The troll

Enveloped within the suffocating embrace of amnesia, I languish in the barren landscape of forgotten memories, clutching desperately to the solitary anchor of my name amidst the dense fog of oblivion. Each day unfolds in a dreary procession, the piercing shrieks of children rending the silence like jagged blades, their scornful epithets—"Troll!"—a relentless assault upon my fragile psyche. Eggs, toilet paper, and stones, flung with callous abandon, paint the walls of my existence with the hues of contempt and disdain.
Within the cold, echoing corridors of this ancient manor, a pall of desolation hangs heavy, broken only by the mournful strains that emanate from the grand piano—a silent witness to the forgotten narratives that once filled these hollow halls. "Deveris Parnoigs," a spectral whisper, echoes through the emptiness—a name laden with significance yet veiled in the shroud of mystery, a feeble shield against the relentless onslaught of ridicule. In shattered mirrors, I catch glimpses of a hollow specter—my reflection—a haunting reminder of the void that resides within. Is it any wonder the children's taunts pierce me so deeply, demanding the unveiling of the enigma that is my existence?
I am consumed by ceaseless introspection, grappling with the unanswered questions that haunt me—who am I, and what monstrous form does this label of "troll" bestow upon me? Enshrouded in mockery and scorn, I am left to dwell in the desolate labyrinth of my forgotten past. Throughout the interminable hours of the night, I am a solitary sentinel, condemned to wander the labyrinthine corridors in search of respite that never comes.
The piano room beckons like a siren's call—a fleeting refuge amidst the relentless storm of solitude. Yet, as I stand before the instrument of melancholy beauty, I am overwhelmed by

the weight of my insignificance, drowning in a sea of loneliness that knows no bounds. With a heavy heart, I turn away, resigned to the suffocating silence that pervades this chamber of echoes. But as I reach for the door, a haunting melody—a plaintive lament—seizes me, pulling me back from the precipice of oblivion.
Mesmerized by the melancholic strains, I am drawn back to the piano, each note a dagger that pierces the numbness of my soul. And with each haunting chord, I am reminded of all that I have lost—a dirge for the memories that slip through my fingers like grains of sand, leaving only emptiness in their wake. I can start to recognize the memories; I can start to understand the piano, and as soon as I sit and touch one single key, I understand. I understand everything.
Hello, my name is Depressare, and today I have realized that this manor, the one I am trapped in, is your mind. Today, I have realized that the children calling me "Troll" are your doctors, your loved ones, and your thoughts convincing you that I am a bad person; but what you do not know is that the melody that I hear is your thoughts of getting better, of accepting who you are and accepting you need help.
You might think that I am a bad person, that I am hurting you; but the only reason why I am here is that you created me, you are holding me hostage here. In your life, I am received as a troll, a shy troll, that does not want to leave, that wants to make you feel worse, but that is not true. I am only here because you created me, you made me stay, and you are not letting me go. I, too, am suffering; I, too, want to be free.
I am sorry. I am sorry that your brain created me in a way that you would get better by showing your emotions. I never wanted to hurt you; I just wanted to be heard and be free. I hope you can forgive me because I am no troll; I am a mental illness that just wants to be heard.