Depression is like an archangel raining down Hell. A demon's venom killing you from the inside. He's poised with his scythe, pointing at his next victim. His raven hair cut short, making curls around his eyes and shadows loom over his pale face. The dark brown eyes holding the most fearless frozen, holding no secret any human has known until they kneeled under the cool tip of his scythe. His pearly skin showed a calmness and happy feeling like when you go to sleep before he cuts the string, throwing his victims into painful depths. You know you've Depression if you smelled a belt of vanilla, heard the sounds of buzzing static and the warning crow's song. The winged man has the roughest skin I have ever felt. I've tasted the blood dripping from his wrists, berry juice for the metallic copper taste. He lives with his brothers: Despondency, Dejection, Desolation, Despair, and Dysthymia. The youngest of the six, Depression was influenced by horrible adults. Dejection, Despondency and Desolation taught him how to conceal his feelings from others. Despair and Dysthymia made him feel so disgusted with himself, the bags under his eyes returned. There are stories told of warriors who won several wars against Depression. Beings were mangled, lives were destroyed, but... things still had a grace to them. Depression was so soft, so nice the first time he met someone. Every time he come back? You dare ask that question? Well, he hit harder, sliced more, killed more efficiently. Sooner or later, he gave birth to a small part of Death. And during his life, he had pushed others off the cliff and took their belongings as trophies. How do I think of Depression after all these cheerful years that he stolen away from me, giving me more self-pessimistic thoughts than ever? Well Depression is soft, Depression is hard, Depression is... one of us.