The Dark Days

By Shahid Sheriff

The sun hung high, but my world remained asleep. When others indulged in their midday meals, I stirred to life, reaching for a delayed breakfast. It was 1 PM, yet the heaviness of sleep still lingered. If hunger hadn't dragged me from my bed, I would have succumbed to five more hours of oblivion. I rubbed my eyes, hoping for clarity, but my vision remained a haze.

Outside, the air brimmed with the laughter of children playing in the snow. It was Christmas. The sound drew me back to a time when my father and I went snowboarding. During those trips, he would recount stories of his own childhood—tales of him and Grandpa, and their festive celebrations. The best part was always coming home. By the time we returned, Mom would have prepared her famous roast turkey. It was my favorite. Those were the days when joy was simple, unfiltered, and abundant. How I missed them.

Now, the cold seeped through the walls, turning my room into a frosty tomb. I shuffled to the window, drawn by the pristine beauty of freshly fallen snow. The world outside was enchanting, a perfect winter wonderland. But as I pressed my hand against the glass, a strange unease prickled at the edges of my mind. I tried to open the window to let the crisp air in, but it was stuck. “Figures,” I muttered, retreating with a resigned shrug. 

Back in bed, I wrapped myself in the cocoon of blankets, sinking deeper into a storm of nebulous thoughts. The chill gnawed at my spine, paralyzing me. My gaze caught my reflection in the dim light—sunken eyes framed by dark circles. The dark circles mocked me, a silent testament to sleepless nights and restless days. “Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. “I look like Johnny Depp in Dark Shadows.”

People often questioned my solitude. Why do you live this way? Where is everyone? Are they dead? I’m not an orphan; I have a family. The answers were simpler than they imagined: I chose this. My isolation was a sanctuary, a barrier against the noise of the world. Yet, even in this self-imposed exile, I wasn’t truly alone.

In the early days, the puppy and I were inseparable. Each morning, it would wake me by licking my face, a gesture as comforting as a partner bringing coffee to bed. Since I didn’t interact with humans, the puppy became my only companion. For years, we shared this space—just the two of us. At first, it was good.

But as time passed, the puppy grew into a full-sized dog—not gigantic, just average. Its demeanor shifted with the seasons. In the mornings, it would lie low under the bed, barely acknowledging my presence. But at night, it transformed into something else entirely—a beast, like a wolf emerging from the shadows.

Every night, it attacked me with relentless fury. Its sharp nails scratched my skin until it bled, and its tongue—wicked and unholy—licked the wounds, making them fester and burn. Sometimes, it sank its teeth into me, leaving marks everywhere except on my throat. I couldn’t understand its intentions. It didn’t kill me, yet it refused to let me live in peace.

I tried to escape, but every attempt ended in failure. I screamed until my lungs burned, but no one came to help. People walked past my window, their faces alight with smiles. Why? Did they find my suffering amusing? Did my dark circles and decaying skin appear beautiful to them in some twisted way? Or was my life simply not worth saving?

Their indifference infuriated me. Those smiles—they weren’t kind. They were cruel, mocking. In my darkest moments, I wished for aliens to descend from the heavens and obliterate them all with plasma guns or whatever advanced weaponry they wielded. 

As aeons of days passed, the never-ending pain became my forced routine. I’m not sure if I’ve grown stronger or if the wolf—the dog—has grown weaker. Everything about this house is strange. Light filters through, yet it never enters my space. It’s just dark, and the darkness deepens as you move further in.

Even though I live alone, the silence here isn’t peaceful. It has a hoarse, grating quality, like a cacophony of millions of voices screaming all at once. Sometimes I wonder—am I trapped in a haunted house, or is this all a figment of my imagination? Either way, this place is still better than the outside world.

Here, I don’t have to talk to anyone or please others. Loyal detachment is far better than fleeting attachments. Being a misanthrope feels like a blessing at times. Though I hate the world outside, I still catch glimpses of it through my window.

I see people living as if the earth itself is their paradise—fortunate souls, born into luck. But I’ve also seen others with smiles so forced they look like cracked masks. Their pain is there, shimmering in their eyes, but they carry on as if nothing happened. Perhaps that’s how we’re meant to live: with controlled emotions, blank faces, and hollow, tainted smiles. Maybe that’s why they’re out there, and I’m in here.

After brooding for a while, I decide to open the door. But it doesn’t budge—not even a fraction. Perhaps the snow has blocked the entrance. I sigh, resigned to waiting until someone knocks and rescues me from this crooked place.

