Breaths rose and fell in a calm, steady rhythm—
unlike my mind, which felt like a sinking boat.
I couldn't process everything that had happened to me throughout the day, nor understand what exactly had gone wrong inside me.
What curse had attached itself to me?
Or was it madness?
Starting with my family, who no longer felt the way I remembered them…
To my room, which no longer felt familiar.
The fuzzy, hair-textured ball—
I didn't know whether hallucinations could be touched.
I had never experienced madness before.
Then the hair hanging beneath my desk.
And the strand resting in my lap.
What leads to what?
Was my brother's wife telling the truth when she said she had never entered my room?
If so, then the black hair must have come from the ball.
But how did my brother see it—
if the ball was only a hallucination?
…I no longer knew anything.
Am I a prisoner?
Or have I truly gone insane?
The refreshing scent of mint becomes unbearable in moments like these.
...
How strange the human ability to adapt is.
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I never thought I would sleep that night.
Yet I never even realized when I did.
Perhaps I should thank my mind for sparing me from the exhaustion of yesterday.
"…"
Or curse it.
Why didn't it let me stay awake a little longer?
At least that would have been an excuse not to go with them today.
"We're going to the medical complex today. I booked an appointment last night."
"…Ah. I told you I'm fine. It was just travel exhaustion."
"The doctors told us to come back if anything unusual happened."
"…."
I couldn't argue or object.
As usual, Mother controlled the conversation.
…..
[Psychiatric Clinic]
Standing before the imposing plaque on the door, I couldn't take a step inside.
Even as my number blinked insistently, urging me to enter.
"A psychiatrist, Mother?!"
I thought we were going to an internist—some kind of follow-up for the accident or something.
But a psychiatrist? Of all things?
My heart became a burning coal.
I was angry—and at the same time, hurt.
Is that how they see me?
Crazy?
"Ahem… it wasn't my idea. It was your father's."
She avoided my eyes, glancing toward him beside her.
"Not everyone who visits a psychiatrist is crazy, as you think. There are patients with depression… obsessive disorders… and other things."
'Not everyone…?'
"But I don't have depression or obsessive disorder!"
"That's what we're here to find out, Mariam. We just want reassurance. We want to know what happened to you. So let's go in. Others are waiting for their turn."
I entered with heavy steps, angry—
like a soldier preparing to storm the enemy's front lines.
'I will prove them wrong.'
In Dr. Essam's clinic, whose walls were excessively white, he kept explaining something about post-traumatic stress disorders, and complications after long comas, and something about chemical neurotransmitters.
To him, I was merely malfunctioning signals.
But I wasn't really listening.
I was focused instead on the ball crouched on his right shoulder—its pupil moving everywhere, mocking the certificates hanging on his sterile white walls.
"Miss Mariam?"
"…Yes. Yes."
"Did you understand what I said?"
Of course I didn't.
"I did."
Please don't ask me to repeat it.
Dr. Essam looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
There was doubt in his gaze.
Of course he didn't believe me.
His pen scratched a few words onto a small white paper.
The eye followed the pen.
Then rolled upward in mockery.
The doctor extended his hand, offering the paper.
"There will be behavioral therapy sessions every Sunday, and we'll monitor to see if there's any improvement or change in medication dosage. I wish you a speedy recovery, Miss Mariam."
He said the last words with a mechanical smile—
more like an employee's smile than a doctor's.
I took the paper with broken hands.
I didn't even realize when I stood up and faced the door.
"Ah, excuse me, Miss Mariam. Could you wait outside for a moment? I need to tell your parents something."
I walked out.
But I did not walk out alone.
Do you think Dr. Essam actually saw something, or is he truly 'blind' to the fuzzy ball?
