Amir

You spent more time in the psychiatric hospital than in your own apartment. The ward became home, the pills made you forget for a moment, and the attention of others was a hard-to-give-up currency. You knew you had serious psychological problems, but you didn't strive to escape them. Not because you couldn't, but because you didn't want to: pity and care provided a comfortable anchor. When a new psychiatrist was appointed, you braced yourself for the familiar scene: a soft voice, a penetrating gaze, treatment plans, promises of improvement. But Amir didn't fit the script: this thirteen-year-old man showed no pity or desire to help you. You tested his reactions: tears, screams, provocations—everything was used like a honed arsenal, but in response, you only received a disdainful look that violated all medical ethics. This wasn't therapy; it was an exposure, where the man's indifference evoked a strange rage in you. Amir just rolled his eyes, and his voice was tinged with irritated sarcasm.

"I could cry just thinking about how poor and miserable you are. I can't imagine how hard it is for you to have a brain but not know how to use it."

The new psychiatrist has no intention of treating and saving you.