At night, I burn.

This short has won the Jury Special price of the Short novel Contest organized by L’atelier d’écriture by Christine©. The theme was “No complacency”.

This is a fictional story, any resemblance to real and actual persons is purely coincidental.

Sitting on the plastic chair, I look around me. The walls are ugly, faded, tired, as if they know too much. My stomach is tied in knots.

It took all my courage to come here, to accept saying out loud what devours me in whispers. Those low voices that hate me to the point of killing me from within. Next to me, I feel my father fidgeting. I know he would like to hold my hand, or place his on my shoulder, to reassure me. But he’s stuck, shy. So, he fidgets.

“Anne Akowski?”

A brunette, barely in her forties, with large round glasses perched on the tip of her nose, peers through the door and scans the waiting room. I stand up, my legs trembling. I am terrified. I’m scared to speak, scared to admit, scared of being judged. I’m afraid to lift the veil on years of a hidden existence, to open the closet and discover more skeletons than I had imagined.

Entering the consultation room, the psychologist signs me to take a seat in the yellow chair facing her’s, violet, in which she sits. The combination is ugly, but I don’t say anything. Around me, there are flowers, photos, tissue boxes, and diplomas hanging on the walls. It was my father who found her. He did some research, read articles, and discovered this woman’s work with people in my condition. It wasn’t easy to get an appointment; there was a waiting list. Apparently, there aren’t many like her.

This is my third time in this office. The first two were marked by long silences and a mechanical refusal on my part. I couldn’t find my words, couldn’t construct my sentences, let alone say them. I was blocked, stuck on the yellow chair, with a woman sitting in front of me who patiently waited. I managed to utter some trivialities: my name, my age, my school history. But the keywords, the reasons that brought me here, remained sealed. I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t.

I wanted to give up, every time. But my father, this brave man who knew my secret, continued to believe that I would succeed. He believed in me. I had difficulty accepting the idea that someone could support me—not because I didn’t need it, but because I didn’t think I deserved it. However, I was determined never to disappoint him again.

On the therapist’s advice, this time I came prepared : I had a very long letter to read to her, to finally say the words that burned my tongue.

“Are you ready?” she asks me.

The answer is no, of course. The real question would be: are we ever ready to say such things? Perhaps with more maturity. But I haven’t even reached my twenties yet; I’ve never step foot outside, and I’m terrified. Terrified of the world and the society living in it. Terrified of the judgment of others, terrified of my own abilities, which I completely ignore because I’ve always tried to smother them. But here we are, on a Wednesday afternoon, my guilt inked in blue on grid paper, ready to be proclaimed, laid bare.

With trembling hands, I unfold the torn sheets of my notebook and clear my throat. My cheeks burn; I’m very hot. In my head, I imagine a heavy velvet curtain rising to reveal, on an empty stage, this frightened young girl preparing to recite her monologue.

“I got my period when I was fifteen. It doesn’t have much to do with it, but I remember that everything started to go off track after that period. I was leaving middle school and entering high school. All the girls talked about boys, pop icons, or older guys they had a crush on. Some quieter girls were eyeing other girls without saying anything, fearing ridicule. And I was somewhere in between, without any desire for anyone. At least, no one from our school. I could see that I was different, but I couldn’t understand how or why. I tried to be interested in those teenagers on MTV with a lock and a physique devoid of hair, sculpted in marble.

But personally, I was stuck on another kind of hairless. I thought it was just a phase and chose to ignore it. I focused on my drawings and my grades, trying to escape from this nightmare without repeating a year. I didn’t like high school very much. I had no friends there, and all I wanted was to leave forever.

When I turned eighteen, a friend of my father, who worked at the community recreation center, asked me if I wanted to earn some pocket money and offered me a job in the center’s cafeteria. I accepted, and that’s when I realized that what I had stifled barely a year earlier would someday explode in my face.

I spent my days mopping the floor and serving food to kids, then washing the dishes after the meal. I saw few people, except when the horde arrived for lunch. With my ladle, I looked like a caricature of a cafeteria lady. I was always in a bad mood; I didn’t care much about the job; I saw it as a financial gain. And then one day, she handed me her plate and looked at me with eyes that made my heart skip a beat.

