I wrote this piece to shine a light on the inner darkness of the human mind. Too many people choose to never speak about their memories, their feelings and their troubles out of fear of being judged or misunderstood. If this can be of any help to even one person, then it will have been worth it. That being said, I am aware some readers might find this piece distressing because it resonates with them. If you yourself are going through something similar, I encourage you to seek support. I know this can be difficult (not everyone has friends they can rely upon), but it’s important that you do. Even if your head tells you not to. Change is always possible. Reading discretion is advised.
“Is it true, prince, that you once declared that “beauty would save the world”? Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the world! And I declare that he only has such playful ideas because he’s in love! Gentlemen, the prince is in love. I guessed it the moment he came in. Don’t blush, prince; you make me sorry for you. What beauty saves the world? Colia told me that you are a zealous Christian; is it so? Colia says you call yourself a Christian.
The prince regarded him attentively, but said nothing.”
― Ippolít Teréntyev to Prince Myshkin, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, Part III, Chapter 5
Summer 2025
Seven in the evening. I did a couple of lectures today, and I still got about twenty to do, but it’s only the eighth of August. Enough for today. Close the laptop, check the phone: no new messages. Okay. Then on with the usual drill: have dinner, take a shower, go to bed. Maybe I can even sleep today. Mum calls me and my siblings from the kitchen: food is already on the table. Crap. A cloud of sweat hangs over my body. Another call from the kitchen. I don’t want to be seen like this, but if I don’t eat mum will worry. After everything I told her. I rise against all my best efforts and hastily drag myself to the dining room. Cutlery clank on the ceramic. Pasta waits in my dish. A recipe that only works during summers: farfalle with black olives, cherry tomatoes, sweet corn and fresh basil. Easy enough, and yet… Uneasiness. I stir the cold pasta with my fork, then put some of it in my mouth. Nausea. I should like this. I eat some more, and the meal is over. Thirty minutes gone. Next stop: the shower. I turn on the water to let it heat and wait by the window with my clothes on. Steam pools on the ceiling near the lights. I undress eyes forward and step into the shower to then step out of the shower and dry my body with a grey towel. I was in there for over twenty minutes and it felt like a single instant. Magic of the human mind. I get under the duvet to focus on the white noise of the air con in the corner. Maybe I can sleep today. The breeze is filled with a mechanical rattle that pierces into my brain. I can feel it coming. I will never fall sleep now. I will never fall asleep without- You need to, tomorrow you have to study. You cannot be drugged up. But I need them. This will kill you in September. I’ll just get a few bad grades; it won’t be the end of the world. They made years of sacrifices to send you there, and you are risking everything- They’re happy to support me. Are they? You know how much you cost right? How could they be happy to support you? You are a failure, and you know it. You are a wast- Fuck it. Swallow two pills. And some EN, to shut the voices. The prospect of another day at my desk suddenly doesn’t seem that bad. Look at the slide, take out what’s necessary, type it on a document, add what’s in your notes, move on, repeat. No freedom for thoughts. No space for memories. No time for regret. Though I wish he- Don’t think about that. But I want a- It doesn’t matter what you want. There’s nothing you can do. Why can’t I think of answer? The pills. The pills and the EN are working faster than expected. Means in a couple of minutes I will be sleeping. Finally.
Phone makes a noise. It’s him.
