DO NOT TRUST HIM

This story contains sensitive content of mental health and physical violence, gore, or abuse.

Awakening

I wake again. How long must I?

Clothes lie scattered; a glass shattered, and a smear trails down the wall, like bloody fingers dragged downward.

I don’t know what happened. Emptiness. Again. Just a black void where my memories should be.

Damn it, the days blur and slip away.

I look at my hands—yet my palms seem foreign. As though they aren’t mine. Whose are they?

I assume I drank. Did I? Yes, I must have. I’ve had these “gaps” before. Blackouts. I must’ve overdone it again with the drinking. Or maybe… maybe there’s something deeply wrong with me.

No, I mustn’t think like that. There’s an explanation. Everyone has blank spots- they just won’t admit it.

My fingers instinctively reach for my chest, where an unbearable itch persists. My skin is rough, red, marked with small cuts that don’t seem accidental. This isn’t ordinary scratching. These are the marks of something deeper, something I can’t comprehend.

What was I doing while I slept? Or… did someone else do this to me?

I stand up, my legs rubbery and reluctant.

I approach the mirror. My hands rise to my chest without my control. I scratch and feel it- sharp, burning, new. My hands tremble as I look at my skin, and confusion floods my mind. A message. Carved deeply, like with a needle.

Written across my skin.

“Do not trust him.”

I look around, trying to grasp what’s real. Who did this to me?

The answer lies buried, but it’s never simple emptiness.

Maria is the only one I let into my world. The only one pure of heart, smiling like a child. The only one who doesn’t care if the truth hurts when she says it aloud. The only one who sees through my eyes.

“An honest prostitute.” In the dictionary, you’d find Maria’s name next to this phrase.

I have to go. If I stay here, in this silence, it will only get worse. But where? To Maria! Perhaps my memories will return if I start moving. Perhaps all of this will stop if I ignore this sense of emptiness. It must stop. It must. Whatever it is.

I put on my suit for the fifth day in a row- rebellion against distorted values like “Clothes don’t make the man.”

I rush down timeless ebony stairs draped in silk. Walking these stairs recalls Yeats: “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

My footsteps echo, the air faint with tobacco.

Doubt

A loud sound—the slow, deliberate tapping against the top of a boiled egg. A sound that sends shivers- his or the noise’s fault? Either way, the two are inseparable. Slow and methodical, each note feels like reproach.

I’ll greet him from the hallway, we avoid closeness.

“Good morning,” I mutter, devoid of enthusiasm.

He sits at the dining table for twelve, taking maddeningly slow bites of his hedonistic breakfast.

Silence is his strongest weapon.

“Has high society stopped returning greetings?”

“That depends on who’s speaking,”

Who does he think is speaking? There’s only the two of us here. Is he talking to me, or someone else? Perhaps he’s addressing someone else. Is it possible? But who?

In his eyes, disdain. He despises- or fears- me, always seeing me a threat.

“Unfortunately, only your biological son.”

“Oh, so now you’re my son. I see.”

What does “I see” mean? Was it even his voice? He toys with my mind, his words slicing through my psyche.

“I’m leaving!”

“Yes. You have an appointment with the therapist in thirty minutes,” he states matter-of-factly, dripping with authority.

Childhood memories rush in, his cold hand on my shoulder. Even his gently words- “Do better, son.”- scarred me for years.

Does he see the unworthy child or his own failure?

“I don’t have time to indulge your bourgeois demands while you sip cognac in your palace!” I snap, though my voice lacks the strength I want.

He raises an eyebrow, savoring my frustration.

“Oh, really? And how does a poor bourgeois spend so much money on alcohol and drugs? Your therapist is waiting,” he retorts before falling silent.

His silence speaks louder than words.

I storm out, the ice in his glass echoing like a memory.

“Don’t even think about deceiving me,” his voice follows me. “You’ll go because you know I know what you did.”

What I did? What does he know? I didn’t do anything. Or did I? It wasn’t me.

He looked at me as if he saw straight through me. He knows.

But damn it, what does he know that I don’t?

His words gripping my throat. “I know what you did.”

Why now, when the words carved on my chest burn like a brand? Is he playing his games, or is he giving me the truth?

“Do not trust him.” Maybe it’s about him. Or are these words… a message from him?

What if he’s the one I shouldn’t trust? Cunning, manipulative- could he have written them? But why?

His silence- draws me in, forcing doubt in my breath. Though he’s never shouted, his words strike exactly where it hurts.

“I see,” he said, in that tone that makes it sound like he truly understands. But does he? Maybe it’s all a game. Maybe he’s trying to make me stumble, to reveal something I don’t even know myself.

I’m overthinking, searching for signs that don’t exist. But the feeling in my gut won’t let go. That feeling you get when someone’s watching you, someone who knows more than they should.

His eyes, sharp and fixed on me, like knives. He didn’t look at me like a father. He looked like... a judge. As if he’s waiting for me to confess something.

But what?

“Do not trust him.”

Repeating them turns warning to threat.

But from whom? Him? Me?

And what is it I shouldn’t trust him with? Something I haven’t uncovered yet?

