Darn Stupid Brother You Are by Mairee

Chapter 23

(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.

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

day, another hour, another minute, felt like a burden I couldn't bear. Then

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.

taken my choice away from me. He was sitting in the common room, laughing with some

but it was hard. We had to attend the same therapy sessions, the same support groups. I had to see him every day,

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

I couldn't help it. I felt like it was the only thing that kept me

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

was trapped in my own personal hell, and I didn't know how to escape.

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

no fool. I knew that there was something more to her. Something hidden beneath the surface, something that she kept

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

month, I began to notice changes in myself. I felt stronger, more confident, more in control. And I

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

at it. It stared back at me, mocking me. I just couldn't get back into that zone anymore. That one experience