Darn Stupid Brother You Are

(Dilada's POV)

I remember sitting in my room, after it happened, staring blankly at the canvas in front of me. My art, once my passion, now seemed dull and lifeless. I felt like I had lost my very essence, and the feeling of hopelessness was too much for me to bear. I was an artist that couldn't paint, that couldn't create anything meaningful, anything beautiful. It was all just a mess, like my life.

Before, I was on the rise, gaining recognition for my art. People would praise my work, tell me how talented I was. But that was before... before it happened. Before everything came crumbling and fell apart. I couldn't even think about it, the memories still too raw, too painful. I never spoke to a soul about it until I got to the center.

After that awful thing had happened, everything changed. My art became bland. I wondered why I even became an artist in the first place. I was too ashamed to show anyone my work because the change was too drastic to anyone who knew my artwork.

I ripped canvas after canvas to shreds, because my art meant nothing anymore. I would scream in frustration, unable to create anything worthy.

My mom became concerned, and had taken me to see a therapist, who said I was going through a depression phase. But I knew it was more than that. I knew it what was going on with me.

I was not really the type to open up, and my late dad had always tried his best, telling me, "If you are going through something, speak! Don't die in silence."

Back then, I hadn't told anyone what happened to me. Maybe that's why it was eating me up, consuming me from the inside out. I felt like I was drowning in my own emotions, unable to escape the darkness that had descended upon me. Things were already as bad as they could get when I got diagnosed with HIV.

It was a blow, a harsh reality check. I had to be sent to this wellness center for treatment. That added to the pain and shame I felt now. I felt like I was living in a nightmare, unable to wake up.

Before I first saw him, the thought of facing another day, another hour, another minute, felt like a burden I couldn't bear. Then when I saw him, I realized I had to keep going, for one reason: to make them pay.

No one knew why I was here, except for Dr. Nixon and my therapist. They knew the truth, the thing I couldn't bring myself to say out loud. I had contracted HIV from a sexual encounter, one that I hadn't willingly participated in. The memory still made my skin crawl, made me angry and ashamed.

One day after my first week here, I walked through the halls, I saw him. The guy who had done it to me, who had taken my choice away from me. He was sitting in the common room, laughing with some of the other patients. He didn't seem to remember me, which made it even worse. I felt like I was living in a nightmare, reliving the same horror over and over again.

I tried to avoid him, but it was hard. We had to attend the same therapy sessions, the same support groups. I had to see him every day, and it was slowly driving me mad. I felt like I was losing control, like I was drowning in my own anger and hatred.

I started to notice things about him, things that made my blood boil. The way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he seemed to enjoy life without a care in the world. It wasn't fair. He had taken everything from me, and yet he got to live his life like nothing had happened.

I became obsessed, thinking of ways to make him pay. I knew it wasn't healthy, but I couldn't help it. I felt like it was the only thing that kept me going, the only thing that gave me purpose.

I felt like I was a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode. I knew I had to find a way to release my anger, to find a way to heal. But for now, my desire for revenge was all that kept me going.

I started to attend more therapy sessions, to try and work through my emotions. But it was hard. I felt like I was stuck in a rut, like I couldn't move on. I felt like I was trapped in my own personal hell, and I didn't know how to escape. That was when Dr Nixon had approached me with a proposition. I had to tell her my secret and she promised to help me exert my revenge. She seemed ruthless and cutthroat and I actually believed she had killed before.

As I worked with Dr. Nixon, I knew that the patients looked at her with a suspicious eye. They seemed to think she was evil, that her unorthodox methods of medical practice were somehow. But I saw something different. I saw a woman who was fiercely dedicated to her work, who would stop at nothing to help her patients. As she was helping me now. Maybe I was naive, but since the proposition also benefited her, I don't see how I could get hurt in the process. Her methods were certainly unconventional - she incorporated elements of BDSM into her therapy sessions, using pain and pleasure to help patients confront their deepest fears. But I had to admit, it was working for me. I felt a sense of release, that I had never experienced before.

I didn't trust anyone, but I chose to trust her. I was no fool. I knew that there was something more to her. Something hidden beneath the surface, something that she kept carefully guarded. And I couldn't help but wonder what secrets she might be hiding.

But yet, there was something about her that drew me in, something that made me feel like she truly understood me. And so, I continued to work with her, to explore the darkest corners of my own psyche.

After a month, I began to notice changes in myself. I felt stronger, more confident, more in control. And I knew that it was all thanks to Dr. Nixon. And for that, I would be eternally grateful.

I stared out of the window of Dr Nixon's office. She was trying to make me start painting again. But it was not working. The world outside seemed so different from the one inside my head. People were living their lives, laughing, loving. While I was here... Dr Nixon came behind me and squeezed my shoulder. That was her way of saying timeout.

I walked back to my canvas and stared at it. It stared back at me, mocking me. I just couldn't get back into that zone anymore. That one experience had ruined me. I was ruined.

As I walked into my room, my loud, chatty, and nosy roommates turned to me, eager to start a conversation. "Hey, Dilada! How was your day?" one of them asked, not really caring about the answer. I shrugged, trying to brush them off. "It was fine."

They had all concluded that I was shy. That was fine by me. At least it saved me the trouble of having small talk.

My roommates, Angel, Cylan, Hande, and Charlotte, had been staring at me, a lot lately. They did that now too. Angel, the most nosy of the bunch, was leaning forward, her eyes fixed intently on me. She had been acting strange lately, always asking questions, raising suspicions and jumping into conclusions. She seemed to think I was hiding something, but I didn't give a damn.

Cylan was lounging on her bed, her eyes fixed on her phone. Hande was sitting at the desk, pretending to study the new pamphlet for STDs that we received every week. Charlotte was lying on her bed, flipping through a magazine. She probably didn't understand a word, only looking at pictures. They all seemed to be doing something. Even here, they all seemed to have a life. (Well, except for Angel who lived for her brother and wouldn't stop staring at me.) I had no life. Angel's eyes narrowed, her expression suspicious. "You're not seeing some guy in here, are you?"

There it was again. Jumping into conclusions!

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to respond. Why couldn't she just leave me alone?

I walked over to my bed and dropped my bag onto the floor. I could feel Angel's eyes on me, but I ignored her. I didn't have the energy to deal with her nosiness today. I just wanted to be left alone.