Diary Of A Mad Man

Fragments Of Yesterday

The early morning sunlight seeped through the thin curtains, casting faint shadows across the room. Mikhail sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floor. His mind, still tangled in the confusion of his regression, had barely had time to process everything, but then the voice cut through the haze.

"Mikhail!"

He blinked, snapping back to the present. It was Aaliyah—his sister. The realization hit him like a wave, almost knocking him over. He had a sister. Aaliyah. He hadn’t thought about her in what felt like forever. And then there was Malik, his younger brother, who’d gone off to his lessons earlier.

"Mikhail, come on! I need your help!" Aaliyah's voice was impatient now.

He sighed, standing up. "Coming," he muttered, his feet dragging as he walked toward the living area.

Aaliyah was seated at the table, her long, straight hair falling over her shoulders. She was holding a hairbrush in one hand, staring at him with an expression of mild annoyance. "You’re acting weird," she said bluntly.

Mikhail froze. He’d been trying so hard to maintain some semblance of normality, but she was right. He didn’t know how to explain this—this life, this feeling of being stuck between two worlds, one where he was a child and another where he was an adult.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice almost too soft.

"You’re always like this lately," Aaliyah replied, arching an eyebrow. "It’s like you’re here, but not really here."

Mikhail turned away, looking at the floor. She was right, of course. In this strange, fractured state, he couldn’t keep track of anything, let alone the people in his life. "I’m just tired," he said, the lie slipping easily from his lips.

She shook her head. "Whatever. I’m going to get my hair done today. You know how long that takes." She stood up and grabbed her bag. "Malik's at his lessons, right?"

"Yeah," Mikhail answered, his mind racing.

Aaliyah gave him a half-smile. "Okay, well, I’ll see you later."

As the door closed behind her, Mikhail’s mind spiraled back to memories that were too painful to face. He hadn’t thought about school in years, but now, with the familiarity of his sister’s voice ringing in his ears, it came crashing back. School. Monday mornings. The old routine. He would go to class, not the smartest kid, never the brightest. His teachers had always called him a late bloomer, but they didn’t know the real reason. They didn’t know the weight of his own mind, the constant pressure that crushed him from the inside.

The shame of not being good enough, the frustration of not being able to keep up with his peers—it had all built up over time. It wasn’t until much later that he realized how much it had hurt him. The late nights, the feeling of being inadequate, the constant self-doubt. He had always been playing catch-up, always feeling like he was failing.

It hurt. The pain of those years when he thought he was just weak—it lingered, even now.

"Maybe I could’ve done something different," he whispered to himself, his voice raw. "Maybe I could’ve tried harder." But there was no point in thinking that now. He couldn’t change what had already been.

Shaking his head, Mikhail walked over to the window. The slums stretched out before him, a never-ending sea of noise and chaos. His mother… He remembered her now, too. She wasn’t bad, not really. She had done what she could, but she had her own burdens, her own struggles that Mikhail had never fully understood. Still, he knew deep down, she was one of the reasons he’d fallen into depression. The tension in their home had been a constant presence, gnawing at him until it overwhelmed him.

He clenched his fists, fighting the memories that threatened to drown him. He wouldn’t dwell on them. Not now. Not yet.

His father was away, traveling for work, but would be back next week. The thought of his return didn’t bring comfort—it only reminded Mikhail of the gaping void his absence had left behind.

He needed to figure out what to do. What had he learned from this second chance? Time played tricks on him, and he knew he couldn’t afford to waste it. He couldn’t keep running from his past—he had to confront it, face it, and change it.