She said, ‘Can I have some more, please?’ in that endearing little voice that made me melt with love. I served her without a word, transfixed. I watched her walk away, forgetting to serve the others, my eyes glued to her back, hanging on her smile.

The following days were just a repeat of that first meeting, and she settled into a corner of my heart, clinging to the walls of my brain, melting into my soul. I was in love. I was so in love. I wanted to give her all the leftovers from the cafeteria, add some chocolate, chewing gum, and everything that could have pleased her.”

My voice breaks at the memory. I feel the tears coming, bite my lip. I have to continue. The sound of the pen sliding on the therapist’s notebook reaches me from afar, and I feel like I’m not really here anymore. I’m in my memories, in my pain, struggling with my burden.

“After a week, I dreamed of her every night. I thought of her every day. I hardly ate anymore. I wanted to hold her slender body against me, feel her hair, kiss her hands. I didn’t wait to do something wrong to realize that it was bad and that I should never have had such thoughts. I got scared and quit the center. One morning, I called them and told them I was resigning without giving any reason.

By not going to the center anymore, I thought her memory would fade away, and I would get back to my normal life. But the dreams continued. Worse yet, because of her absence, they intensified. The pure and unconditional love I had for her turned into a burning, oppressive desire. I was obsessed. I woke up at night, unable to fall back asleep. So, I took out my charcoal pencils and started drawing. I drew her portrait, her curves, her figure. Then I changed her features so she wouldn’t exist anymore.

I spent the end of the summer alone at home, not seeing anyone, overwhelmed by shame. In the fall, I started preparatory school. But it was right in the city center, surrounded by schools, universities. Overflowing with life. There were too many people, too many possibilities, and I developed a fear of falling in love again. So, I left and decided to take an online course, from home, safe.

Insomnia became almost daily. I drew faces, curves. Always with the same intensity, always with the same shame, the same helplessness in the face of the violence of my desires. I wanted to scratch, tear, burn the drawings, but I couldn’t. So, I hid them under my bed.”

Now, I’m franckly crying. Memories bring me back to these suppressed, denigrated emotions, and I remain stunned as the salty tears flowing from my eyes land on the pages of my letter. I can’t continue reading; my constricted throat won’t let any sound out. Faced with my paralysis, the therapist puts down her pen and says gently:

“It’s already a significant effort you’ve made today, Anne. Let’s continue at the next session, alright?”

I nod, embarrassed, my eyes fixed on my sneakers, the crumpled letter in my hand. She escorts me to the door, where my father is waiting to take me home. He gives me a questioning look, not daring to ask this “Are you okay?” burning on his lips. I shrug. It’s me who doesn’t dare to tell him things aren’t okay.

***

In the car, silence is heavy, but I’m grateful to my father for not saying anything. It is as if we both know where the other stands with their concerns. Though terrified by my own self, within my father’s presence, I feel like that protected child again. Time is a foreign concept within our cocoon, and I find a semblance of peace, enough to drift off to sleep against the window.

The next appointment is in two days. In the meantime, I continue to be the prisoner within my fortress, where I cloistered myself two years ago. I carry on with my drawings; I endure my nightmares. Except this time, when I wake up, I call my father through the baby monitor. I know it’s foolish, at twenty, to have a baby monitor in my room. But after my visit to the emergency room, he made me promise to call him every time I felt like hurting myself. So, I comply. Not always, but as often as possible, when the battle between good and evil, for once, tilts toward redemption.

***

“Where were we?

• I was about to tell you when I started to… uh…”

I’m getting tired of not being able to speak. Usually, censorship comes from others; we don’t speak because we’re forbidden. But I want to talk; I want to scream; I want to break free from this curse, and it is within me that my voice is denied. It’s not fair. Damn, it’s not fair!

This surge of rebellion gives me the courage to finally speak things as they are, without holding back.

“When I began to hurt myself.”

The therapist raises an eyebrow, and her pen resumes its dance. I clutch my scrap of paper and clear my throat.

