Chapter 1

Maybe, they are cries for help. All the jokes I make about killing myself. I guess, if I pay attention, others react awkwardly to my morbid humor, but no one has ever inquired about my mental health or state. Can warning signs be subconscious? Suicide is not a joke. My head understands, but the words keep bubbling up my throat and out of my mouth. For heaven's sake, I have even known people who struggle with depression, and others who have followed through with their plans of leaving this world.

Tingaling. A bell chimes in the distance ripping me harshly out of my head and back to the present. A man with ironically wired glasses and a cardigan that appears thrifted shuffles through the shelves of the used bookstore. Still perched on my tall barstool behind the counter, I appraise the reflection of the man in strategically placed mirrors around the store. Reflexively, my brows furrow when I realize the genre of books he is inspecting: Self Help.

As a bystander is it my responsibility to ask about his reasonings for purchasing a Self Help book? Or do I just keep my mouth shut? There is a possibility he is buying it for someone else and could be offended by any question.

"Hello?" The clean shaven man is now standing at the desk, Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers laying in between both of us.

I plaster on a brilliant smile; I turn on the twinkle behind my eyes and reply in a chirpy tone, "Hi, yes is this all for you today?"

Brown eyes staring at me border-lining emotionless, "yes."

"Have you read any of Gladwell's other works?"

Unnervingly, the man remains silent.

"Alright, well, it's six dollars and fifty-eight cents," I explain continuing my perky facade, even turning up the happiness a few more notches.

Mutely, he slides his card into the chip reader. His name jumps onto my screen: Clayton E. McDermont. Usually, I just click the 'print receipt' button, but this time I ask, "Would you like your receipt emailed or printed?"

One beat. Two beats. He seems to be fighting an internal battle. To speak or not to speak. Finally, "printed. Thanks."

The last word seems passive aggressive. Now, it's my turn for a silent war of actions. To continue pushing this man past his comfort zone, or to be a regular human being and hand him the printed receipt without any more comments.

I open my mouth, my hand reaching slowly towards the slip of paper, "This is something I have to ask all customers, how is your mental state right now?"

Without another word simply one last soulless glance, he grabs the book off the counter and walks out the door. Tingaling. The chime magnifies my aloneness again, and I begin again...

Why did you push that man who's obviously struggling? Why? Are you heartless? Or maybe this a joke in the same vein the suicide remarks are meant to be humorous? The darkness continues to swirl inside my brain, and once again I think to myself am I depressed? Can a person be suffering from depression unknowingly?

The corner of the wooden door whacks the bell again. Tingaling. Without thinking the smile finds itself back onto my face and the lights behind my eyes blink back on.

Who can be entangled with a dark gloomy slime that darkens the mood and corrupts the thoughts when the there's a grin and sparkly eyes on her face? Depression is only for those who can't get off the couch or have weird relationships with food like binge eating. Therefore, I dub myself free of depression.

Of its on accord, a bead of salt water bubbles at the corner of my eye. Like a detached limb my hand wipes it away, and I barely notice.