The Courage to Feel
We each have our own way of dealing with the unknown. [Short Story]
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou
For Professor Miedo Santos, this quote encapsulated the silent anguish that had defined his life. He had borne the unspoken pain of his past for so long, it had become part of him — like a gaping wound grown so familiar it almost felt warm and safe.
This story, intro and title were written by Claude 2 (Sep 3, 2023).
Miedo awoke gasping, Nadia’s anguished cries echoing in his mind. The nightmare always ended the same — his sister gone, the doctors’ voices fading…leukemia…no hope.
Heart pounding, Miedo lay still in the darkness trying to shake off the images. Sleep evaded him now, as it often did at this early hour.
With a resigned sigh, he shuffled to the kitchen in the pre-dawn quiet. Going through the motions soothed him — water boiling, steeping tea, watching the steam rise and dissipate.
Alone in the dim room, Miedo’s thoughts spiraled back to Nadia’s loss, his parent’s withdrawal. Life had only taken from him.
The tea scalded his tongue, jolting him from the memories. With deliberate care, he washed his cup and prepared for the day of lectures ahead. Shower, dress, quick breakfast — the routine kept his mind occupied, focused outward.
Soon he was out the door into the bustle of early commuters. Miedo preferred moving through the crowds anonymously, eyes averted. The world was safer when he kept it at a distance.
At the university, Miedo tried to ignore the carefree sound of students as he crossed the bustling quad. He focused only on reaching the safety of his office, his books, his work — familiar pillars that kept his mind from wandering into the darkness of his past.
Miedo’s lecture on Kafka began promptly at 9am. He entered the packed auditorium right on time, striding briskly to the front as the last students trickled in. Miedo kept his eyes down, avoiding making contact with the sea of faces before him.
He turned to the blackboard and wrote in crisp letters — Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis. As he began speaking in a steady, scholarly tone about Kafka’s life and work, Miedo felt himself relax slightly. Literature was his refuge.
“The Metamorphosis tells the story of Gregor Samsa, a man who wakes up one morning transformed into a giant insect,” Miedo told the class. “Trapped in his room by this strange affliction, Gregor’s interaction with others becomes severely limited. His isolation continues to increase as the story progresses.”
Miedo glanced up briefly at the students. A few looked back at him curiously. He cleared his throat and continued.
“Gregor’s confined existence, though tragic, allows him to avoid direct human contact. Some critics have argued that this isolation spares Gregor further pain and anguish,” Miedo said. He paused. “In some ways, his isolation protects him.”
Miedo suddenly felt self-conscious, worried he had revealed too much of himself. He continued on hastily, delving back into the academic analysis of Kafka’s motifs and symbols. But a part of him lingered on the idea of Gregor’s protected isolation, as if he had just noticed something personally wrong with it.
The lecture drew to a close. Miedo hurriedly gathered his notes, not making eye contact as students filtered out around him. Back in his office, safely enclosed by books and solitude, Miedo let out a long exhale. He sank into his leather chair and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the lingering unease from the lecture dissipate.
When he opened his eyes, they fell on a framed photo on his desk, angled away from the door. It was an old picture of himself as a boy, grinning and carefree, with his arm slung around his sister Nadia. A bittersweet pang struck his heart.
With a heavy sigh, Miedo turned the photo frame down, hiding it from view. He busied himself with paperwork, steadfastly keeping his mind tethered to academic matters. But the image of himself and Nadia continued to tug at the corner of his consciousness.
A knock at the door made Miedo flinch. “Sorry to bother you, Miedo. Do you have a minute?” His department head, Dr. Stanwick, entered the office with a warm smile.
Miedo smoothed his features. “Of course.”
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Troy.” Dr. Stanwick gestured to a woman waiting in the hall. “She read your dissertation on All Quiet on the Western Front and was hoping to discuss it with you.”
Troy stepped into the office. She had an air of confidence about her, meeting Miedo’s guarded gaze directly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Santos. Your analysis of camaraderie and isolation during wartime was fascinating.”
Miedo was taken aback. His dissertation was from years ago. “You’ve read my work?” he asked uncertainly.
“I loved your analysis of how war can both isolate and bond soldiers,” Troy said. “What made you interested in exploring that?”
Miedo hesitated. “I suppose aspects felt…familiar.”
Dr. Stanwick smiled. “I’ll leave you two to chat.” He departed, closing the office door.
Miedo regarded Troy cautiously. Though disarmed by her interest in his work, he remained wary of revealing too much about himself.
Troy gently pressed him. “It seems personal for you. More than just academic interest.”
Miedo hesitated. Few had ever probed about his motivations before. But Troy’s gaze was open and curious, free of judgment. So he continued. “Books were…an escape for me, growing up. My childhood was rather difficult.” Miedo thought for a moment. “It helped me make sense of things when little else did.”
He stopped, a swell of emotion catching in his throat. He had never spoken these words aloud before, barely admitted them to himself. But somehow Troy’s gentle curiosity was unlocking something that had been dammed up inside him for years.
Miedo’s mind transported back to his childhood bedroom. Curled up alone on the bed, Nadia already gone and his parents adrift in their own grief. Taking refuge in tales of other lives, other pains and triumphs. Finding consolation in knowing he was not the only one to suffer, not the only one to feel profound isolation.
“Books were my companions when I had none,” Miedo said. “They gave me hope when I had little reason for it. Helped me make sense of the randomness of life.”
He shifted uneasily. “I suppose many young people take solace in books during adolescence.” He attempted a light laugh.
Troy’s gaze remained gently fixed on him. “But few express it with such insight as you did in your dissertation,” she said. “Your words held a truth that comes from lived experience.”