Paranoia

Could it all be in my head? Maybe it’s just… exhaustion. Yes, exhaustion. That explains everything.

But the feeling remains- all of this connected, something forgotten or buried.

It’s as someone stole my mind, leaving only a riddle.

I have to hurry. I need to find Maria. She’ll know. She must know.

“Do not trust him.”

These words follow me, haunt me. They’re destroying me. And maybe, in the end, they’ll save me.

The therapist dissects my face, silent and watchful. His smile isn’t compassionate- it feels like a mask, hiding something I’m not allowed to understand. But then, that is his job.

He waits. Patiently, carefully, watching my next move.

Breaking the silence. That’s my only move.

“I don’t have time for games.”

“And who is with us today?” he asks, his tone soft, as if addressing a child.

What kind of question is that? Is he provoking me to doubt myself? Though, it is, after all, his profession. But questions like that irritate me.

“Why is there this exhausting human need to know who we are? What exactly do you want? My favorite band or a movie? My childhood trauma? My name and surname? I don’t understand this obsession with identity. By now, you should know who I am. And for me, it’s enough that I am who I am.”

His smile hides something beneath the expensive suit, porcelain teeth, and gold watch.

“You haven’t answered. Who is with us today?” he repeats with a cheerful grin.

“What is wrong with you people and your questions? My father asked who he was talking to, and now you’re asking who’s with us today! Have you all gone blind from the diamonds your wives use to hang themselves?!”

“Ah, anger toward the father. Now I understand.”

He understands. Everyone understands except me.

“But today, you’re unusually aggressive, and it’s becoming harder to differentiate between you,” he says with an unshaken calm.

Differentiate? Between whom? Between myself? Is that what my rich father spends his money on- this nonsense?

“I can see you’re extremely tense today. Do you have a particular reason for that?” he asks with feigned innocence.

The cuts on my chest itch and sting, irritating me enough to curse, but I stay composed and reply: “You’re reason enough to drive anyone mad today.”

His pupils linger on mine for too long, as if he suspects something. “That will be all for today. We’ll end the session here. As I said, you’re unusually aggressive today. Watch yourself.”

Is he threatening me? From what should I watch myself? And why? Does he know about the message on my chest? Is he the one I shouldn’t trust? Or have they all turned against me?

“Do not trust him.”

The words now feel alive inside me, not just carved into my skin but pulsing like a vein that connects me to everything I don’t understand.

What did he mean when he said “watch yourself”? From whom? Him? Myself? Or everyone?

His smile was a mask. Does he know about the words on my body? If he does, why doesn’t he say anything? Why did he respond with a question — so innocuous, yet disturbingly precise?

“Who is with us today?”

As if I’m not one person but a web of colliding voices and thoughts.

The world has become a knot I cannot untangle because I keep losing the thread. I feel like part of something larger, something that’s been following me. Or maybe I am the thing being followed.

What if he isn’t real? No. No, I can’t go there. You know you mustn’t go there.

But how do I know that?

Reality or Illusion

I rush toward Maria. As if underwater, I hear someone calling my name. I turn and see a man waving at me, but I don’t recognize him.

He approaches in tailored suit, Italian shoes, and draped cashmere. His mustache is impeccably groomed. Only when he’s close enough do I recognize his eyes.

Still, his voice reaches me as though I’m in a vacuum, but my own voice rings clearly in my head: “Betrayal.”

My best friend. The artist. The bohemian. No. This can’t be real.

While a whirlwind of thoughts rages in my head, he’s already led me into a café, seated me in a booth, and ordered us drinks. I still can’t hear him. Is this a dream? If it is, it’s a nightmare.

My voice breaks into his reality: “Brutus.”

After a brief shock, he says, “Oh, don’t be like that. You know I’m an artist. And art has no price.”

Apparently, he does.

Rage suffocates me, my heart racing as I stare. My mind is silent, but he keeps talking.

After all the books, music, paintings, the scarf, the mustache, the tailoring... If he isn’t who he is, then who am I? Or is he truly himself, and I’m not? Or worse, am I him?

He snaps me back to his reality by pointing a finger at my chest. Fear. No. The itch. No. I know. Pain.

“Whiskey stains on your shirt. Ah, my friend, you haven’t changed a bit. We haven’t seen each other in so long, but I’ve been watching you.”

He’s been watching me. What does that mean? I never leave my room. Has he been watching me in my room? Was he with me last night?

“You’re my best friend, so I have to tell you. They’re talking about you.”

So, it’s them. It’s not just one person. They’re all in on it, with their expensive watches.

“Behind your back.”

Behind my back? Talking? Planning?

“They’re saying you drink too much, use too many drugs, and that you’re in love with a prostitute…”

Who’s the prostitute? Maria, with her strength to be who she is? Or him?

As if spellbound, I leave mustache behind, unable to hear another word he’s shouting after me.

He’s following me. Or have I left him behind?

“Do not trust him.” I don’t even know what he said, but I don’t trust him.

The suit and the smile- a mask. Who’s smiling? I’m not smiling. They always smile when they’re hiding something.

“They’re talking about you.”

Who’s talking? Maybe they know more than I do.