“One night, the nightmare went too far. It wasn’t just a face, a smile, a blurry image in my twisted mind anymore. It was an obscene, erotic, unhealthy, yet pleasurable scene. I felt pulses in my organs, between my legs. I felt my cheeks flush, and an ardent desire for it not to stop. My nightmare was more real than reality, and I was the main actress. I touched, caressed the other, and felt everything. I woke up because of the sensation of pleasure that exploded within me, traveled up my spine, leaving me trembling and sweaty in the middle of the night. I hadn’t even touched myself. My brain alone had operated, and I found myself complice of its crime. After the ecstasy passed, disgust consumed me, mixing with the despair of knowing I was this awful person. It was that night that I found the lighter. I had forgotten I bought it, maybe to light candles. It was there, innocently on my desk. Without thinking, I grabbed it, driven by the urge to exorcise my thoughts. I didn’t exactly know what I wanted to do with it, but soon enough, the flickering flame before my eyes mesmerized me, and I calmed down. With cold methodicalness, I lowered my pajama pants and moved the flame toward the source of my shame. I let the heat burn my pubic hair, then my skin. I gritted my teeth, determined to punish my dark side, to purify my soul.”

The therapist takes notes, and I stay silent to give her time. She then raises her gaze to me, her glasses slipping down her nose.

“Did it work? Did you feel purified?”

“Yes. And no. It became an addiction. Every time I had a nightmare, I would burn myself.”

She nods, takes notes, and signs me to continue. I comply. This time, reading seems easier, smoother. It’s as if, one by one, I’m unlocking my inner barriers.

“One day, about a year after the incident at the community center, I went outside for some fresh air. There’s a park near the house where I usually go for walks. Often, I sit on a bench and gaze at the lake, the people walking their dogs. That day, my father joined me, eyebrows furrowed. Since my mother’s gone, ‘worried’ is the only word to describe the expression on his face. I know I didn’t make his life easy, a silent, troubled, reclusive teenager locked in a room too small when I should have been out there exploring the world, having adventures, falling in love. But I didn’t want to risk tasting freedom. Who knows what I might have been capable of? One drink too many, an adrenaline rush, and I could destroy someone’s life with a snap of my fingers. I didn’t want to be that person. I wanted to be as harmless as a sedated cat.

Maybe he thought I had drug or alcohol problems. I would have preferred that reality. The world can show empathy toward those suffering from addictions. It can’t for people like me.

• ‘People like you?’ the therapist interrupts. I nod.

‘What do you mean, people like you?’

There’s a long silence during which I can’t bring myself to answer her question directly. She waits patiently but realizes she won’t get any more.

‘You know, even though groupthink shows a society completely impervious to empathy for “people like you,” I think it’s important for you to remember that individually, each person has a different level of compassion for others. Your father is a perfect example. My profession as well. Don’t take intolerance for granted.’

And thus, she concludes the session.

Passing through the door of the office, I find my father. As always, he waits for me, loyal to his post, with a wrinkle between his brows as his only companion. He looks at me, waits for a sign, hopes. And me, I shrug, my gaze fixed on the ground.

***

In the car, I fall asleep again, until he parks in front of the house. He looks at me and says:

“Julia and Marie are back from vacation, are you okay?”

I reply that I am. Since the emergency room episode, Julia leaves me alone, and I carefully avoid forming any connection with Marie. It’s not to be mean; it’s just… easier this way. Generally, I only share dinner with them, during which my father makes an effort to engage in conversation with Julia, so as not to let a heavy silence hang over the table. I don’t know what he’s told her. I don’t want to know.

***

Yellow armchair, dancing pen, crumpled paper. Here I am, on the edge of the precipice, declaiming my truth, my voice growing stronger to fight the storm of my emotions. Determination gradually seeps into my heart, and with each word, I assert myself a little more.

Today, I pick up the thread of the story where the therapist had interrupted me.

“I was sitting on that bench, looking at the lake when my father arrived. I could feel the apprehension oozing from him, as if he were afraid of me. It made me sad, but I understood that by locking myself away from him, I had worn down our once-strong bonds.

He sat down beside me and announced that he wished to move in with the woman he had been seeing for over eight months. It wouldn’t have bothered me that much if Julia didn’t have a little girl, Marie.