Lately, though, I’m not sure I want to be rescued. This place seems to be evolving, its shadows birthing new horrors. For the past few months, two grotesque creatures have appeared here, uninvited roommates who visit only at night. They don’t attack me physically; instead, they target my mind.

These monsters seem impossibly intelligent, as though they’ve studied me for years. They know everything about me, down to the thoughts I keep hidden from myself. They’ve earned names: “Why” and “What.”

I don’t know how I became trapped in this dark cube, but it feels like I’ll never escape. As I pace the room, trying to kill time, I hear whispers. Unfamiliar voices chant the same phrase over and over: “Coal can never shine.”

Why do they all say the same thing? Is it true? Perhaps it is—after all, every voice speaks in unison, like a mantra. Their words seep into me, feeding the doubt that churns inside.

Lying motionless on the bed, I felt the weight of despair pressing down on me. The ceiling fan above spun lazily, mirroring my life—slow, unsteady, and precariously hanging on the edge, waiting for the inevitable crash.

Outside, the sky turned an ominous shade of gray. A sudden bolt of lightning struck the lone tree outside my window. The very tree that offered me a fragile connection to nature was now ablaze, engulfed in flames. Little birds that once reminded me of childhood scattered, their panicked cries lost in the roar of the fire.

The tree burned, but with it, so did my hope. It wasn’t just the tree—it was everything I had ever loved, ascending into the sky like astronauts on a one-way mission, never to return. I told myself, It’s just a tree, it doesn’t matter. But deep down, it did.

Then a chilling realization struck me—no one outside seemed to notice. The fire raged, consuming everything in its path, yet no one called for help. No fire trucks, no alarms, no concern. What the hell is going on?

I screamed, my voice raw and desperate, begging for someone to save me before the flames reached my home. But no one heard. I pounded on the window with bare fists, the glass indifferent to my cries. Again, I screamed, “Why isn’t anyone listening to me? Just why?”

Frustration boiled over, mixing with fear and despair. Why am I being treated like this? Why is this pain unending? Why does this dog want me dead? Why do I hear these voices? Why do these monsters torment me? Why does no one come to save me? Why am I left behind?

The questions tore through my mind like claws, leaving me haggard and hollow. The wolf, sensing my fragility, turned its attention to my throat. I glanced down at my body—soaked in my own blood, a grim tapestry of cuts and wounds.

Tonight, I was certain, would be my end. The wolf would finish me, or the voices would push me to madness, or the monsters would break me, or the fire would consume me. The outcome felt as inevitable as my existence.

As the moments crawled by, I felt life slipping from my grasp. My body was shutting down, even my blood refusing to stay. Then, out of the chaos, a figure emerged—the devil himself. He stood there, his gaze piercing, a sinister grin stretching across his face.

His presence was unmistakable, exuding a malevolent authority. He didn’t speak, nor did I. We didn’t need words to understand the unspoken exchange between us. I knew why he was here.

My opponents now stood before me: the devil, the wolf, the millions of screaming voices, and the relentless monsters. It was an overwhelming ensemble of torment. The odds of survival? Nonexistent. But still, I rose.

I plodded toward them, my steps heavy, my body breaking but my will strangely intact. Tears streamed down my face, tracing cold paths over blood-streaked cheeks, but I smiled. A smile not of joy, but of defiance. The tears fell, mingling with the blood pooling at my feet.

If this is my end, then so be it.

In that moment of despair, a voice emerged from the void:“Stop.”

Weak and barely clinging to life, I rasped, “Now, who are you?”

“Someone who has always been with you, though you never believed me,” the voice replied.

“Ah… doesn’t ring any bells. But thanks for stopping by. A devil’s waiting for my soul, so I gotta go.”

“Listen to me before you go,” the voice said, soft but resolute.

“Do I even have a choice?” I spat. “I was never offered one. I’ve always been treated like nothing.”

The voice didn’t falter. “If you’re nothing, then why did the King of Hell himself come to collect you? If the voices say you’re a lump of coal, are they even sacks of diamonds? Do you know why the monsters and voices chase you? Because you terrify them. You’re the one who will shatter their existence. They know your potential. You’ll breathe life into the broken, solve the unsolvable, and crack the toughest puzzles. If the world says, ‘Why?’ you’ll answer, ‘Why not?’ If it asks, ‘What?’ you’ll counter with, ‘What if?’

“You’re more than your pain. If life’s problems are inevitable, then you’re the iron man built to endure them.”

Everything froze. The lightning in the sky, the blood pooling around me, and even my enemies—all stopped in their tracks.

