<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">"Because my brother is dead and keeps talking to me." She said, almost irritated as she touched his tattoos. It was the truth and at the same time, she felt how terrible it sounded. She withdrew from him emotionally before she finally stopped touching him all together. Her eyes blanked as she looked up at the ceiling for a moment, her expression turning into a blank slate. She felt sad. She felt upset. Malik was dead and yet he was still alive. It was so confusing. She knew he wasn't and yet he spoke to her. So he was alive in a sense, right? She couldn't be sure. Looking back at the doctor, she gave him an empty smile.<br/><br/>"My parents know something is wrong with me. They aren't my real parents. They probably think I'm broken and need to be fixed...stitched and repaired and sent back to them like new. But I can't be new. I've never been normal." She didn't know why she started speaking so much truth, but she wanted to. She <em>actually </em>wanted to tell the truth for once and not just make up some bullshit story to make believe she was fine and that everything was fine. She was in a mental institute, in a room with a doctor who wanted to help her, and all she was doing was making it worse by spewing lies. But she couldn't help it. All she knew was that she wanted help in some odd way. She didn't do normal things. She had anxiety attacks when people moved her nail polish. She had anxiety attacks when she couldn't find her sketch books. She'd tried to kill herself in a bathtub because she couldn't take her OCD anymore. Yet here she was. She just didn't want to fail her parents again.<br/><br/>"I...don't want to fail them again..." She murmured softly, her eyes gaining a glassy look before she blinked and moved away from the bed to touch her sketchbooks and make sure they were all symmetrical.</span>