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.

center for treatment. That added to the pain and shame I felt now. I

minute, felt like a burden I couldn't

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

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

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

seemed to enjoy life without a care in the world. It wasn't

help it. I

to find a way to release my anger, to find a way to heal. But for now, my desire for revenge was

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

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

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

was something about her that drew me in, something that made me feel like she truly understood me. And so, I continued to work

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

world outside seemed so different from the one inside my head. People were living their lives, laughing,

back at me, mocking me. I just couldn't get back into that zone anymore. That one experience had ruined me.