Inside me, there was a bottomless, dark well whose voice no one else could hear. That well was a silent grave, a prison of forgotten memories where suppressed fears began to echo. No matter how hard I tried to speak, my words would fall into that void, shatter, and scatter—drowning there, hanging suspended in the air. I was suffocating in the silence of my own words; even my whispers had gone mute. Only I could hear the hum rising from the depths of that well. But that hum was weakening, fading away, cruelly abandoning me.
The eyes staring back at me from the mirror would not look at me—they turned away as if they despised me. I searched for myself in them, but I was already a stranger. A thick, invisible wall was rising within me, growing higher each day, pushing me farther from myself. To be deprived of my own being—that was my deepest fear.
I sat on the edge of my bed. Brushed away the strands of hair falling over my face. I felt the thin, cold sheet touch my skin, but no shiver came. Because the cold inside me was denser than the cold outside. The block of ice covering me grew heavier, slowly burying me underground. That cold was both a blanket that protected me and one that suffocated me; unseen from the outside, but inside, it was a prison of darkness.
I looked at my legs—bruised purple again. I had no idea where those bruises came from. But I didn't think about it much. I shouldn't think. I had learned that sometimes thinking was worse than a bottomless pit.
Dragging my feet with difficulty, I headed toward the bathroom of my house, which had rotted away from age. Though even calling it a house felt wrong. To me, it was a cage for my soul, a pile of rooms with a roof, far from the word "home," offering no protection. As I walked, the pain in my legs imprisoned me, but I made no sound—because I had grown used to silence. My steps were heavy, the spaces around me blurry. I was like a mere extra in my own life, an unnamed side character in a story written by someone else. A shadow of my own tale—fragmented, meaningless. Because a part of me had always been missing. Yet strangely, sometimes I felt valuable. That value was nothing more than an excuse to dress up my pathetic life, but at least it consoled me.
Still, it hurt.
I walked farther inside the house, though there wasn't much to walk. I turned off the news left on the TV. I liked watching the news—because being informed mattered to me. When I turned it off, the black screen reflected my face within the darkness. A girl I didn't know, a girl I even hated, stared back at me.
I couldn't stand that girl any longer. So I went to the bathroom and touched my facial features as if they might remind me of something. My fingers traced the curves of my cheeks, the sharpness of my eyebrows, the trembling line of my lips—as if memorizing them. I closed my eyes. Maybe something from last night would surface in the pitch-black of my eyes... But no. Again, nothing. I was used to it.
What had happened last night? As usual, I was doing my job... but then? Was this forgetfulness normal? Or was it some cruel trick my mind enjoyed playing on me? Sometimes I thought my brain locked memories away to protect me. Other times I thought the opposite—that it hid the most important pieces just to sabotage me. I had become a prisoner in the prison of my own mind, condemned by my own memories. This had been with me since childhood. I always forgot things. Especially after important events—those gaps were the most infuriating.
I had finished the last day successfully. But why did I feel like this now? I didn't know, and I didn't want to know. Because sometimes knowing only made everything heavier. Tired of the same thing repeating over and over, I returned to my room. I had to get ready for school. I lived in Istanbul. I was born here, in this mysterious city... but I never belonged. My heart beat somewhere else—I knew that.
The sky was abnormally dark. The heavens had swallowed all its stars. But I loved weather like this; it seemed to reflect my inner world perfectly. My soul was the same: dim, blurry, filled with shadows.
There was a message from Nazlı on my phone. Once again, she had missed something, caused trouble, made another mistake. But she was my best friend. I couldn't scold her. Because no one else approached my coldness with such warmth. Even if they wanted to, they couldn't—because I had barriers even I couldn't break. Nazlı was the only one who managed to pull them open.
Nazlı... Red hair, pale white skin, amber eyes, petite and sweet. We'd known each other since high school. While I sat silent, lurking in corners, she had noticed me and approached me with all her brightness. At first, of course, I was distant. But she broke down those distances so easily. Now, nothing comforted me more than our nightly talks. She was like a hand reaching out in the dark. Her presence was a gift, soothing my stillness. Sometimes I called her "crazy girl." Because yes—I loved her.
After turning off my phone, I had to start getting ready. And since I was going to school today, I had no choice but to take public transport.
I hated buses. Truly hated them. But I had no other option now. It was daytime, the 10th of the month; so there was no chance of one of Isa's private cars picking me up. I had to endure it. Like it or not, I would take public transport until next month.
I opened my wardrobe to get dressed. I put on black flared pants and a black sweater. After finishing my makeup like always, I was finally ready to leave. I liked makeup. For me, it was just a mask—but it also made me feel good, so it wasn't just a mask. Yes, I lied to myself again.
With my wired earphones playing Boş Kemikler – Belki Veda, I walked away from the house. The music slowed my steps, each note expanding the emptiness inside me. But I enjoyed it—because the growing void within me gave me a strange kind of pleasure. It reminded me, in a way, that I was alive.
After a long walk, I reached the bus stop. While waiting, cigarette smoke filled my lungs. I hated cigarettes. I swear, I hated them. If people smoked alone, fine. But why should I be forced to inhale their poison in the open air? I hated people smoking at bus stops. I hated cigarettes. I hated them, okay? I hated them.
Finally, the worst hours of the day were over. I was almost at school and nearly happy about it. Because when I arrived, Nazlı greeted me with a hug. Her hugs meant so much—they made life feel a little more livable. She was the harbor for my weary ship. I wondered if she even knew how much she meant to me.
