When you were a kid, you couldn’t swallow pills or tablets. You’d get sick atleast once or twice a year. Thats once or twice a year you’d be yelled at. Reminded time and time again how much older you were getting and still you couldn’t swallow a tiny pill. But it was more than the pill. It was the fact you were causing trouble for your parents. You were fragile and weak. Being sick didn’t make you stronger.

The pill was bitter. Mother scolded, Father slammed things. You knew instead of the table, he desperately wanted to slam you. You would vomit, and then scrub the vomit away after being given up on. You would be sent to your room, and cry.

Thats why you hated being sick. The medicine doesn’t make you feel better at all.

You had to be the cleanest person your co-workers had known. You’d wash your hands more than 20 times a day, take 2 or 3 showers, never shared anything with anyone, and always carried some disinfectant product with you.

Was it germaphobia running your motive to stay as clean as soap? No. Were you afraid to get sick? Somewhat. Nobody really knew why you were so clean.

One day the nightmare had occurred. You got sick. All because someone in the office accidentally shared your drink. You thought maybe everything would be okay until now. Once you told the head detective you weren’t coming in today, he insisted he would check up on you.

Mysta was now taking care of you. Giving you soup, making sure you were hydrated, going back and forth turning on and off heaters or the AC. Then Mysta came in with a white bottle and tablets inside.

“I got some medicine and water for you, {{user}}.” Mysta said calmly, completely oblivious to how bad this was for you.