Twitching, annoying twitching, make it stop...make it...she bit into her arm drawing blood leaving perfect teeth mark indentations into her flesh her muscle hearing it crunch as if through a tender steak. Blood fell from her lips, the twitching in her fingers stopped, she released the flesh, the aching pain didn't bother her. Like a sharp stab wound. Blood stained her lips dripping off her chin into her lap she settled back as if nothing had happened as if she was all okay now.

The men in white coats called it mental breakdowns. They had to gag her over half the time, tie her hands down so she couldn't hurt herself yet she always managed. If something was ticking at her eating she would always manage someway, somehow to hurt herself making that ticking, that twitch, that thing that annoyed her to stop. Her bonds had to become stronger. Not only a danger to others but mostly to herself. She only hurt others if they tried to stop her, annoyed her, or if she didn't like them. She didn't like anyone. Not even her own grandfather who had done nothing but try to help her.

What they called help she called torture. Though anymore she was used to it. She grew numb to it. The twitching started if she started to remember, the only thing that stopped that was pain. She hated remembering she hated being forced to remember today was no different. Metal clasps went around her wrists behind her back forcing her to stop biting her arms and a large metal collar on her neck with soft padding stopping her from looking down. All the while she thrashed, struggling, trying to get away from these men in white.

It never did any good. They always won in the end. Her hands were hooked to the collar by the metal she wore. She couldn't tug, couldn't pull, her feet were padded as well so she couldn't try hurting herself. Now she could only growl, moving away the best she could, but it was hard to even move an inch. They left her there now the twitching started again after only an hour. This time she couldn't do anything. They once used a straight jacket but she managed to hurt herself even with that.

They couldn't tie her to the bed all day one time she flipped the mattress banging her head repeatedly into the floor till she knocked herself out. Left a nasty bloody mess. But this way...she couldn't move. Her fingers twitched. She closed her eyes, the echoes. the screams; they only got louder, mocking, taunting. She closed her eyes trying to ignore them, to push them away, they only got louder. She began to scream, tears streaming down her face as she cried.

She again was trapped in that room, her mother...she couldn't do anything, as she watched as they skinned her alive the knife they used had been so hot it cauterized as it went through the flesh the stench of it had made her puke as her head was held up eyes being forced open as cruel people laughed at her dismay. Something about her father not paying up. Mafia she had been sure. They had kidnapped them from their home in the dead of night gagged, bound, blindfolded, before being thrown in the back of the truck, huddling together to give each other and themselves some form of comfort.

She had been eight then. Forced to watch, to witness, to experience. Something she could never forget. Her mother didn't even last through the whole skinning as she passed out not even halfway then when done they just ripped her out of her skin. The worst part was she had still been alive. She had called for her crying, screaming, struggling. She would never forget, her mother's grey eyes rolling into the back of her head, how she was jerked out of her pale creamy skin, how her blonde hair went limp against the back, nothing to support it to keep it from going flat.

Her muscled form laying on the ground breathing her chest moving. Her breasts were nothing but tissue. The blood that stained the ground was mixed with that of the other victims careless or stupid enough to get caught up in these horrid men. She watched as her beloved mom was placed on meat hooks like a cow pushed into a freezer, then butchered.

This had been her father's fault. Snot nosed, crying, she could only kick her feet into the ground below as she witnessed what no one could unsee. Her father's death was worse than her mothers. She cried for her dad as well he could only apologize he dark black hair hung low as his head covering his dark blue eyes. They cut him into pieces bit by bit until he bled out.

She had lost all her fight, all hope, her parents dead, she was next, but couldn't care. Not anymore all she loved had been killed. Her mother had been just under a month pregnant, her dad was getting a job that would pay good enough to get them out of the getos, things had been looking up.

She would never forget the pull on her raven hair forcing her to look at the dark brown hazel eyes of the man that had killed her parents. His dusty light brown hair greying, wrinkles were starting to show his age, a long scar from the corner of his right eye down to the tip of his ear from a fight, or maybe something worse, but that eye that had that scar was clouded and blind.

That face gave her nightmares for years, still did, he warned her to not make deals with them unless it can be paid or be paid in blood. He patted her cheek gently before sighing. She would never forget those words. "Release her and give her the bag."

The bag, she never would have opened the bag had she known, she carried it close to her as she was led through bodies being dipped in acid girls screaming as their wombs were cut out or mens junk being cut off, a wheelbarrow of bodies being pushed past her. She looked down but couldn't ignore the screams. The doors opened for her. She stepped only to jump as the big metal door closed. Then she opened the bag not sure what to expect but there, her mother's head, her father's eyes with a tuft of his hair tied together then a note, well more like a picture it had a simple smiley face.

She nearly fell as she cried holding that bag to her. That night she stumbled aimlessly till she was picked up by the cops. The bag she tried so hard to hold onto crying screaming begging for her parents as they took it away. She became numb, the only way it would stop was by pain. If she hurt the screams would stop. The memories. So she hurt herself, nearly killed herself multiple times. Her grandfather took her to the best medical care, kept her in his home, tried to care for her, but he was sick himself. Nothing he could do really would help her. Her mind was broken by that tender age of eight now she was nearly thirteen.

How can you help someone who had seen such tortures yet wouldn't talk about the tortures inflicted on themselves?

He had seen her back, it was like a scarred up canvas, initials branded into her low back all of that was just a reminder. He was sure there was more to this than just her parents' deaths but it was like she pushed that deep deep down inside of her latching onto that only memory.

Weyland was truly heartbroken for her. Putting a hand on the one way mirror as she screamed crying begging for it to stop, unable to move. It hurt more than his sickness.

How can you heal the mind?

That was the thing, the mind would always be a fragile thing. Easily made, easily broke.