Literally so happy that we finally have a section for Phi Brain! 5th story published in this category ever! I feel like such a winner right now! Anyways this sparked itself the first time I saw Anna and it kinda grew as I finished the first season and moved onto the second one. Hope you enjoy!

Also I do not own the Phi Brain show or characters

I don't know how and I don't know why but somehow I have gotten this far.

Somehow I have gotten this far and no one has ever noticed. Or they noticed and never cared

But I suppose that this is a good thing. I'm surrounded by "geniuses" and none of them notice something so simple.


I guess it started the first time

The first time I was mistaken

But then again I suppose I was always mistaken. At some point I stopped noticing and just kept up with the pretense. My parents always wanted a daughter so they had no problem with it

Still I wish that someone would ask about them

About the ribbons around my arms

About why I refuse to take them off, even if I go swimming

Perhaps they think it's a fashion statement

Perhaps they think it is to keep the paint off my clothes

I suppose that is logical but both are wrong

It's to hide them away

It's to hide them from myself, from everyone

You would think that after an especially terrible fight with someone that my parents would notice the white ribbons tinged pink

But they never wanted me to begin with so why should I deny them their freedom?

Why should I continue to chain them down with my presence?

That though both makes me want to die and makes me want to live. I want to show them that I can live up to their expectations yet I can't.

They want so much more form me than I can ever give. I'm only a painter for god's sake! I can't do anything else! I've tried, god knows I've tried but there is nothing that I can do that will please them.

I suppose that after I learned I was good at painting my punishments were lessened. But they are still great. They are still far greater than anything anyone can imagine

My arms are bandaged to keep everyone from seeing them for a reason. They are horrifying to anyone that has seen them. They aren't lines, no; the artist in me would not allow myself to make such a simple stroke. They are pictures, entire scenes from my mind splayed out onto my skin in a gruesome masterpiece.

I don't need canvas; all I need is a knife

For darker parts I use burn the skin and for lighter parts I use my knife. It's a painful and dangerous masterpiece but it's one that no one will ever forget.

Yet as much as I want someone to ask me I fear for the day when someone does.

It's not like I can explain it

It's not like I can justify it

But until that moment I suppose it won't matter

It doesn't matter, just like me