She pinches herself to see if she's dreaming, out of habit. It hurts, like always – or maybe like never. What's the difference? The point is it's pointless.
They're not deliberate quirks, but like parasites the impulses infect her thoughts, exercises for people with crucial things to remember. But the doctor always – has always – will always reassure her, it's alright, Miki-san, you've nothing to fear.
Then her face usually burns up and shrivels. Or evaporates, unveiling a grinning porcelain visage. Or she'll cheerily leave, soon replaced by a raven-haired devil wearing that smirk , she'll die die die I'll KILL HER-