The words resonated. It made sense. Maybe this was the last day of my life, but I wasn’t leaving without a fight.

As I took one determined step toward the door, the frozen moment shattered. My opponents lunged at me, their sheer weight and strength threatening to crush me. Yet, with my broken fists, I struck back.

The battle was chaos, an Armageddon in the confines of my crumbling world. They hadn’t anticipated my fury, my paroxysms of defiance. Their punches came in waves, but I dodged, countering with relentless blows. Hours passed—or maybe just minutes—but I didn’t tire. It was as if I’d been waiting my entire life for this fight.

“This is my moment,” I growled through gritted teeth. “This is my fight. And for the record, I’m the goddamn Leo.”

With a final roar, I landed a crushing blow on the devil’s face. His mouth bled, proof that even the King of Hell wasn’t invincible. I felt like Batman in that moment—unwavering, unstoppable.

The devil staggered, collapsing to the floor. The wolf leapt at me, its claws raking deep across my chest. But pain no longer mattered. Grabbing its snout, I wrenched its jaw apart, silencing its growl forever.

The duo of shadow monsters—“Why” and “What”—watched in terror. They bolted upward, vanishing into the darkness.

The battle was over. Aeons of torment culminated in this singular victory. The devil lay bleeding, the wolf dead at my feet. My body, however, was broken. Blood seeped from countless wounds, my strength sapped.

With agonizing effort, I crawled toward the door. Each movement felt like a monumental task. I reached for the doorknob, my fingers trembling.

Just as I thought it was over, the devil grabbed my leg. His grip burned like hellfire. He dragged me backward, his malevolent laughter echoing in my ears.

I kicked him, once, twice, but he wouldn’t release me. Desperate, I summoned every last shred of strength and landed a brutal kick to his face. He faltered, giving me the moment I needed.

I lunged forward, pouring my soul into the effort. The door shattered, and I tumbled out onto the cold street.

The world beyond was overwhelming—bright, loud, alive. My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges.

.

.

.

I heard the sound of vehicle horns around me, chaotic yet grounding, as though I were stuck in a massive traffic jam. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The scene before me was startling—a busy road bathed in bright summer light.

"Phew," I muttered to myself, "I guess I made it."

Wanting to ensure I had truly left the nightmare behind, I turned back to check. But the sight left me stunned. The space where I had fought for my life was now empty. No buildings, no monsters, just an open expanse.

Then, out of nowhere, a small, cute dog came bounding toward me, wagging its tail with pure, unfiltered joy.

I froze, caught between shock and confusion. How was this possible? The desolation felt surreal, almost like a dreamscape. I sat there for hours, my mind numb and unthinking.

But then, something caught my eye—the tree. The same tree that had been struck by lightning and burned to ashes now stood whole and vibrant, its leaves lush and green. Birds chirped and flitted about its branches, alive and well.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave.

The house wasn’t real. It had never been a physical space—it was my mind. The wolf was my own relentless negative thoughts. The voices and monsters were my fears and doubts, the crushing weight of my insecurities. And the voice that saved me? That was my hidden hope, buried but never extinguished.

And the puppy? It was simply my thoughts, waiting patiently for me to take control, to lead them instead of being led by them.

I stood, dusting myself off, and picked up the little dog. It looked at me with trusting eyes, wagging its tail as if to say, We’ve got this now.

I smiled faintly and walked forward—not as a victim, but as the king of my mind, the ruler of my own world.

Depression is nothing more than a deep expression of the mind—a dangerous and insidious disease that often goes unnoticed by others. It can knock on anyone’s door at any time, for any reason.

There’s a common myth people believe: that the real struggles in life begin when you grow up and try to raise a family. While that might be true for some, it doesn’t mean life shows mercy to children or teenagers. It doesn’t.

They say the mind is our strongest weapon, but even the sharpest sword has a soft spot. Once struck, it can falter, leading to chaos within.

So, let’s take care of each other as a race. You don’t have to plaster social media with performative posts like, “If you’re struggling, reach out, I’ll help,” only to ignore the call when it comes. People are busy. Most won’t give a damn—until it’s too late.

And for those who are battling depression: don’t shut yourself away in the darkness. There might be times when you feel consumed by it, but don’t let it define your life.

Come out. Reach for the sky.

If you have someone to share your feelings with, talk to them. Let it out. Sort it out.

And if you don’t have anyone? Then be that someone. Lift yourself from the ashes. Be your own therapist. Be your own diary. Be your own light.

By Shahid Sheriff