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MidReal Story
Blood & Ink
Scenario:Taghrid vive in una piccola città italiana. All’apparenza è una ragazza qualunque: frequenta l’ultimo anno del liceo artistico, è educata, silenziosa, quasi invisibile. A scuola ha poche amicizie vere, ma è brava a nascondere il suo dolore dietro battute o sorrisi cortesi.
Inizia il romanzo con una sua riflessione in prima persona, in cui dice che il suo nome non ha senso. Che è una parola aliena, che non le appartiene.
Vive nel senso di inadeguatezza, di "fallimento futuro". Tutto sembra già perduto, anche se non è ancora iniziato.
Sviluppa una specie di ossessione per la cultura giapponese, che rappresenta per lei ordine, bellezza, identità precisa – il contrario di ciò che sente dentro.
inizia a scrivere un racconto autobiografico che diventa sempre più oscuro e viscerale. La scrittura (e il disegno) diventano valvole di sfogo, ma anche portali per il suo mondo interiore, che comincia a confondersi con la realtà.
Compaiono episodi dissociativi: perde la cognizione del tempo, si risveglia in luoghi senza sapere come ci è arrivata. In questi momenti, sente di non essere Taghrid, ma qualcun altro. Qualcuno che potrebbe avere un “vero” nome.
Si manifesta una voce interiore (potresti darle un nome giapponese simbolico, come “Shiro”, cioè bianco/vuoto), che le parla nei momenti più bui. Non è chiaro se sia una parte di lei o un’allucinazione.
Inizia ad avere flashback dell’infanzia in Egitto, dei primi momenti in Italia, di episodi traumatici (potresti lasciare allusioni senza dire mai tutto apertamente).
Il disturbo alimentare peggiora. I genitori sono ignari o in denial, e le sorelle hanno una presenza ambigua: una è iperprotettiva, una giudicante, una assente.
A scuola conosce una nuova insegnante di scrittura creativa o un compagno outsider (anche con radici straniere?) con cui nasce un legame disturbante ma intenso. Questo personaggio agisce come uno specchio oscuro o come un mentore “malato” che la spinge ad affrontare il proprio dolore, ma anche a scavare più a fondo nel baratro.
Taghrid affronta un crollo psicologico: sviene o si fa del male, e finisce in ospedale (o centro di supporto). Ma qui accade qualcosa di ambiguo: qualcuno legge il suo racconto e crede che sia un’opera d’arte, geniale.
Lei è divisa tra la possibilità di dare un senso al proprio dolore attraverso l’arte, e il desiderio di annullarsi.
Decide di cambiare il suo nome (simbolicamente o legalmente?) oppure di riscriverne il significato, creando una nuova identità – una rinascita o una dissoluzione?
Create my version of this story
Taghrid
She is a teenage girl living in a small Italian town. She is introspective,vulnerable,and imaginative. Taghrid struggles with her identity and feels disconnected from her name,which she despises. She experiences dissociative episodes,where she loses track of time and environment. Her fascination with Japan provides her a sense of order and escape. Her relationships with family members are strained; her parents are unaware of her struggles,while her sisters offer little support. At school,she forms an intense bond with a mysterious classmate who shares similar interests and dark inclinations.
Mysterious Classmate
He is a new student in Taghrid's school,shrouded in mystery. He is enigmatic,intense,and rebellious. He shares a mutual interest in Japanese culture with Taghrid and becomes a confidant for her. His family's tragic past is hinted at through his stories and artwork. He is charismatic yet troubled,often pushing boundaries and challenging authority. His presence in the school becomes a catalyst for Taghrid's introspection and exploration of her own dark side.
My name makes no sense.
It’s the first thing that comes to mind whenever someone asks me who I am.
Because if I really think about it, I don’t know what my name means.
What it wants to say.
Who I am, even.
I know what my name looks like when written in Arabic: طاغريد.
I know what it sounds like when pronounced correctly: Taghrid, Tagh-ree-d.
I know all the possible meanings: challenger, rebellious, defiant, and also…exempt, excluded.
A paradox of words and meanings.
Just like me.
My name is an alien word.
A foreign sound in a small Italian town where everyone knows each other and speaks the same language.
An invisible word that becomes real only when someone pronounces it correctly, as my mother taught me.
When someone writes it in Arabic calligraphy, as I have done many times.
I sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by sheets of paper covered with the same word written over and over in black ink.
My fingers trace the curves of طاغريد, following the lines that I drew earlier.
The afternoon light enters through the window, creating long shadows on the walls.
I’ve been sitting here for hours, but it feels like minutes have passed.
My throat is dry.
I lean close to the paper, lips parting.
"Taghrid," I whisper, so quietly it’s almost a breath.
The sound feels wrong, hollow.
I try again, harder this time.
"Taghrid."
My voice cracks.
The letters blur before my eyes.
I crumple the paper in my fist, feeling the wet ink smear across my palm.
"Why do you keep doing that?" my brother asks from the doorway, his voice a mix of curiosity and concern.
"I don't know," I admit, looking up at him, "maybe I'm hoping it'll finally sound like it belongs to me."
He steps into the room, picking up one of the crumpled sheets. "Or maybe you're trying to find out if you belong to it."
After dinner, I retreat to my desk and pull out a fresh notebook.
The blank pages stare at me like an empty canvas.
I open it, and the scent of new paper fills the air.
I dip my pen in the inkwell and begin to write.
The words flow from my mind to the paper, as if they've been waiting for this moment all along.
I write about my earliest memory – being four years old, standing on a stool in our small kitchen in Cairo, watching my mother prepare koshari for lunch.
The smell of cumin and coriander fills the air, mixed with the sound of sizzling onions and garlic in olive oil.
My mother's hands move deftly, adding layers of pasta, lentils, tomato sauce, and vinegar to the pot.
She tastes it periodically, adjusting the seasoning until it's just right.
I remember the first bite I took – the explosion of flavors on my tongue, the combination of textures that pleased my senses.
It was love at first taste.
As I write, memories flood back – playing with my brother in the streets of Cairo, chasing each other through alleys lined with colorful buildings and markets filled with exotic smells and sounds.
I remember feeling safe and protected within those walls, surrounded by family and community. But as I continue writing, another memory surfaces – one that I had buried deep within my mind.
It's a memory of confusion and disorientation, of feeling lost in a foreign place.
I was six years old when we moved from Egypt to Italy.
Everything was different – the language, the culture, even the food.
I struggled to adjust, feeling like an outsider in a place where everyone seemed to belong except me.
I write about the pain of learning a new language, of struggling to make friends who didn't understand me.
I write about feeling isolated and alone, like an invisible ghost wandering through a world that wasn't mine.
The words flow onto the page faster now, as if they're desperate to be set free.
My hand moves quickly, scribbling down thoughts and emotions that have been bottled up inside me for so long.