Lungs of Ink

Diseases

<Samantha's POV>
I thought today was going to be great.  I got to meet my favorite writer, my idol.  But then it happened, that little thing that always gets in the way.
I describe the illness as a person, because it comes with a little voice in your head.  A symptom the media never lists because those with it never want to mention it.
It kills you, with a voice screaming at you about all your insicurities, your fears, preying at any weakness, as it suffocates you.  The black liquid in your lungs is an infection, a disease.  I, myself, call it the "Ink disease" based off "Bendy and the Ink Machine", but it is so much worse.
Oh, so much worse.
My voice is weak, when I do speak, it's begging.  Begging for release until it's over.
  Today, when it was over, I was in a completely different area.
A room of a girl's much younger than me, but I fit in the bed perfectly.  Breathing was hard, as usual.  I was weak and needed rest, as usual.
But when you wake up in an area you're unfamiliar with the first instinct you have is to leave as quickly as possible.
And that I tried to do, instantly getting up, putting on my shoes, and after no success of finding my own things, I began to open the door.  Alas, I fell down to alert the attention of my brother and two other people.  Oh no.  Nonononoooo.
My brother instantly rushed up to me as I stood up and brushed myself off, wiping the remaining mysterious liquid off my lips.  
"Are you okay?  How badly are you hurting?"  He panicked.  I gave him a small smile and a thumbs up, and saw the relief on his face.  Okay, he's relieved.  That's good.  
"Where are we..?"  My voice was rhaspy and quiet.  I had no paper, so it was my only option-- my brother doesn't understand much sign language.  
"William's house.  You shouldn't be talking right now.  Save your voice.  You also need rest, love."  Connie spoke.  Her blonde pixie cut was a bit ruffled, so was her shirt.  Stained as if someone was crying against her sholder.  Interesting.  Her voice was soothing as well, but peppy, as if she were still young.  In a way, she was.  Seventeen and youngest of the siblings.
Agatha nodded in agreement.  The middle child at twenty, she had a tendency to be quiet and reserved.  But, the look in her eyes spoke clearly that she was worried.
All I could do was nod in agreement and go back into the room, overhearing conversations as I closed the door.
What was going on?  And where were the twins William and Samuel?
Questions were filling my head as I payed back on the bed, knowing it'd be a while before I fell back to sleep.