Psychological
Human Bacon. Content Warning.
He came to this country on a whim. He was lazy and expected everything to fall into his lap, but it didn't really. Still he had a small flat in a reasonable area, but his savings were fast running out, and landlords were not prone to wait an indefinite time for their rent.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred 6 months ago in Fiction
The Well of Secrets
I. The Village of Mirabad The village of Mirabad had no secrets — or so the elders claimed. Nestled between two hills like a sleeping child between its parents' arms, it was the kind of place where the smell of bread from one household drifted to another, where every birth was celebrated by the whole street, and every death was mourned by every soul who could walk to the graveyard. People believed that here, under the open sky, nothing could stay tv hidden for long. But there was the well. It stood at the very center of the village square, older than anyone could remember. The stone walls were dark with age, the rope that hung over it had been replaced a hundred times, and the water that rose from its depths was the coldest, clearest water in the entire valley. Children drank from it. Women washed vegetables beside it. Old men sat on its edge and told stories that had no endings. Everyone used the well. But no one — not even the oldest elder — knew how deep it truly went. It was beside this well that the trouble began, on the last Tuesday of October, when the body of Tariq the miller was found. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ II. The Morning After Rukhsana was the one who found him. She had come before dawn, as she always did, to draw water before her mother-in-law woke and demanded tea. The lantern in her hand threw a pale circle of light onto the cobblestones — and there he was, Tariq, slumped against the base of the well, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. She did not scream. Rukhsana had grown up in this village and she had seen death before — her father, a drought that killed their crops and then their animals, two children buried before they could learn to speak. She set down her lantern. She pressed two fingers to Tariq's neck. Cold. Long gone. Then she noticed something. His right hand was clenched tight around a piece of cloth — torn, dark blue, the kind of fabric the wealthy men of the village wore. Rukhsana stared at it for a long moment. Then she looked up, into the dark mouths of the houses surrounding the square, the shuttered windows, the closed doors. She felt the village watching her, even in its sleep. She left the cloth where it was and went to wake the headman. "In a village this small, a secret is not something you keep. It is something you bury — and pray the rains do not come." III. The Questions Begin By midmorning, the square was full. The headman, old Bismillah Khan, sat on a wooden chair that had been brought out from his house, and one by one the men of the village came to stand before him. The women watched from a distance, gathered in tight clusters, their voices low. The constable from the district town had been sent for, but the road was muddy from the night's rain and it would be hours before he arrived. In the meantime, Bismillah Khan asked the questions himself. Who had seen Tariq last? His wife, Zainab, said he had left after the evening prayer, saying he needed to check on his mill wheel. He had not returned. She had assumed he stayed there, as he sometimes did when the work ran long. She had gone to sleep. Who had been in the square after dark? No one admitted to it. And the cloth in Tariq's hand? Bismillah Khan held it up. The crowd went very quiet. It was good fabric, fine weave, the colour of deep water. Several eyes shifted — briefly, involuntarily — toward the house of Saleem the merchant, the richest man in Mirabad, whose long coat was made of exactly that kind of cloth. Saleem stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, his face as smooth and unreadable as river stone. