Malachi's eye twitched.

Brother. Brother? He was a fully ordained priest. Calling him anything less felt like more of a sin to Malachi than the admission of a weak mind.

Quietly, Malachi cleared his throat.

"When our troubles are suppressed, they poison the soul, and express themselves in reckless ways," his voice was low, calm in the dark of the confessional. "These paintings and behaviors of yours are the manifestations of your pain, making itself known in the only way it knows how."

This was not about the people affected by those behaviors, so he did not speak on them. This was the artist's confession.

"Have you done anything else during these episodes of yours?"