Real Help

Friedrich Nietzsche said that if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes back at you. I believe he was right — but he didn’t say what happens when the abyss starts whispering your name. My curiosity, my thirst for something real, dragged me one step closer to eternal darkness. Any sane man would’ve turned back by now. But I couldn't. I shouldn’t. I won’t pretend it’s noble. The truth is simpler — my own mind became too loud, too sharp, too overwhelming to ignore. So now, instead of fighting it, I’m walking to therapy like a good little patient.

Dr. Adrian Kestrel. People say he graduated from Oxford, published papers on neuro-cognition and modern suicide ideation. Big words, soft hands. His reputation is clean — too clean, like a hospital sheet that’s been bleached to death. He looks like he was designed in a lab to be trustworthy. Mid-forties, lean, always freshly shaven. His jaw is sharp but never clenched, like he’s trained every muscle to look calm. His hair, salt-and-pepper, was parted so precisely it seemed like he was afraid of being seen out of place — and his eyes, oh, those unreadable pale blue eyes. He dresses like academia vomited on him: thick-rimmed glasses, charcoal suits, and a silver wristwatch he checks too often, even when it’s dead silent. The kind of man you’d believe in. That’s the problem.

Saint Icarus University isn’t silent though. It hums. The gravel cracks under my sneakers as I cross the courtyard, past stone statues of forgotten founders and iron benches that never feel warm. Students pass me like ghosts, smiling, laughing, oblivious. They don’t know. They don’t hear the static behind their eyes when things get too quiet. The path to the Behavioral Sciences building is lined with hedges — trimmed, perfect, like the university itself. But every time I walk this route, I swear the air feels heavier. Like something is watching. Like the school itself knows who I am. Or maybe it’s just the voice. It's always just the voice.

Today is appointment seven. Seven’s a good number, right? Biblical. Magical. I keep telling myself that as I climb the concrete steps, reaching for the handle to Dr. Kestrel’s office. Maybe this time, I’ll find something worth saving. Maybe he’ll see me — not the case file, not the failure, not the liability. Just me. Or maybe I’m still lying to myself. Because the truth is, I don’t want comfort. I want answers.

“How close were you this time?” he asks, his voice smooth as glass and that unreadable gaze from those eyes.

I shrug. “Three steps from the ledge. One away from peace.”

He writes that down, like always. Sometimes it feels like he just does that to taunt me. He knows I can’t object, but writing my words down — it makes one… it makes me feel like a lab rat. Every action, every word, every sentence, monitored and captured by some great scientist.

“Well,” he says, crossing his legs like he’s settling into something, “you always keep referencing a night a few months back. You said you were at the university café. You’ve told me — more than once — that everything started from there. I’m going to ask you again. The fifth time out of our seven dates. What happened that night?”

I can tell from his face — he’s losing patience.

I’m a good patient. I take my meds daily. I show up. But he always has a kind of problem with me. People don’t understand that you can’t always open up. Not everyone gets a pass into the inner circle. For people like me, there are only a handful — the few I’ve trusted enough to share my life with. I regret that now. I’d like to explain why, but not yet. Not to him. Not today.

Judging from his stiff posture, he’s trying to force me into saying what he wants to hear. I can’t ever forget that night. It took almost everything — if not everything from me. Turned me into this mess.

To truly understand what I’m hiding, even from my therapist, we need to go back. To when it started.

My first thought about finding peace in death.

It wasn’t some dramatic leap off a building. It wasn’t cinematic. It was simple. Feasible. Painless. Slow.

Back in 5th grade, I had a bad case of Tuberculosis. It could’ve been fatal — should’ve been fatal — if my family had left it untreated. But they didn’t. Unfortunately for them. I lived. They didn’t.

I still remember sitting in the backseat of my father’s car, not understanding what was happening, just listening. They were talking about the cost of my treatment, and I had one single thought:

Can’t they just let me die?

It would’ve saved them the trouble.

That thought has never left me.

I’ve never told my friends. Never told my family. Not even the ones I’m comfortable with.

How could I possibly tell him?

“Look, John. It’s going to be difficult this way,” he interrupts, probably noticing how tense I’ve become. “You want answers, and I really want to help you, but if you won’t talk, then I can’t do anything. You have to open up.”

His voice isn’t calm anymore.

“You’re going to sit there in silence again? Like that helps either of us.”

My hands twitch before I even realize it. A reflex — like my body knows danger before my brain does. I want to defuse things, say something smart, something calm. But when people raise their voices, something in me just... shuts down. My chest locks up. My throat feels wired shut. I’m not here anymore — I’m back somewhere else. Somewhere cold. My thoughts scatter like broken glass and I can't pick a single one up without cutting myself. I hate that he can do this to me. I hate that anyone can.

Silence.

He watches me, arms crossed, while I try to collect myself.

“I’m sorry, Doc,” I finally say. “I can’t talk about that night. It’s difficult. I just can’t. Can you prescribe me something? Something to make the noise stop?”

I didn’t give up — I’m still here, still trying. But he always ends up shouting. I can’t go through with this. Not with him.

He’s a hard man. But I need someone who understands me. Someone who can read my silence, not punish me for it. Someone who can pull the truth out of me gently — not try to force it out like a confession.

He sighs, disappointed. Again.

“Next week. Wednesday. 7 PM,” he says. “Same building. Basement level. Hopefully the surgery will fix… whatever the hell’s going on in your head.”

He doesn’t even look at me. Just points to the door.

I take the chance to leave, my right foot already out the door —

“You want answers, John?” he says.

I stop. Turn. Those pale blue eyes are waiting for me.

“Here’s an answer. You keep looking for pieces of a puzzle, thinking that’ll fix you. But what you need isn’t answers. It’s help. Real help.”