Short Story: I AM NOT S.A.N.E.

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It's actually pretty nice talking to Mark; we had talked for a few good long minutes after he woke me up. Then he took me over to the examination room again. Why did he wait so long to take me to the examination room? Did he really want to talk to me, or was he just trying to pass some of the time? I decided it was to pass the time, because it got boring in this place. He was nice to talk to me though, and it made me happier to have someone to talk to. And he got me to laugh, I haven't laughed for a few good solid years. I haven't laughed since I was around twelve, not since the day I realized that I'm never going to get an actual friend, because I was probably going to die any day, and according to the doctors, that day most probably would come before I turned sixteen. Before then, I thought that maybe I'd get to meet someone my age, and we'd become best friends and get to explore the real world together. I used to believe that everything would be cheery, and that nothing bad could ever happen to me because I was being watched over—something that one of the nurses I had told me once. It was nice, but now I know that it's not true. I haven't died yet, sure, but I'm waiting for it to happen. I think that the doctors have a bet going around on how long I would last, considering that I was losing—and gaining—brain matter every day. As I walked into the examination room, the guy smiled at me. My heart leaped a bit, it was the same guy from yesterday. “Aren't you supposed

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