Quotes About Death And Depression

When I became the blood bank for my mate Alpha Kane’s sweetheart, my wolf died from the endless loss of blood—and so did I, alone, in the cold den he rented to keep me out of sight. Today marks the third day since my death, and finally, my six-year-old pup noticed something was wrong. His finger bled when a toy hurt him, but I didn’t come to comfort him. When he tried to feed me his favorite food, I didn’t stop him either. He lay on my chest, gripping my clothes and whispering my name—but I didn’t respond. Desperate and helpless, my pup picked up my cellphone and called his alpha dad. “Dad, why is Mom still sleeping?” Kane didn’t answer. Instead, he sent him a photo of himself and Serena—his sweetheart—celebrating Full Moon Day, smirking. “Don’t worry. Your mom is just sleeping, not dead. You know I’m quite busy on Full Moon Day. Tell your arrogant and stubborn mom not to come find me until she admits her fault.” The call ended, leaving my pup frozen in silence. However, three days later, Kane received news of my death. He let out a gut-wrenching growl, refusing to believe it was true. Clutching my cold, lifeless body in his arms, he wept bitterly. “Kate… you are my only Luna,” he cried. “Come back. Stay with me… please.”

I am diagnosed with severe systemic lupus erythematosus, and I only have three days left to live. When my husband rejects my 188th plea for help, I take my test results and enter the hospice care center. "Hello, I'd like to schedule my own cremation process and apply for government aid." Ten minutes later, they arrive. Before I can speak, my lawyer husband, Jasper Horton, coldly slaps me across the face. "You're faking a terminal illness just to steal attention from Janice?" My doctor brother, Casey Carter, snatches the medical report from my hand and scoffs at it. "Lupus? If you're going to fake being sick, at least make it believable. Only one in a million people gets this." I endure the pain in my body, return to the counter, and hand in the application form and my medical records once more. The staff member sees the butterfly-shaped rash on my wrist and sympathizes with me. "I have no family left," I say. "I'm requesting cremation in three days, location doesn't matter. I just don't want my death to burden anyone."

Ten years ago, Elena, my best friend and my foster brother Alexander's fiancée, was tortured to death, every bone in her body crushed. I was the only witness, yet I chose to cover for the sadistic murderer. From that day on, I became the Family's greatest traitor. I accepted a ten-year prison sentence and bit off half my tongue just to keep that secret buried. Now, Alexander has returned as the most ruthless Don in Sicily. He dragged me out of my cell and strapped me into the memory extraction chair—a machine known to turn traitors into vegetables. As high-voltage currents tore through my brain, Alexander stared at me with eyes full of hatred and roared, "I will cut open your brain to find the bastard you’re protecting, and then I’ll send you both to hell!" But when the true killer's face finally appeared on the big screen, Alexander went mad.

หญิงสาวคนหนึ่งที่เติบโตมาในครอบครัว “ ท็อคซิก ” ( toxic ) เก็บกด มีปมในใจขนาดใหญ่ จนทำให้ป่วยเป็น “ โรคซึมเศร้า ระดับรุนแรง (severe depression) + แพนนิค” แล้วมีเหตุการณ์ต่างๆที่ผ่านเข้ามาในชีวิตของเข้าเสมอทั้งเรื่องดี และไม่ดี และ แน่นอนว่าส่วนมากเป็นเรื่องที่ไม่ดี เป็นเรื่องที่บั่นทอนจิตใจของเด็กสาวคนนึงเสมอมา ตั้งแต่ คำพูดของคนรอบข้างรวมถึงคนในครอบครัว เขาใช้ชีวิตด้วยความระมัดระวังทั้งคำพูด ทั้งกิริยา ทั้งสายตา เพื่อให้ถูกใจคนรอบข้างเสมอ เพราะเขารู้ตัวว่าตัวเขาเองไม่ดีพอสำหรับใคร เขามักคิดว่าโลกใบนี้มักโหดร้ายกับเขาตลอด และใช่มันเป็นแบบนี้เสมอ

Mom and Aunt Denise Taylor fell off the balcony in the midst of their heated argument. Dad rushed in just as they hit the ground, each with a broken arm. Without hesitation, he left Mom behind and hurriedly took Denise to the hospital instead. Later, Mom filed for divorce. Dad's face twisted in anger as he yelled, "Enough, Nicole! So what if you broke an arm and can't hold a scalpel anymore? What's the big deal? Dee is a genius designer. If she had lost her hand, her life would've been over! Of course, I had to save her first!" Watching all this in my ghostly state, I couldn't help but laugh. Did Dad really think that Mom had only lost the use of her hand? Mom didn't just lose her hand. She lost me. After all, I had severe heart failure, and the only person who could perform the life-saving surgery was Mom, the medical master herself. But none of that matters now, because I'm already gone.

I'm dying, and so is Sean Quinton. He still has hope, though. I don't. Why? Because once I die, my body will become the first to have passed due to a special infection. It'll be dissected and researched to help cure Sean. So, his daily task becomes urging me to die. Unfortunately for him, I'm unwilling to save him another time, so I die not because of the infection but because of carbon monoxide poisoning. It's enough to destroy the symptoms my body shows and ruin their plans to research my corpse.

The emergency center I worked in went haywire as the typhoon closed in on our town. That night, my husband’s first love made seven emergency calls in a row to me. However, she did not say anything when I picked up. By the eighth call, I thought it was a prank caller, so I gave them a piece of my mind. Then, I heard my husband’s angry voice. “Melinda! This is the eighth time Sadie's called you for help! Haven’t you made her suffer enough?!” After that fiasco, he decided to avenge Sadie by taping my mouth, tying my wrists and legs up, and throwing me into our basement for three whole days, despite it being flooded with seawater, I begged for mercy, but it was to no avail. “You knew Sadie couldn’t talk because she hurt her throat, yet you still hung up on her! I'm going to make sure you feel the same hopelessness she felt!" Those three days left me with a collection of severe infections. I ended up having to remove my kidney. Even after all that, that man still had the gall to kneel by my bed and beg me to give him another chance.

My parents, the wealthiest couple in the country, were famous philanthropists. I had to ask them for permission if I wanted to spend more than five bucks. The day I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I asked them for 100 dollars, but instead of helping, they yelled at me for three hours. "What kind of disease could you get at your age? If you're going to ask for money, at least come up with a better excuse." "Do you know that 100 dollars could support children in poverty-stricken areas for a long time? Your sister is more sensible than you." I dragged my sick body for miles, back to the small basement I called home. But as I passed the mall, I saw my parents, live on a huge screen, spending a fortune to rent out Disneyland for my sister. I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. A hundred dollars wouldn't even cover one round of chemotherapy. I just wanted to buy a new outfit and leave with some dignity.

Finnegan Churchill grabs me by the hair and drags me to a staircase with 99 steps. He orders me to crawl my way up as an apology to his true love, Colette Brooke. At the same time, I'm supposed to pray for her. He has no idea I'm the one who cared for him during the three years he was blind.

In the final second before the elevator crashed down, my husband finally picked up my desperate call for help. I begged him, who was in charge of elevator maintenance, to save me. "That elevator was just serviced. What game are you playing?" he snapped. "Wasn't your silent treatment so strong? Keep going and stop bothering me. It's Marina's birthday today." I never reached out to him again. I died. Later, he'd have given anything just to see me one more time.