I envied her other friends. Not the fact that she had them, but the thought that maybe she loved them more than me. But I was sure she loved me the most. Call me jealous—I don't care. She was my friend, and I would be jealous. I am jealous.
—December 2013
A boy too cruel for his age, Nehir, approached Liya and turned to her:
"Liya, why won't you come with us tonight? It's Ceren's birthday party, please come, you'll love it. We're going to have so much fun, and look—the cake is strawberry!"
Liya wanted to go, but she had things to do in that filthy basement: cleaning, cooking, begging... anything, because she needed money.
With her spirits broken, Liya took a step closer to Nehir and replied:
"I can't. I'm having dinner with my mom and dad. But tell Ceren I said happy birthday."
Parents who never came to school meetings... parents who never even existed.
Nehir was annoyed—Liya wasn't supposed to say no; she was supposed to obey. Frustrated, she said:
"Are you sure? Ceren might get upset with you."
Liya calmly took a step back to put distance between them and said:
"I don't think it'll be a problem. See you at school tomorrow." And she walked away.
As she left, only one thing was on her mind: money.
Because she was so lonely, so utterly alone. And the only thing that could save her from that loneliness was money. Liya worked, she saved—but she never spent a penny on herself. She bought gifts for her friends so they would like her, so they would be her friends.
That day, she didn't go to the party. She went to work for Isa. She worked for hours, exhausted herself, and fell asleep. But Isa didn't even pay her, punishing her for dozing off. And Liya believed he was right. After all, she had fallen asleep before finishing the chores.
So Liya never got to buy that gift. And after that, she never had a friend again—until Nazlı.
—
When our hug finally ended, she leaned close to me at the table, eyes wide with excitement:
"Mert and Ayşe broke up! Can you believe it? There's no obstacle between us anymore!"
Her obsession with Mert had been the same since we started university. It never faded—and it drove me crazy. Because Mert was an idiot. The embodiment of a playboy, and my friend deserved better. So I snapped back at her, pushing her slightly away:
"As if something real would ever happen with you two! You're still talking about Mert? How many girls has he cheated on? What makes you think he won't cheat on you too? Don't be so stupid, Nazlı."
I knew I hurt her when I spoke like that, but there was no other way to make her understand. She thought everything was a game. Pouting, she rested her chin in her hand and said:
"Sometimes you're really hurtful, and I don't like it."
But what could I do? A true friend told the hard truths. I shrugged and kissed her cheek. Even though I hated physical contact, she lit up when I kissed her—so it was my way of making amends.
Classes ended. As an English Language and Literature student, I had to write an essay—yet another torture among all my other burdens. Because Isa never left me alone. But he was right, he had every right... He always had every right. Whether I liked it or not, everything was because of him.
Back in high school, I had been a language student. I watched English films obsessively, read English books—it was like meditation to me. In those films and books, I felt like I truly lived. For a moment, I could escape reality, and it made me happy. That's why I chose a department I loved. I never regretted it.
Two hours later, classes were over. My school was on the European side, my home on the Anatolian side. So commuting was a nightmare. Still, it was the only house I could afford—a house that couldn't even be a shelter.
I went home with Nazlı. We talked the whole way, of course on public transport. By the time we got off the bus, the sky had grown dark. She was staying over that night. I didn't know if I could make her comfortable in my shabby apartment, but I think she was just happy to be with me. Confidently walking closer until she was right beside me—because I was five steps ahead—she asked:
"Shall we restart the Scream series tonight?"
This girl was addicted to touch. Always clinging to me.
Replying seriously, I said:
"Nazlı, you're doing this on purpose, knowing it's my weak spot, aren't you?"
Yes... Because I was a Scream addict. A horror film fanatic. When I was down, I watched them and felt better. They were the greatest joy of my life.
She squealed happily, hugging me and kissing my cheek, her childish excitement so obvious. Shouting, she said:
"Yes baby, as long as you're happy, I'll even watch those shitty horror movies with you!"
Her voice echoed down the entire street.
I was furious. No one called my films "shitty." Pushing her away angrily, I snapped:
"You're the shitty one! Don't you ever use that word with my precious films again!"
But seeing me angry only delighted her. So even though I pushed her away, she snuggled right back up to me.
"You call Mert 'shitty,' and I don't get mad at you, do I?"
"What? What? You crazy girl! You even pull my hair. Besides, that bastard deserves it!" I shot back.
Yes, this was how we got along. Two crazy girls, clearly unhinged. Was it obvious?
Finally, we reached my house. That house I despised... Some tomato-paste pasta, cola, and Scream—that was what would set me right. After cooking in my pitiful kitchen, we ate and watched the movie in my room, on my bed. I watched with wild excitement while Nazlı fell asleep halfway through. I figured it was bedtime. It was nearly 3 a.m.
I quietly left my room, set up a bed for her in the living room, woke her, kissed her forehead, and wished her goodnight. Then I showered, put on pajamas, and lay in my double bed. Double—because that was all I could get from the junk shop. But I liked it; it was roomy. Not that I fit, even in a double bed. I was heavy. My heart was heavy. Too heavy to carry anymore.
Restless, I lay in bed, feeling as though something was gnawing at me. The thought consumed my sleep until dawn neared—4 a.m.—when I finally pulled the blanket over myself. Just as I was about to sleep, a message arrived. And yes, it was from him:
Isa – "A job came up, very important. You need to come tomorrow, urgently."
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