causing me so much fear I cant sleep, causing me so much anguish that I turn off all senses in my mind just to cope.

Id kill it extra slowly for how its extra slowly killing her. Id whisper in its ear is it was going. Id humiliate it, and give it no honor in its going. Id make it watch, id constantly degrade and destroy its mind. In short, id give it what it wants.

It wants it so bad?! Il give it to it. Il give it that filthy, bloody, anguished, lonely, loveless, gritty, faceless, dishonourable, degrading, useless death that it so craves for.

And when its dead id spit on its corpse, just for trying to miss with me. For trying to take me down. For taking down people better then me. For looking at me with cold eyes and lying. For speaking to me with a cold voice and not caring. For taking every ounce of love, passion, vitality, humor, culture and care that I had to give and just absorbing it.

For not giving me what I deserve. For what I deserve.

I would accept no payment; not for killing something the world needs dead so badly. I would walk out of the room, blood staining my clothes, weapon over shoulder, panting and heaving with a stoic expression on my face and shake my head at payment. Id do this one for free.

I wouldnt be able to live in a world without depression after that; not in the cold blooded way in which i acted. I am also a product of depression; the hate and anger i have to it welled inside me like cancer in a second-hand smoke patient.

There would be no place for me in the better world i would have created, but i would die happy knowing i saved humanity. I would die happy knowing i beat something that wanted to be beaten, and yet never gave into its demands. I would die happy knowing that the one thing that i cannot hope to understand died by my bare hands.

I would relish in that fact. I hate it so much.