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ IV. What Rukhsana Knew It was Rukhsana who held the real secret, though she had not yet decided what to do with it. Three weeks ago, she had been drawing water late at night — her mother-in-law had been feverish, and she needed water for the medicine. The square had been empty, the village asleep. But as she pulled up the bucket, she had heard voices from the alley beside the merchant's storehouse. Tariq's voice and another — hushed, urgent, arguing. She had caught only fragments. "You promised. The land was to be mine—" "Keep your voice down. Things have changed." "I have the papers. I have proof of what you did." Then silence, and footsteps fading, and she had gone home and told herself it was none of her business. Village men argued about land constantly. It meant nothing. Now Tariq was dead and Rukhsana stood in the crowd with the weight of those words pressing against her ribs like a stone. She looked at Saleem. He was already looking at her. Their eyes met for just a second — and in that second, something passed between them. An acknowledgment. A warning. Rukhsana looked away first. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ V. The Well Gives Nothing Back That afternoon, one of the boys threw a stone into the well to measure its depth. They waited for the sound. And waited. And waited. There was no splash. The boys went pale and ran home and told their mothers, who told their husbands, and by evening everyone in Mirabad was talking about the well — about how deep it truly was, what was really at the bottom, whether it had always been so silent or whether something had changed. The constable arrived at dusk, a tired young man with mud on his boots and no patience for village superstitions. He examined Tariq's body, took the cloth as evidence, wrote in his notebook, and told Bismillah Khan that the cause of death appeared to be a blow to the back of the head. Murder. He would return in three days with an investigator from the city. Three days. The village settled into an uneasy silence. That night, Rukhsana lay awake listening to her mother-in-law snore. She thought about Tariq's wife, Zainab, who had wept all afternoon with a grief that looked genuine. She thought about the papers Tariq had mentioned — proof of what Saleem had done. Where were those papers now? Had Saleem found them? Had he been searching Tariq's mill, even now, in the dark? She rose before her husband could stir, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out into the night. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ VI. The Mill The mill sat at the edge of the village where the stream ran fast over smooth rocks. The door was ajar. Rukhsana pushed it open and stepped inside. A figure was already there, crouched by the far wall, holding a lantern. He stood when he heard her — and the light fell on his face. It was not Saleem. It was Zainab. Tariq's wife looked at Rukhsana with red, swollen eyes and clutched something to her chest — a folded bundle of papers, tied with string. "I knew he kept them here," Zainab said. Her voice was very calm, in the way that voices go calm when all the fear has already passed through them. "He told me once, when he was drunk. He said: if anything ever happens to me, go to the loose stone behind the millstone. He knew this day might come." Rukhsana stepped forward. "Are those—" "Land records. Forged signatures. Saleem has been stealing land from the families of this village for fifteen years. Tariq found out six months ago. He was going to give these to the investigator from the city." Zainab's jaw tightened. "He waited too long." Outside, the stream rushed over its stones. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked twice and went quiet. "What will you do?" Rukhsana asked. Zainab looked down at the papers. Then she looked up, and in her eyes was something that Rukhsana recognized — the look of a woman who has nothing left to lose and has therefore become the most dangerous kind of person in the world. "I will not wait," Zainab said. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ Epilogue When the investigator arrived from the city three days later, Zainab was waiting for him at the entrance to Mirabad, the papers in her hands. Saleem the merchant was arrested before the afternoon prayer. The stolen land was the subject of a case that would take two years to resolve but would, in the end, return what had been taken. No one ever determined exactly how deep the old well was. But the morning after Saleem was taken away, the boys threw another stone into it — and this time, faint and far below, there was a sound. Small. Distant. Real. A splash. The village of Mirabad breathed again. — The End —
By Ikram Ullah6 months ago in Fiction
I Smiled in Front of Everyone… But I Was Breaking Inside.
