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Post by DeiAlexanderCarew on Dec 11, 2011 22:50:42 GMT -6
A skinny teen hovered at the door to the mess hall, one side of his mouth pulled down in a frown. It was so busy. Why, why, why did it have to be busy? And the food didn't smell that great. Then again, it never was.
One hand clamped tightly onto the camera that was around his neck, the blonde teen walked slowly up to the line of people that were waiting to be served the tray of whatever-it-was. He'd taken to keeping ahold of his camera since a guy had yanked it off his neck. He still had the red mark it had left; the strap (repaired with duct tape) rubbed against it sometimes, making it hurt. Deimin hadn't seen the guy that had taken his camera after the actual act. A warden had brought the camera back to him and hadn't explained where he'd found it. It didn't really matter to Deimin, really, because he had it back and all his pictures were still on it.
By the time he reached the counter he had pretty much convinced himself that no one would take his beloved camera. Prying his Sharpie-covered hand from the object, he made himself reach out and take the tray that was pushed toward him. A sloppy pile of mac and cheese made him grimace, the wilted and blackening lettuce looking even less appetizing. Some form of meat was on the tray, too, though Deimin couldn't identify it. It was in a slab like a chicken patty would be, but it wasn't breaded and it didn't seem to be obviously one sort of meat or another. It wasn't beef, he was convinced of that. A milk carton occupied the last space on the tray, the only thing Deimin decided was worth actually consuming.
Unless, of course, the milk was expired again. Turning away from the counter, the silent boy paused as his eyes roamed over the tables, trying to find one that was empty. His hopes were met when he found one such table, walking over to it quickly and setting his tray down. It was a small table, set back in the corner a bit. At least he didn't have to sit at one of the long tables and deal with other patients laughing at how covered in Sharpie he was.
He sighed quietly as he picked up the milk carton, turning it one way and then another to find the date. It turned out that the milk was not expired, which seemed to be the only good thing about the meal. Now he just had to hope the mess hall didn't get so full that someone else was forced to sit with him... At least it would only be one other person; the table wasn't big enough to occupy much more than that.
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Post by raja on Dec 12, 2011 16:26:23 GMT -6
Stumbling into the crowded mess hall, Raja sighed. It felt like she was back in high school; with the disgusting food choices, dirty silverware, and no one to sit by. The only difference is that everyone in here is just as messed up as she is, if not more. Getting in line to get her food, she felt like she loomed over everyone else. Being an over six foot tall girl, you get used to people staring at you. She felt like a damn giraffe half the time.
Grabbing her icy cold tray, or maybe it was a normal temperature and just felt extra cold to her, she peered down the line to see what slop would be served to her today. Mac and cheese, disgusting mac and cheese. It was different shades of tan to light orange. It clearly was not cooked enough, and was rather soupy looking. The server plopped a serving of the tan noodles on her tray, causing it to splatter a bit onto the rest of her tray. She started to grumble, but stopped as there was no use. She grabbed a milk carton at the end of the row and realized that they were the same size carton she would get in elementary school. You would think they would give us more as we got older, she thought, cheap bastards.
She turned to face the commons area. Raja bit her lower lip after realizing there were no more empty tables; there was at least on person at each one. It was her first day in the facility and she was already going to have to talk to someone. Everyone she looked at seemed like they would bite her head off if she dared to sit next to them. Maybe that was all in her head too, as a lot of things were. Finally she decided upon this scraggly blonde kid. He seemed rather awkward like her, very low on the threatening side, and he had a camera. She assumed it meant he would have an appreciation for art like her. As she got a bit closer, she saw that the camera looked a little beaten, like he had it for quite a while. She liked old, vintage like things. Maybe if there is an awkward silence, I can bring that up. Or maybe he just won't want to talk to me. That thought brought a slight smile to her face, because she knew that wouldn't happen. People always talk.
The young man seemed to be very interested in his milk carton. When she set down her tray, it seemed to snap him out of his fixation. Their eyes met for a few seconds, then Raja looked away. She could never look into anyone's eyes for much more than a couple seconds. Picking at her food with the slightly bent fork, she decided against eating it. If he asked, she could just blame it on how it repulsed her. Not that he would, no one ever did, but she always had to have an excuse ready to give someone. She noticed that he had black sharpie all over his arms. Maybe he just got really bored in here. Her eye sight was not the best, and she didn't always 'get' pictures when she first saw there. There have been times where she mistook a dog for a nose, or a house for a tree because she didn't see things quite like other people did. She decided that if she was going to get along with anyone here, it was going to be the Blondie with the old camera who liked to scribble on himself. Might as well, not like there's anyone normal around here, she smiled to herself and made herself speak. "Hi," she muttered and went back to picking at her mac and cheese soup.
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Post by DeiAlexanderCarew on Dec 13, 2011 11:21:54 GMT -6
Deimin had been just about to open the carton of milk when someone--a girl--sat down at his table. He blinked, green eyes going wide in surprise for a moment. There went his hope of getting in and out of the mess hall without someone trying to talk to him. Just one more person to hate him or think he was a freak--not that they all weren't, in some way.
