A man was shown a demon, a thing with many heads, each a despicable creature to cause pain untold and end the mortal coil the man had grown to love, so he ran to every angel to beg mercy and be free of the ravenous beast. Each and every angel was ever so helpful with blessings and advisement, words laced so pretty as to dress the demon in every shade of nice, but alas the creature burned its hapless trappings and mercilessly stalked the man with cruel intent.
The man found a figure cloaked in deepest black, as to take the shade of nothing and put it to shame with little care for the upset it may cause, this thing revealed in a dulled mirror as against the man’s back the sun showed him what power lay untapped. A final demon in finest silken robes and with a forked tongue to outwit a politician’s fanciest prose, an old friend from times before forever that needed the man to live on that precarious edge, between glory soaked life and the void of finality offered by death.
Its name Depression, its intent so simple as to make the man weep, so turned the man, his demon facing the multi headed beast… His shadow walked free with armour of emotional purity, a blade forged in the fires of despair as only those from the ditch could harness from the saddest wretch. The thing that once mockingly tormented was collared and lead away with a body less of its many snarling mouths, whimpering as Depression placed a hand upon the last remaining head and let his power twist and corrupt.
And so was born a treacherous, loyal partner, to watch and protect, until something more wholesome could take the job but alas that was a quest much harder, compared to taming the pet that once growled so menacingly, and as time devastatingly dragged it proved a futile pursuit.
So on the dark road to where the man seeks his saviour, an angelic form to balance the nature sated with an unstable willing for fatalist words and venomous verse, he stops regularly to imbibe the poison from a shot glass, his old friend Depression the one with whom he shares his life and finds his words. And should that blessing ever be found, his old friend will retire the bottle and replace his razor with an ever sharper quill, the ink so much more staining as with more emotional power creativity will be fed.