The days passed, each one blending into the next, and with them, I felt the subtle shift in the air, the heavy weight that had always surrounded me starting to lift. I wasn't sure what had changed exactly—maybe it was Mara's unyielding belief in me, or maybe it was just the slow accumulation of those small moments of progress. Either way, something was different. I wasn't the same person who had been trapped in a cycle of violence and self-loathing. I was moving forward, even if only by inches.
Mara and I had started spending more time together, exploring the city in small, quiet ways. It wasn't anything grand—just walks in the park, trips to the grocery store, the occasional visit to a café. But it was enough. It was a life I could almost get used to. I had moments, brief but sweet, where I could almost convince myself that things could be normal again, that maybe, just maybe, I could find peace.
But even with all these small victories, the darkness was never far behind.
I tried to push it away, to focus on the good things that were happening, but there were nights when the hunger would return—raw, relentless. I could feel it clawing at the edges of my mind, demanding to be fed. It was a constant, nagging presence, reminding me that no matter how hard I tried to be something else, I would always have that part of me. The part that needed destruction, that wanted to break free.
It was during one of those nights, when the hunger felt like it was consuming me from the inside out, that I found myself standing in front of the old mirror in my bedroom, staring at my reflection. I had done this countless times before, looking into my own eyes, searching for any trace of the person I had been, the person I wanted to be. But tonight was different. Tonight, I saw something I hadn't seen in a long time: a stranger.
I wasn't sure when it had happened. Maybe it was gradual, maybe it had been happening all along, but suddenly, I realized that I didn't recognize the person staring back at me. He was there, but he was distant, like a shadow of someone I used to know. The eyes were the same, but the expression… it was colder, more detached. The lines on my face, the way my jaw tightened, the subtle tension in my posture—it was all wrong. I wasn't just fighting the past anymore. I was fighting the person I was becoming.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing thoughts. I had to keep going. I had to. Because the alternative was something I didn't want to think about.
I thought about Mara. I thought about her gentle words, the way she had helped me when I felt like there was nothing left of me. She had become the anchor I never knew I needed, and I wasn't going to let that go. Not now.
But even as I thought of her, I could feel the pull of the darkness. It was always there, lurking, waiting for me to slip, waiting for me to falter. The more I tried to distance myself from it, the more it fought to draw me back in.
I had to find a way to stop it. I couldn't keep living like this, in a constant state of fear and self-loathing. I had to find a way to make the hunger go away, to shut it down for good.
The next morning, I did something I hadn't done in a long time: I went to see a therapist.
It wasn't easy. The thought of sitting in a small, sterile room with a stranger, talking about my past, about the things I had done… it made my skin crawl. But it was a necessary step. I couldn't do this alone anymore. I needed help.
The therapist, a woman named Dr. Callahan, was kind, but there was something in her eyes—something I couldn't quite read—that made me feel like she was already aware of what I was hiding. I didn't say anything about my past at first. I kept the conversation light, talking about my family, my struggles with anxiety, the small, everyday things that felt safe to share.
But Dr. Callahan wasn't easily fooled. She could see the cracks in my carefully constructed façade.
"I can tell you're holding back," she said gently, her voice soft but firm. "That's okay. But eventually, we'll need to talk about what's really going on. You can't keep it buried forever."
I didn't know if I was ready for that. But I also knew she was right. The longer I held onto the past, the more it poisoned everything else in my life. It was time to face it.
For the next few weeks, I continued to see Dr. Callahan. Slowly, piece by piece, I began to unravel the layers I had built around myself. The walls I had erected to protect myself from the truth started to crumble. It wasn't easy, and there were times when I thought I wouldn't make it through. But each session brought a little more clarity, a little more understanding of who I had become and why.
It was during one of those sessions, as I talked about my childhood, about the strange feelings I had toward my family, my tendency to hurt animals—things I had kept locked away for so long—that I finally said it out loud.
"I don't think I can change," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."
Dr. Callahan didn't respond right away. Instead, she looked at me with such compassion that it almost broke me. Then, quietly, she said, "You're not broken. You're hurt. And hurt can heal."
It wasn't much. But for the first time in a long time, I believed her.
.....
https://shshorturlshor