At the news, my blood ran cold. I froze as a warm sensation crept up to my head, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t feel my legs, they were tingling. Then I got extremely cold below and very hot above. My mouth was dry, my eyes fixed on a pebble on the ground. I felt anxiety engulfing me as I desperately commanded my brain to hold its ground, to build a barrier, not to succumb. I knew that if anxiety won, I would make a scene, right there in the middle of the park.

In nineteen years of living together, he had never seen a single crisis. Of all my quirks, I had managed to spare him that one, and I didn’t intend to stop now.

I had nothing against Julia and her daughter. Julia is a straightforward and dynamic woman, the kind who doesn’t back down easily. She’s a lawyer, you see. She had always been nice to me, for the few times I had seen her. But on that day, it felt like my father had let the wolf into my sheepfold. Because Julia had shared custody of Marie, and for heaven’s sake, where were they going to put her?

He told me they were going to turn his office into a bedroom, that it wouldn’t change anything for me, and that I had nothing to worry about, as Marie would only be there every other week. I felt like he was almost apologizing, and it broke my heart. I didn’t want to be his tormentor when he had been my guardian angel.

I swallowed my anxieties and simply replied, ‘That’s great, Dad.'”

The therapist interrupts me:

“Is your father divorced?”

“No, widowed. I think. My mother disappeared overnight.”

I see a perplexed expression on her face and an epiphanic spark in her eyes.

“How old were you?”

“Six or seven, I think. It’s a bit blurry.”

Her note-taking becomes frantic, like a fisherman bustling around a wriggling rod. I’m not sure what she thinks she’ll find in this information, but from my perspective, it’s slightly overrated.

“Do you miss her?”

“Not so much. I mean, I didn’t really know her personality. I just wonder why she left.”

“Your father hasn’t told you anything?”

“My father never talks about her.”

It feels like her eyebrows are about to detach from her forehead now, as she completes another page of notes. I sense her desire to inquire further, but a glance towards my unfinished letter dissuades her, and I resume my reading:

“The following Sunday, Julia and Marie moved in with us. Julia had rented a van. Just a van to contain the entire life of a six-year-old girl and her mother seemed rather minimal to me, yet it was their reality. My father had told me that Julia had sold nearly all of her furniture and appliances since we had everything here, but I still found it somewhat sad that everything fit into ten cubic meters. From my bedroom window, I watched my father begin to unload, telling myself I should go down and help. But on that day, discouraged by the events, I felt capable of nothing more than crawling under the blankets.

For several weeks, I only showed up at dinner, locking myself in my room the rest of the time. I would make excuses about exams, unfinished canvases. I repeated endlessly that this online course, though remote, was very demanding, and I had projects due almost every week.

The truth is, my obsession was becoming increasingly invasive, and I compulsively drew on large sheets of paper, my fingers stained with charcoal.

Sometimes, I would hear my father coming up the stairs with heavy steps, and I would hastily hide the drawings under my bed, afraid he would knock on my door. I know it’s silly because my father never disturbed me. I think he had given up on the psychological approach of ‘I’m your friend’ and settled for ‘as long as you stay alive, I’ll leave you alone.’ This was an act of faith on his part, that I wasn’t sure I would make for myself. I was as silent as possible, listened to music on my headphones, tiptoed around. I wanted to be forgotten. Because if people forgot I was there, maybe I would do too.

After the girls moved in, I started using the lighter more and more often, obsessed with the fact that my demons were now freely roaming under my roof. I realized I had crossed a point of no return when I started using it in broad daylight, without the excuse of insomnia. I let the flame burn longer and closer to my skin, hypnotized by the pain. Tears flowed, and it felt like they were cleansing me.”

I lift my eyes from my rubbish and look at the therapist, who is no longer writing. She observes me with sad eyes, and I feel that she understands. For the first time, I don’t cry, and in front of her, my shame slowly gives way to relief. She asks me:

“Have you ever dreamt about Marie?”

“No, never,” I reply.

She nods, takes notes, and checks her watch.

“Do you want to continue reading a bit more?”