Miedo looked away, discomfited. He had revealed more of himself than intended. Trying to redirect the focus, he said, “What drew you to my academic work in the first place?”
“There are moments from the war zones that stay with me,” Troy said, her gaze growing distant.
“I remember one village in particular. We were interviewing locals when an air strike hit suddenly. The ground shuddered under our feet as smoke and debris filled the air.”
Troy’s voice dropped, her eyes clouding with the memory. “I saw a mother crouched in the rubble, clutching her child’s limp body. His small frame was battered and bloodied.” She paused, pained.
“The mother wailed with a grief so raw it chilled your bones. She rocked back and forth, pleading with her child to wake up.” Troy’s voice wavered. “I can still see her face etched with that bottomless grief and despair.”
“I had trouble adjusting when I first came home from overseas,” Troy said slowly. “My mind was still back in the war zones, even as I tried to settle into domestic life again.”
She described one morning making breakfast for her daughters, feeling on edge as she often did those days. Her youngest accidentally spilled her glass of milk.
When the little girl began crying, Troy reacted sharply, scolding her for making a fuss over something so trivial. The words came out harsher than intended.
Troy saw the hurt in her daughter’s eyes. Immediately she felt a swell of regret. She knew her agitation stemmed from being surrounded by trauma and atrocities overseas. But it wasn’t fair to direct that frustration at her child over something so simple.
In that moment, Troy understood just how much distance remained between the part of herself that had documented devastation abroad, and the mother she needed to be for her girls now. She resolved to find a way to process everything she had witnessed as a war reporter.
Miedo listened with empathy, sensing Troy’s conflict between past and present. Though their experiences differed greatly, he related to carrying old wounds into today. An unspoken understanding passed between them.
Troy described how she sought solace in studying works like Miedo’s that explored the deeper human truths surrounding war and suffering. Something in his writing resonated with her own attempts to impart meaning to the layers of anguish she had witnessed firsthand.
“Your words capture that emotional truth — the cruelty of random loss, yet also the capacity for courage and compassion,” Troy said.
She locked eyes with Miedo, her expression open and sincere. “That truth is what I came home seeking. A reminder not to lose faith in humanity, despite all the horrors I’ve documented.”
Miedo was moved, feeling a fragile connection in their shared quest for meaning.
“It’s admirable, facing tragedy so directly,” he said quietly. “I wish I had your courage.”
“It wasn’t courage at first,” Troy admitted. “I was running on adrenaline, numb to it all.”
She described the toll of those war zone years, the nightmares and distance from loved ones. Troy had sacrificed much.
Miedo nodded solemnly. “I can’t fathom what you’ve endured.” He hesitated, an internal struggle playing across his face.
Troy watched Miedo closely. “You have your own pain though, don’t you?” she asked gently.
Miedo’s eyes flickered with unspoken hurts. He ached to unburden himself, share things long secreted away. But fear held him back. If he revealed his wounds, could she possibly understand?
“I was much like you after my time overseas,” Troy said gently. “Wary of revealing the wounds I’d witnessed.”
She described coming home feeling isolated, unable to relate to those around her mundane troubles. The distance was suffocating.
“But finding someone who had been through war themselves was a lifeline for me,” Troy continued. “Being able to open up without judgment helped heal what felt too awful to speak aloud.”
Troy shared how another journalist, a kindred spirit, had offered her that gift of being seen and understood. It gave her the strength to process all she had documented.
“Carrying our hurts alone only prolongs the pain,” she said, holding Miedo’s gaze. “Voicing them allows us to make sense of it all.”
Miedo sat with what Troy had shared, her words resonating deeply. But thinking of opening old wounds made him anxiously picture Nadia’s loss all over again.
The sheer intensity of that grief was paralyzing. If he let himself revisit it fully, would the pain overwhelm him?
“You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t want to burden you with my troubles,” he said, forcing a thin smile. “They must pale compared to all you’ve seen.”
Troy looked at Miedo with compassion. “No suffering is greater or less. Only felt painfully by the bearer.”
But Miedo had already retreated behind his facade. He stood abruptly, feigning an urgency to leave.
“My next class starts shortly, I really must be going,” he lied. “Thank you again for your interest in my work.”
“Of course,” Troy replied gently, though unable to mask her disappointment. She had hoped he would accept her support.
On the subway ride home, Miedo’s conversation with Troy lingered in his mind. Her encouragement to voice old pains had stirred something in him.
He thought of his estranged parents, plagued by grief since Nadia’s death. They had never accepted his surviving when she did not. The distance between them had only festered, a wound that wouldn’t heal.
Perhaps speaking long-buried hurt could help. Miedo pulled out his phone, hesitating. It had been years since he’d reached out. They may not welcome his visit.
But allowing their shared anguish to remain unspoken had only widened the rift. Before he could overthink, Miedo typed a text to his mother — “Coming this weekend if that’s alright. We have a lot to talk about.”
He stared at the screen, pulse racing, his heart in his throat as the dots popped up showing she was replying. Finally her message appeared: “We look forward to seeing you.”
If you enjoyed this story please clap (button at bottom left), share (button at bottom right) and click the “follow” button (scroll down next to my profile). This story was written by Anthropic’s Claude 2 large language model with numerous prompts, requested revisions and a few small edits for style.
See how I use Claude 2 to write science fiction, including the entire creation, prompting and editing process for a different short story in this other Medium post.
What are your opinions / thoughts / comments / impressions?
- Have you ever seen someone hindered by fear? How did they overcome it? Where did they find the faith they needed to push through?