“Do not trust him.”

His hand. He pointed at my chest. He saw. He knows. He must know. How does he know? I didn’t tell him. I haven’t told anyone. Or… did I?

His voice, my voice- blending into words that aren’t mine. My thoughts- they’re not mine.

Whiskey. Alcohol. Maria. The words swirl, one through the other, like flames of smoke. Everything passes through him. Who is him? Through me? There’s no difference.

He knows about Maria. How does he know about Maria? Was he there? Or has it all been planned?

“You’re my best friend.”

What a lie. Everyone lies. Everyone except Maria.

Or does she?

But Maria knows. Or she can’t know?

“Do not trust him.”

He isn’t him. He’s a mirror. If he’s lying, then so am I.

Looking at him feels like looking at myself- or nothing at all.

“Do not trust him.”

A mantra. It won’t let me think. Every word is a weight. Something greater. Something that’s always been there. Carved beneath my skin. Beneath me.

“...Him.”

Who?

Maybe it’s incorrect. Maybe it’s: “Do not trust me.”

I think.

And know less.

The boundaries. Between ‘him’ and ‘me.’ Blurring. Disappearing. I am disappearing.

The whisper turns into a scream, but no one hears it. Or do they?

Unconsciousness

Maria’s neighborhood. Possibly. The world of lies is behind me. The world of truth is ahead. And I’m somewhere in between. Or I’m nowhere at all.

Am I a lie? Am I the truth? Both? Neither?

Junkies. A needle. A hand. Prostitutes. Trashy. Children. A ball. Filth. A saxophone. I’m floating. Falling.

A homeless priest- or a priestly beggar? His words ring out. “Judgment Day.” Day of Judgment? I can’t hear clearly. Voices. Laughter. The saxophone. Crying. It all blends together.

Knees. They give out. His hand. Or mine? I grab it. I hold on.

“Father… Father, it hurts… help me!” My voice breaks. It isn’t mine.

His beard. The stench. His hand. On my chest. On the words.

He knows. He knows!

“Son. The pain is in your chest. God sees everything. Knows everything. Judgment Day. To hell with the sinners.”

His words. Are they his? Mine? “Sinners.” Did he mean me? Or me? But… who is “me”?

Who is the sinner? Someone. Not me? Him. Him inside me. Us? Together. God sees. Hell sees. Inside me? Am I hell? Are we?

If I am me, then who is he?

If I am him, where am I?

Am I in the words? Or in the silence?

“Do not trust him.”

A message. I hear it. He’s speaking? Silent?

I speak. I’m silent.

Maybe… maybe “do not trust him” is meant for me.

Am I my own betrayer?

The Truth

Maria! The only safe place. I crawl. A door. One last time: “Maria!!”

She opens it and pulls me inside. She holds me on her lap, stroking me gently.

I barely lift my arms and tear my shirt apart at the chest.

Her worry.

She sees! She knows! She’ll explain everything!

But I can’t hear her.

Her tearful eyes hold despair that reeks of the past.

“I never told you…” her voice cracks, “...but I know what this is. My father… he was just like you. And I tried to save him, too. Until I realized no one can save anyone.”

She falls silent. Her hands rest on my chest, still and cold.

“I won’t let you drag me down with you,” she whispers, and for the first time, I see her looking at me as though I am a threat.

She says, “I found you in front of the mirror…” her eyes brimming with pain. “This isn’t you.”

I don’t know what to say.

Who am I, if not what she sees?

Her words spill like a sentence:

“You took a large needle… and marked yourself.”

She says she’s always been running. From his insults, his humiliation, his beating. Him again! Him!

Who is he?

“When you’re not you… he becomes real… in the black voids…”

What is she saying?

“He hurts… he takes over… he’s daddy’s son… he’s worthless… he torments you…”

“Do not trust him.”

Him to me? Or me to him? Or her…

“You lying whore!” I scream.

“Lying filth!”

A lie!

I am one!

They all lie!

And I’ll fix it! This broken world!

Her words: "Do not trust him.”

Her breath merges with mine—whose is it?

Who is “him”?

Me? Or the other me, the one in the mirror raising his hand, holding something in it?

An ashtray, a dull thud, blonde hair on the floor, a scream—only one. A hit—only seven.

Her eyes look at me, but they’re not the same. Something is different. As though she doesn’t see me.

Or sees too much.

My hands. I recognize them now.

My hands are red. Blood? What blood?

It’s just the red light from the street.

The silence fills the room. But not real silence.

Maria is still here.

I see her in the window, with a red strand in her blonde hair. She’s smiling, but her smile is frozen in time.

She says: “Thank you.” Yes, she said: “Thank you.”

I glance back at the floor. A strand of blonde hair. No, it’s just a streak of moonlight on the faded rug.

Her wide, unmoving eyes still watch me.

Or are they just two stains resembling eyes?

She whispers as I stare at my reflection, entirely new now.

The voice in my head, now completely mine, speaks clearly and calmly:

“I am finally one. And I’m am free.”

As I slowly leave the room, the words “Do not trust him” no longer appear in my reflection in the mirror.

It is good that I did not trust him.