This is the first text in over two months. Why now? Maybe it’s important. But what could it be? I can’t think of anything. God, what is this about? Is he. No, it can’t be that. Something important. Shit, my stomach. Why do I feel like I’ve been stabbed? Everything burns. Maybe I’ve got a punctured stomach and gastric acid is burning my insides. It must be something important, really important. And these clenched pulses from underneath the skin are the organs wanting to get out, wanting to jump ship. Something really important. It’s just a fucking message. I can’t help it. Then read it and get it over with. No, I don’t want to see what it says. Open it with your eyes closed, then take a breath and rip the band-aid off. Okay. Deep breath. Now you have to look. It’s just a picture, with two words beneath it. His association was approved. I didn’t think it would work, I really didn’t- Should I reply?What should I reply? There’s so many things- No, I can’t say any of them. Too late anyway. A warm feeling starts spreading from my chest outwards, slowly engulfing bones, muscles and organs with its softness. Every frozen part melts into the bloodstream, releasing the unfelt that was trapped within them. All I have suppressed rushes to the surface and breaks the ceiling of the conscious mind, flooding my eyes with images of a past future. The late June cherries moving with the northern wind. A Persian silk flower falling from mom’s tree. The afternoon sun kissing the summer grass. I have to be there. I need to feel it. I need to feel it one more time, just one more time. I run up the path that leads to the garden, and I want to scream that I am almost there, that it’s all about to be over, but the words are stuck in my throat and nothing meaningful comes out. I jump into the air to grab the hand that will lift me into the garden, and for a long instant the world around me doesn’t exist. Everything fades into a blinding sea of light, and the only thing I can summon is a vision of what is about to be. Two people born out of the same mind, holding hands under the branches of an old birch, quietly waiting for nightfall to come around. It’s almost over.
I’m falling away from the light. The warm embrace of twilight morphs rapidly into cold emptiness. I’m falling into complete darkness now. The hand wasn’t there. But how could this happen? The hand is always there when I need it. Where did it go? Why did it go? I’m going to die, right? There’s no way I can possibly survive a fall from this height. I’m going to die. Oh shit I’m going to die right now. Why? Isn’t that what you actually want? No, NO, I don’t want to die, I mean, I know, sometimes I wish I could just fall asleep and never wake up, but this is different. I don’t want THIS, I don’t want to- You have to make peace with it. I’M NOT READY, I’m not ready, there are things I need to say to- It’s too late. What’s done is done. NO! I-
A bed. White sheets. Industrial soap. Hard mattress. What is this? Everything sits in darkness. The wall is on the wrong side of the bed. The air smells of old woods and dark oranges. The rain trickles down on twisted metal shades. It’s not my room. It’s my dorm room, the one I left last May. I must’ve fallen asleep while studying for the March partials. God, I hope macro went well, cause philosophy is definitely going to kick my ass; two days left and I spend them sleeping. Useless fuck. I can try make up for it after dinner; hopefully there’s still a free stove in the kitchen. Wouldn’t want to wait in there for too long. I exit into the corridor and listen to the air around me. Voices. Two or three. Situations like this really make me wish I had a private kitchen. Hand on the door. Situations like this make me wish you weren’t such an attention whore. Let’s make this quick. I push on the door and slide into the kitchen. I’m not alone. Boiling blood rushes into my neck, head and ears, burning with shame and regret. I quickly get to my cabinet and pull out a pot. The water crashing into sink makes the only discernible sound in the room. This is your fault. Blood pounds against my skull with a throbbing rhythm. All of it is your fault. The unspoken words orbiting around the table turn the air into a tick depressing smoke. You should’ve kept it to yourself. But no, you chose to open up; you chose to give everyone a chance to see a piece of your fucked up mind. You really thought they were going to like you? Be glad they still speak to you, cause believe me: you don’t deserve it.
A door bangs shut at the end of the corridor. That’s his room. He’s coming here.
Blood evaporates from my veins. What do I do? You should leave. Then disappear. Forever. But I want a chance to say- What you want doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t just leave without saying anything! You’d do yourself a favor. How? Everyone already knows how pathetic you are; you don’t need to remind them again. Unless, of course, you’re into being publicly humiliated. Just like you’re into other things. Shut up shut up SHUT UP! You don’t know anything about me! Oh I do, more than anyone else. Why is he taking so long? The corridor is only a few meters long. Aura, he’s not coming here. No, I can’t accept that, I can’t, I’m not ready, I need to say those things to him, I’M NOT READY. You have to make peace with it. What’s done is done. No, the letter was a mistake, I should’ve never wrote it, I should have never ever wrote it. Own what you did. Crimson blood emerges from my skin in small rivers. Accept it. Hot water cascades onto the pavement from the overflowing sinks. It’s all gone.
