"But I still don't see why this is necessary," I groaned, shivering under my three layers as I walked alongside Dad. "Eve," he sighed tiredly. "We've talked about this. Mum and I have been worried about you ever since Jack died-" I cringed at how he could say that so nonchalantly, how used to life without my brother he had become. "It's just a checkup, OK? I'm concerned about how much cleaning you do to your room every day." "It's just a bit of cleaning," I grumbled, my boots crushing the delicate frosted blades of grass on the side of the pavement. I looked at him to see if he'd heard me, but he either hadn't heard what I'd said, or was choosing to ignore me. Assuming the latter was true, I walked on, quickening my pace towards the medical building in the distance.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" The soft, passive voice of the mental health specialist filled my ears, adding to the pent-up annoyance in my stomach. Her office was dissimilar to other medical rooms that I'd visited. There were no framed university degrees hanging on the walls, there were no photographs or posters of how the heart works, or what vaccinations to have before a trip to a third-world country. I didn't even see an official nameplate on her desk, the one thing that all qualified doctors and psychiatrists must have. The walls were a dull, greyish-blue, with only one interruption of the insipid colour. This was a sign reading 'Instant and accurate diagnosis of any illness, physical or mental, is available here!'. We'll see. "Evelyn has been cleaning quite a bit, more than a usual tidying session," Dad informed her. "I see," she muttered, reaching for a notepad and scribbling something down. "Tell me, Evelyn, what have you been worrying about and for how long?" the specialist enquired, speaking to me slowly and clearly , as if I were a young child who was slightly slow. I eyed her suspiciously for a brief moment before looking her in the eye and answering. "I've been worried about getting sick for a long time. I haven't been ill in six years. Not since my bother Jack died." She scrawled a few more things onto her notepad and asked me, "And roughly how long every day or how much do you worry about getting sick?" I thought for a second and answered, "At least half, often three quarters of the day. Maybe four hours or something?" "She worries most of the day," she muttered absent-mindedly, making another note on the pad. Then she looked up at me and smiled unnecessarily brightly. I'd hardly had any sleep the night before and her false cheerfulness was really starting to vex me. After thinking for a while, asking me a few more questions about what I did when I cleaned and consulting various mental health books , she said, "Well, judging by your symptoms and my records, I can correctly diagnose you with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder." Her smile grew even wider, if that was possible, and my mind seemed to darken. Hearing her say those words felt like a bullet through my head. I'd just thought I was a girl who worried a lot and not really thought much of it, but her medical knowledge gave me a new label. Eve The Crazy Person. Eve The Abnormal One. Mentally Ill Evelyn. Suddenly not being able to take her patronising smile any longer , I said defiantly, "Thankyou for confirming my illness," and stood up, gave her a false smile dripping with saccharine and strode out of the office, my blue hair waving behind me and letting the door slam in my wake.