Write by Matiullah If you had seen me back then, you would’ve thought I was fine. I smiled in conversations. I laughed at jokes. I showed up where I was supposed to be. On the outside, I looked like someone who had things under control. And maybe that’s why no one noticed. Because the truth is, the better you become at hiding your pain… the less people see it. The Silence Behind the Noise There were moments when I was surrounded by people, yet felt completely alone. Voices filled the room. Laughter echoed around me. But inside my mind, there was only silence—heavy, suffocating silence. I wasn’t physically alone. But emotionally… I was somewhere far away. And I didn’t know how to explain that to anyone. When Pretending Became a Habit At first, the smile was a choice. I didn’t want to worry anyone. I didn’t want to seem weak. So I told myself, “Just act normal. It will pass.” But days turned into weeks. And weeks turned into something deeper. Smiling stopped being a choice—it became a habit. A mask I wore without thinking. Even on days when I felt completely drained, I still smiled. Not because I was okay… But because I didn’t know how to be anything else. The Weight No One Could See Pain isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Invisible. Hidden behind small, ordinary moments. It’s in the way you lose interest in things you once enjoyed. It’s in the way your energy disappears without reason. It’s in the constant feeling that something is wrong—but you can’t explain what. I carried that weight every day. And the hardest part? No one could see it. The Fear of Being Understood There were times I wanted to talk. Moments when I felt like I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But every time I thought about opening up, something stopped me. “What if they don’t understand?” “What if they think I’m overreacting?” “What if I become a burden?” So I stayed quiet. Because silence felt safer than being misunderstood. Breaking Without Falling Apart The strange thing about breaking inside is… you don’t always fall apart on the outside. Life continues. You still wake up. You still go through your routine. You still respond when someone talks to you. But inside, something is slowly collapsing. Piece by piece. And no one notices—because you’re still functioning. The Moment I Faced the Truth One night, everything felt heavier than usual. There was no distraction, no noise—just me and my thoughts. And for the first time, I stopped running from them. I asked myself a simple question: “Why am I pretending I’m okay?” That question hit harder than anything else. Because I didn’t have an answer. Letting the Mask Slip I didn’t suddenly fix everything that night. But something changed. I stopped forcing myself to act okay all the time. I allowed myself to feel what I had been ignoring. I admitted—to myself—that I wasn’t fine. And strangely, that honesty felt like relief. Not happiness. But relief. Learning to Be Real Again Healing didn’t happen overnight. There were still difficult days. Moments of doubt. Times when I slipped back into old habits. But I started doing things differently. I stopped trying to impress everyone. I stopped pretending to be strong all the time. I stopped comparing my life to others. And slowly, I started feeling… lighter. Not perfect. Not completely healed. But real. What I Realized Too Late Looking back, I understand something I didn’t before: Smiling doesn’t always mean someone is okay. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. Sometimes, the people who look the happiest… are the ones hiding the most. And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is not to hide—but to admit the truth. If You Feel This Way Too If you’re reading this and it feels familiar… If you’re smiling in front of people while struggling inside… I want you to know this: You don’t have to keep pretending. You don’t have to carry everything alone. It’s okay to not be okay. Final Thoughts I still smile. But now, it’s different. Now, it’s not a mask. It’s real. Because I’m no longer hiding from what I feel. And that changed everything. Did you like this feature?
By Matiullah k6 months ago in Fiction
Saltwater
He put the boat in at five in the morning, same as always. His son had loved this part. He used to stand at the stern and watch the wake close up behind them as they moved out from the dock, as if he were memorizing the way the town looked from out here. He had not understood what he was memorizing or why. He understood it better now.
By Justin Buzzard6 months ago in Fiction
Adolf Hitler Eternal Therapy Session 669
Lucifer Morningstar sits behind a black mahogany desk, typing away in a sleek grey Google Chromebook. He has moon-shaped spectacles over his red eyes, the blacks of his stained white with exhaustion. A large counter over his head continuously ticks up in number to larger and larger numbers.
By Hope Martin6 months ago in Fiction
Here comes the Sun
What can go wrong? They always look after us. They create rules and systems that work for us, that are meant to protect us. Our only task is to obey those in positions of power. They said to remain inside, to get as much food as we can in the pantry; no one will be out, no shops will be open.
By Susan Fourtané 6 months ago in Fiction
The Train That Never Stops. AI-Generated.
The train arrived at exactly 2:17 a.m. Ethan checked his watch twice, rubbing his eyes as if sleep deprivation had started playing tricks on him. The station was abandoned—no announcements, no flickering signboards, not even a stray dog. Just silence wrapped in fog.
By Waleed khan6 months ago in Fiction
VOID. Content Warning.
What if everything you know exists inside a boundary you cannot see? Not a wall. Not a limit you can touch. But a condition. An invisible frame that defines what is real, what is possible, and what is allowed to be understood.What if?
By Kelly Munala Brookes7 months ago in Fiction
The Confession Booth
The father had been hearing confessions for twenty-two years and had learned to hold them loosely. You took in what people offered, you offered back what you could, and you let the weight of it pass through you rather than settle. It was the only way to stay standing.
By Justin Buzzard7 months ago in Fiction