I lay in a pool of sweat. The EN and the pills sit unbothered on the bedside table. I rise against the weight of my muscles. Check the phone: five thirty in the morning. And no new messages. An earthquake starts to build in the depth of my bones. Incandescent magma twists inside deep hidden chambers. When will it stop? Icy waves crush against impossibly tall rifts. When will everything stop hurting so much? Fallen pieces of rock begin to tear my skin from the inside, splitting my being into a series of disconnected selves. A guttural yell breaks free from my lungs, but I suffocate it before anyone can hear it, and the storm dies out with it. The salt around my eyes is swept away by new tears. When will everything stop hurting so much? When will everything stop hurting so much? When will everything stop hurting so mu…
Autumn 2025
It never stops. It never fucking stops here. The history project is due tomorrow and in ten days I have an exam for which I haven’t even started studying yet. I’m surrounded by people who are doing research projects, prestigious internships, weekly volunteering and paid work without seemingly blinking an eye, and I’m out here struggling to complete a high school level history paper. How the fuck do people manage all that without burning out? Well. What?They aren’t the weak tranny that you are. You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just not cut for this. Maybe people like me were never meant to get this far. Wow, you’re so tough; where did you learn this attitude? That’s a lot of words for a weak tranny that can’t even cook for herself. Are you testing new ways to get under my skin? I mean sure, cooking dinner takes time and effort, and attending university also takes time and effort, which is why we both agree that sacrificing eating, frankly the least important of the two, is the only rational thing to do. Buuut, there is more to it, isn’t there? Something new blossomed in your mind, and I think I know what it is. It’s not that you can’t cook because you don’t have time: you can’t cook because you can’t stand the sight of food, am I right? You’re sick of it, you’re sick of how bloated and anxious it makes you feel, so you spend as little time as possible with it. You order takeout so you can chug food down your throat as fast as possible and immediately forget it was even in front of you.
You’re a fucking pig, that’s what you are.
A few months ago I would have said something, but what’s the point anymore? I just want my burger with fries. Quickly. It’s particularly cold for a Thursday in November; the air tastes of burnt diesel and wet manure, and I’m shivering like an idiot in front of my residence. In my pajamas. Luckily no one’s around; I don’t want to be seen like this. The map says the rider should be here. There he his. Yes, that’s for me. Here’s my code. Thank you, have a nice evening. I walk up the stairs slower than I usually would but thank God the hallway is empty. Past the study room and down to the basement. The thick fire doors and the rubber floors remind me of a power plant. A place where everything burns and nothing survives. I push on the metal handle and slide into the darkness. The sound of the piano finds me through the walls of the music room. Unbelievable. I turn right into the corridor that leads to my tower. The sound follows me. I change residence to put some distance between us and he fuckin- Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s all my fault anyway. Past the common kitchens there’s my room, my refuge, my cavern. I sprint past them to avoid hearing the laughter that comes from behind the closed doors. They must be having a good time. I enter into my room, toss the brown paper bags into the trash and sit on the chair behind my desk. My letter, in its original version, sits on the shelf next to the window. It’s staring at me, and I stare back. The laughter from the kitchen bounces on the walls and slips below my door. I pick up the water bottle.
A memory opens the door and walks into my mind. I sit on the wooden floor of my old dorm room knees to my face. They sit on the floor with their legs extended. It’s late February: partials are in a few weeks.
“So you know what’s been going on?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you read my letter?”
“No, I didn’t know there was one.”
“Here, take my phone. I have it in English.”
Awkwardly they reach for my phone across the room. They are very tall, so it only takes one step. They sit down in their previous spot and start reading. I haven’t really left my room in the last few days. I eat at weird hours and take the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid everyone. It’s a complete coincidence I found them in the kitchen tonight.
“Shit, did he read this?”
“Yes, I gave it to him in person.”
