It was a winter evening. That day, the coughing in my throat wouldn't stop irritating it—again and again. I'm sick, and I know it.
I only have a little time left to live, after which I'll return to... who knows what. Perhaps to another form of life beyond, perhaps to joy, perhaps to misery. My life has been nothing but a series of failures, so this end, at least, should be grand. I will make sure it is. I give you my word.
My name is Aysel. It means "moonlight," and perhaps, it suits me—who knows. In life, I love many things: I love reading, dreaming, thinking, reflecting, debating, dancing, laughing, singing. I'm known for my sense of humor and kindness, my analytical mind and intelligence.
But for many years now, I've been reduced to nothing more than this illness that keeps digging into my body, slowly corrupting it, destroying it from the inside—maybe forever. Inside, I feel mechanical. There are no more organs, just a machine struggling to keep working. I feel like an object, like the woman from Frida Kahlo's "The Broken Column."
After years of fighting this illness, after seeing neurologist after neurologist, I feel like a machine. No clear diagnosis has ever been made. One day I'm the Moon, the next I'm the Earth. I don't know who I am. I don't know what's wrong with me.
I was recently admitted to the hospital. They referred me to a new specialist. This is the last time I'll try to save my life. After this, I'll give up. And I'll claim the right to have a beautiful, dignified, and meaningful death—like Yukio Mishima's. I'll claim the right to choose it. If only I were given the choice. If only I weren't here, lying on this hospital bed like a withered tree. My reality breaks me, but I don't show it. I refuse to admit defeat. I'll resist—just a while longer.
It's 3 p.m. Today, I haven't done much. I stared at the ceiling—for lack of being able to stare at the sky.
I still don't know how much time I have left. The seconds pass slowly. I'm waiting for someone's gesture. I'm waiting for a smile, for someone to speak to me, to reassure me. Please.
Someone knocks at my door. I slowly emerge from my daydream.
"Yes? Who is it?"
A man opens the door. He's wearing a white coat.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm your doctor. I've been assigned to your case. I apologize for the long wait."
His gaze was placid. His entire presence seemed flat. He gave no particular impression. He seemed disinterested, nonchalant. I was used to it by now—after all the medical professionals I'd seen. He must have been tired. His apology sounded like a ritual. Considering the state of public hospitals, it probably was a kind of mantra.
"How are you feeling?" he added.
"I'm fine, thank you," I replied simply.
"Let's go over your symptoms again, if that's okay with you."
The doctor sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me with that same mechanical, flat expression. As if he didn't really exist. As if it were impossible to know what he was truly thinking.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked.
What's wrong with me, you bastard? What's wrong with me? What kind of asshole are you? What now? Don't the nurses tell you anything? You ask all these questions for… this?
No, okay, breathe, Aysel. It's the pain making you so bitter. Stay calm, smile, explain. He can't help you if you don't talk.
"Well... I was recently admitted to the hospital. Before you, I had another doctor. I came here after my mother called the fire department, sir. It's not the first time I've been here. It's always the same."
The doctor stayed silent in the face of my despair. He just looked at me, waiting for my answer.
Well, Aysel, you're going to have to talk about it again. Sorry.
"I... I have... uh... I have. Yes, I have."
The doctor looked at me, still bored. He waited.
"Yes?"
I pulled myself together and gave him the best smile I could muster. I collected my thoughts.
"Well, sir. It's actually complicated. For several days, I've been experiencing hallucinatory episodes. I thought... yes, I thought I had suddenly become superhuman. I told my mother, sir. I suddenly felt powerful, and I thought everyone needed to know, sir. But I couldn't help it—I just wanted to help, you know. And uh... I'm doing very well, sir, really. I'm doing very well. I even think I could be discharged soon."
The doctor looked at me, dazed. Not mocking—well, maybe a little. Or maybe I was imagining things. His expression was placid again. Maybe I was just seeing things that weren't really there.
"Leaving the hospital isn't an option at the moment."
Oh.
"Any physical pain?"
"No, sir."
"What happened during those episodes? Tell me."
He turned slightly toward me—for the first time. Until now, he'd stayed half-turned.
I'd say he was about 33, no older. Not particularly attractive. He had a rather questionable hair parting, which seemed to be receding. Probably due to age. He had brown hair—dark brown. And dark brown eyes. He was ordinary—maybe even ugly.
"Ma'am?" he said, waiting for an answer.
Crap, maybe I thought too loudly. Pull yourself together, Aysel.
But I'm tired, and I really don't feel like talking.
"You didn't take anything?"
"No, sir."
"No substances? No alcohol? Any medication?" he asked rapidly, like it was part of his daily medical routine.
"Only what's been prescribed, and according to the dosage, sir."
"No physical pain?"
"Uh, yes... uh no... well, sometimes—I'm not really sure."
This time the doctor looked me in the eye and paused. He seemed slightly annoyed by my constant vagueness and lack of clear answers.
"Did you experience any physical pain during the episodes, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir. I think."
"You think?"
"No, I know. I think, I know. I think, therefore I am."
He didn't seem to get the joke. Or maybe... no, actually, I think he really wasn't there to laugh.
"Ah," he replied, this time frowning slightly.
He wasn't angry. But he was... annoyed, maybe?
"Very well, ma'am. It seems these past few days have been very difficult for you. It's normal that you're still confused. We've prescribed Tercian to calm your agitation. You need time for the medication to take effect and, most importantly, to get some rest. These past days have been particularly intense—you know that better than I do. There are still things that don't make sense to you, and that's normal. I'll come back to you shortly, don't worry. My colleagues and I are still discussing your case."
He briefly looked at the clock.
Then he looked back at me.
"Any specific questions?" he asked.
"Uh... yes. Who are you, really?"
I thought I saw his eyebrows crease slightly.
"Ah yes! Forgive me, ma'am. I may have forgotten to introduce myself due to the urgency of the situation. I'm Dr. Mahedine Djabri. I specialize in neurology. I work specifically in diagnosing neurological disorders. Any other questions?"
"No, sir, that's all. Thank you."
"Very well, please rest. I'll return tomorrow."
He promptly turned on his heels and headed for the door with purposeful steps.
I looked up at the ceiling once again and closed my eyes.