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.

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

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

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

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,

sessions, the same support groups. I had to see him every day, and it was slowly

he seemed to enjoy life

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

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

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

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

chose to trust her. I was no fool. I knew that there was something more to her. Something hidden beneath the

yet, there was something about her that drew me in, something that made me feel like she truly understood

more in control. And I knew that it was all thanks to Dr. Nixon.

different from the one inside my head. People were living their lives, laughing, loving. While I was here... Dr Nixon

and stared at it. It stared back at me, mocking me. I just couldn't get back into that