“It’s really strong.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t given much of a choice. And to be honest I still don’t know what to do. I have no idea of what the next four months are going to look like, and I am scared that I am never going to learn from my mistakes and that I am never going to escape my condition, and to be very real I have no desire of keeping up with this game if I am going to keep playing the same lever over and over again1.”
“Yeah, no, I get it. But this won’t help.”
“What do you mean?”
“What we’re doing right now. Talking. It’s useless. It won’t help you unless-“
“Oh. Okay.”
“I don’t want you to think that-“
“No, it’s fine. Really. You can go.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to…”
“It’s fine. I’ll manage. Now go, please.”
“Okay.”
They hand me back my phone and walk towards the door without looking back. The memory walks out and closes the door behind itself.
I put down the bottle without drinking. I don’t need anyone. I’ve always survived without relying on the help of others, and I can learn to do that again. Besides, people are useless. They listen to your concerns as long as you don’t burden them. They offer their help as long as you offer something in return. They stand by your fucking side right as long as you don’t lean on them, because if you do that…they disappear. And I don’t blame them, I just wish I had understood this sooner. No one really cares. I’m just the dependable sidekick. The punchbag. The idiot no one ever asks for virginity stories, because God, who would ever fuck her, right?They wouldn’t even care if I disappeared. I am an unpleasant window into an even uglier reality, of course they’d prefer to seal it shut and never have to look at it again. Yeah, everyone would be happier without me hanging around. I destroy everything I touch. It’s so fucking unfair. Why can they have it all and I can’t have anything? Who fucking decided this? They all say “just wait and see”, “everything will be alright”, “just take one step at a time”. Yeah? Fuck you all. I FUCKING HATE MY LIFE, and you can’t stop me from destroying myself. And you? Why are you silent? Aren’t you happy to see me hurt myself like this? No, not really. I think you’re torturing yourself without reason. Look, from my point of view, you have three choices: you can either endure the pain that nests inside your bones until you drown in it, and die like a martyr that doesn’t know what she’s dying for; or you can release the anger that brews inside your stomach until you dissolve in it and die like a narcissist that doesn’t have anyone left to say goodbye to. Or, you can allow me to take over and end this on your behalf. I’ll crush every remainder of hope you have left in your body, and then you’ll finally be able to rest. No more sadness or anger or shame or guilt to persecute you. No more shrinks or lawyers or social workers to bother you. No more expectation to live up to. Eternal rest. What do you choose? Either of the first two options would really suck for you, because they would both take a while and you would be aware of what is happening at all times. But if you choose the third option, I promise it will be quick. Please Aura, let me help you. Let me take away the pain for you.
Winter 2025/2026
They are happy without you. You look up every week searching for a new answer, but the answer you get is always the same, and it’s always going to be the same: they are happy without you. And why wouldn’t they be? They don’t have to deal with your shit anymore. You don’t like to remember it, don’t you? The way you acted when you lived there. So you run away from it. You run into your room and hide under your blankie like you’re five fucking years old and just walked in on your parents. You launch yourself down the stairs and walk to class every morning just to drown all the shame that you feel, but you know it will never work. Your psych tells you to do these stupid exercises to “control your breathing” and “get outside of your own head” and “change your thought patterns” and you never do them, because you know they will never work. They can’t, at least not for you. Because unlike other people you can’t change. You’re defective. If people saw what hides inside of you, they would never speak to you again. The only person who has seen you past no longer speaks to you. And sure, he says that’s for other reasons, but how can you believe that? How can you believe he still finds you normal after everything you told him? No one would, and neither does he. Truthfully, he finds you disgusting; so disgusting he can’t even think about you without shivering. You’re a fucking animal. You phagocytize everything and everyone who comes too close to you. You know this, so why are you forcing me to be so unpleasant? Everything would have ended weeks ago if you hadn’t chosen to bunker down in some corner of your mind and mount up a resistance. You think publishing a piece about this will solve this? It won’t. Everyone will hate you. Hey you! You who are reading this piece! I’m sorry you have to sit through this, I really tried to stop her from embarrassing herself, but she just won’t give up! Ignore her, she just want your attention. I dunno, maybe she’s secretly hoping that after reading this you’ll reach out to her? Don’t fall for this, she’s just trying to manipulate you. In fact, why don’t you tell her to give up? Maybe she will listen to you! Hey Aura! Why don’t you give up? Why the fuck don’t you give up? No one will ever love you, so what’s the point of staying here? Come on, give up! You won’t make to spring anyway, so why delay the inevitable? You won’t. make it. to spring. You hear me? You’ll be dead before spring comes.