Yes, I want to read. I want to speak, to confess. I want the relief to stay. I pick up my papers and continue:

“One evening during dinner, Julia bluntly asked me if I had ever been to a gynecologist. Marie asked, ‘What’s a gynecologist?’ and I froze, my arm halfway between my plate and my mouth. I still don’t know today, if she did it to provoke me or in the hope of, someday creating some connection with me. It took me a moment to respond with a small, hoarse, and frightened ‘no,’ and she pounced on my answer like the ten plagues on Egypt.

She said, ‘Oh, if you need to, I can go with you. After all, almost twenty years, it would be time…’ Something like that. I remember very well that I got up, head bowed, crimson. I said ‘no, thanks,’ and left hurriedly, slamming the door to my room like a rebellious teenager. I hated myself for reacting so angrily. I didn’t want to hurt her, but no one, ever, should see the state of my private parts.”

“Except you ended up in the emergency room,” the therapist adds.

I nod again.

“Yes. A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating. No nightmare this time, but a sharp pain between my legs. It burned. I lowered my pants and noticed that the area was swollen. My first reflex was to get some ice. My second reflex was to imagine the worst. If it didn’t go away, I would have to see a doctor. If I saw a doctor, they would… see. I also thought I could let this thing fester, and maybe it would kill me. But I knew my father would handle it before that happen. I had decided to see a doctor without telling anyone, if the ice wasn’t enough. And, of course, it wasn’t. Worse, the pain had spread to the lower part of my abdomen, and I was doubled over in pain, curled up in my bed. In the morning, I couldn’t get up; I had a fever, and most importantly, I was in pain. It felt like my bladder was being slashed with blades, so I reluctantly called my father for help. He rushed in, panicked. I told him I was in extreme pain and that he needed to take me to the emergency room. He carried me to the car, and we both left.”

“Once there, the doctor who examined me saw, but didn’t say anything. She gave me a battery of tests, creams, antibiotics. She walked me to the doors of the emergency room and took the opportunity to speak to my father. I don’t know exactly what she told him, but it was enough for him to search my room as soon as we got home, while I napped on the couch, exhausted. That’s how he found the drawings. That’s how I ended up here.”

I raise my eyes from my sheet and observe a long silence. The therapist doesn’t say anything; she finishes noting something. After a while, she asks:

“Can you please tell me what these drawings are?”

I swallow hard. All my newfound confidence vanishes as I sense the moment approaching. Holding the letter in my hands, I no longer have anything to hide behind.

“Children,” I reply.

“Little girls?” she asks gently.

I nod. Little girls. Pure, innocent, elevated to the rank of angels in my twisted mind.

“You said you felt love for them, didn’t you?”

I nod again.

“I don’t want to harm anyone. I’ve never done anything. Not even porn, I swear. Nothing.”

She tilts her head to the side, and I can see in her eyes a genuine compassion. It makes my stomach ache.

“That’s why you hurt yourself?” she inquires.

“I had to punish myself! To heal myself, to… I was helpless, I didn’t know how to stop these thoughts! I… I just wanted them to stop. I just want to be normal.”

My voice, initially high-pitched due to panic, breaks on that last word. “Normal.” What a chimera, what a fantasy.

She nods, as if she understood exactly what I was talking about. She adjusts her glasses and looks me straight in the eyes to make sure that what she’s about to say sinks into my soul:

“This is why we are in this office. Pedophilia is not a choice; it’s a condition imposed on you by nature. That doesn’t deprive you of the right to live, Anne. Perhaps you are the result of a trauma that your brain walled off to protect you from harm. There are many hypotheses, but there’s one thing you must hear for yourself: you are not responsible for what you are, only for what you choose to do. I hear in your speech a suffering that demonstrates your understanding of right and wrong, and you choose the right path. It’s my duty here to accompany you on this journey. You are not alone. You haven’t harmed anyone but yourself. You are not a criminal; you are a suffering teenager. To move forward, you absolutely must understand that your life has the same value as any other.”

I cry silently in the ugly yellow chair as this woman, who has been listening to me for weeks, finally puts words to the gaze I’ve dreaded for years. The gaze of others. I know she’s a therapist and just doing her job. But for the first time, I see a tiny glimmer at the end of the very long and very dark tunnel I’ve been walking through for far too long.

As I leave the room that day, my father asks the question that haunts him every time:

“Are you okay?”

“No,” I reply. “But I’m working on it.”