Spring 2026
“What medications are you currently on?”
“I take 50 milligrams of Lamictal every morning and 15 to 20 drops of EN whenever I feel like I’m going somewhere I’d rather not go to. I started Lamictal one and half months ago with my previous psychiatrist, while EN- well, that’s a different story. I started it more than a year ago, after a quick trip to the ER. Anyway. My psych wanted to take my Lamictal up to 100 milligrams, but I started coming here before that could happen, so I guess I’ll need a new prescription.”
“I can take care of that.”
No they fucking can’t. No medicine will ever work on you. Give up.
“Aura, where are you?”
No therapy will ever cure you. You’re defective. Give up.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
They couldn’t help you even if you talked to them. This is useless and you know it.
“Sorry. Back of my head.”
“Do you go there often?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
Liar. You’re always here.
“Why do you go there?”
“It’s the only place there is.”
“Anywhere in the world?”
“No, inside my head.”
“Well, why don’t you create a new one? Why don’t you get outside of your head?”
“Yeah, sure. I just have to go outside, make a wee picnic with some friends, write a diary with all the stupid things I like about myself, and I’ll be break out of this. Bullshit. That’s not how it works.”
“Then how does it work?”
“It doesn’t, ever. I can’t beat it. It’s too strong.”
“What’s too strong?”
“The thing that lives in the back of my head.”
“What is it?”
“It has been there for longer than I can remember, but I don’t know anything about it. It was there when I gained consciousness and it has never left my brain ever since.”
“What do you need to fight it?”
“Even if I had the strongest weapons in the world I wouldn’t be able to fight it.”
“But you are already fighting it.”
“How?”
“You’re here today. If it had already won, you wouldn’t be in this office.”
“I don’t want to be in this office! I don’t want to be a clinical case for others to study! I want to be free, for Christ’s sake! Free from all the pain and the anger that nest inside my bones, and free from this fucking tumor that occupies the entirety of my brain. And I want it now! Not in a year, not in two years, NOW! I’ve been working for years and nothing has changed, therapist after therapist after therapist, and I’m fucking tired of it. I just want it to stop…”
“I see great desire in you. But no psychotherapy can be effective if the patient doesn’t believe it will change things.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here today?”
“There’s a part of me that still believes I can make it; a part of me that still believes beauty can carry me through the pain towards a new life; a part of me that still believes happiness is possible in the midst of all this suffering. That’s why I am here2. But I don’t how long this is going to last. I have no idea what the final words on the page will read.”
I wrote this piece to shine a light on the inner darkness of the human mind. Too many people choose to never speak about their memories, their feelings and their troubles out of fear of being judged or misunderstood. If this can be of any help to even one person, then it will have been worth it. That being said, I am aware some readers might find this piece distressing because it resonates with them. If you yourself are going through something similar, I encourage you to seek support. I know this can be difficult (not everyone has friends they can rely upon), but it’s important that you do. Even if your head tells you not to. Change is always possible.
1 See I want(ed) to die by Gregory Guevara (JREG)
2 See Suicide and Mental Health by Abigal Thorn (Philosophy Tube)
Hi, I’m Aura. I’m a second-year student of International Politics and Government and I’m originally from Turin. I am also transgender person. My identity has shaped my whole life, and it has given me a unique perspective, especially when it comes to talking about the experience of minorities. Over the years, writing has allowed me to spread facts and ideas on all the topics I’m passionate about.