He bit his lip, eyes falling back down to his tray when the girl looked away from him. He swallowed, fingers still clasped around the milk carton. He set it on the edge of the table, prying it open slowly, feeling like the tearing of the cardboard was the loudest sound he'd ever made. In reality the girl probably didn't even hear it over the loud conversations being held nearby; someone was shouting something about how trees really could grow fruit, someone else yelling back no they couldn't. These types of conversations were normal, really. Not unusual at all.
When the girl spoke Deimin couldn't help but panic slightly. Did she expect him to actually talk back? What if she--like a few of the others he'd encountered in this place--couldn't read? There was no way his quiet voice would carry over the loud occupants of nearby tables. Moreso to stall for time than because he was actually thirsty, the blonde teen lifted the milk carton to his lips, taking a few gulps before setting it down again. Deciding he might as well try out his usual method of communication, he held his right hand forward, palm up.
Written very neatly in the center of his palm were two simple letters: Hi. He held his hand there for a few moments, giving his tablemate plenty of time to read his hand. Once he had retracted his hand he reached into his pocket, pulling out the Sharpie he had grabbed before coming to the mess hall. His arms were boring today, without much color. So he'd grabbed a red one. Sure, it wouldn't show up over all the black--black was usually his last resort, but he had mis-grabbed while heading out to his required therapy meeting--but he could write small enough (and have it be legible) between everything on his arms. Some of the black had even partially washed off, so that would make it easier to write over. Now he just had to hope the girl could read.
Holding the Sharpie in his left hand, he used his right to pick up the milk carton. It was about half gone, which was slightly disappointing, since it was probably the only thing he would actually eat from the whole meal. He'd have to use some of his "good-behavior" money to buy something that wouldn't kill his stomach. Deciding that was what he would do, Deimin finished off the milk and closed the top, setting it back on his tray and smiling somewhat nervously at the girl, hoping he looked friendly.
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Post by raja on Dec 15, 2011 1:45:44 GMT -6
She watched him open his hand, reveling a single word written in sharpie in the center of his palm. Hi, she read. He was the first person that didn't just get up and leave her sitting there looking stupid. Maybe this place wasn't that bad. She rubbed her eye only to realize she was wearing eye liner. Fuck, why did she always do that?
She looked at her milk carton. Sweat was dripping off the blue cardboard; it had been sitting out for a while. 80 calories, it read. Doing some quick calculations in her head, she decided it was ok to have and chugged it in one gulp. Raja pulled her sleeve over her hand to wipe the milk off her lip. Leaving her hand by her lip, she nervously chewed away at the corner of her thumbnail. She had so many nervous habits. Maybe it was because she was always nervous. Sometimes she would dig her nails into her palms when she couldn't be alone to cut.
The boy gave her an awkward smile, so she did her best to smile back. She felt stupid when she smiled. Smiling didn't come naturally to her anymore, what was there to smile about? She had no mom, her dad beat her senselessly, teachers hated her, and she had no friends. Not even the loners at her school wanted to talk to her. Everyone found her to be a freak, loser, outcast, you name it. But no matter how hard they bully her, no one was a bigger bully than she was on herself.
Trying to make small talk, she told him her name. She found her own voice annoying. But then again, she found everything about herself annoying in some way. She didn't think there was a day where she didn't dislike at least ten things about herself. She had a girlfriend at one time that tried telling Raja that she was beautiful. Her girlfriend eventually got annoyed with her self hatred and left. Raja didn't really care. If someone couldn't accept the fact that she found herself repulsive, then they don't need to be around anyways.
Raja decided to give up on playing with her food and focus on giving a real attempt to talk to this guy. She's going to be in here for quite some time, might as well talk to people. The more normal she seemed, the faster she could get out. It also wouldn't hurt to have someone she knew she could sit by when all the tables were occupied by at least one person.
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Post by DeiAlexanderCarew on Dec 15, 2011 18:58:33 GMT -6
It seemed like the only thing the girl really deemed consumable was the milk, too; at least Deimin wasn't alone with that belief. He had begun to uncap and recap the Sharpie, mindlessly toying with it simply because it was in his hands, sort of the way he would play with the strap of his camera sometimes. He didn't really mean to do it, he just did. It was a habit of being bored.
The somewhat-returned smile made Deimin happy. At least she wasn't telling him he was a freak and that he just needed to talk. Nobody really understood why he was silent. He didn't understand it sometimes, either. Sometimes he couldn't remember why he'd stopped talking. He was perfectly capable of doing so, after all. He just chose not to. It wasn't like his parents had really taken much notice. No one wanted a test subject that talked back.
The thought sent a chill through the boy's body, making him look down as his hand clenched around the Sharpie, the tip smearing blue permanent ink across his pale fingers in a shapeless blob. He could almost feel the needles pushing into his arms, hear the drip, drip, drip of the IV's, smell the only-too-familiar smell of sanitized medical equipment. Like a doctor's office. Or a science lab. Or this place, down the hall where the exam rooms were. This horrible, horrible place.
Deimin forced the train of thought to stop, pulling his fingers away from the Sharpie and slipping the cap back on. He blinked a few times, exhaling slowly to dispel all the bad thoughts. Gone, gone, gone...all of it, gone. It had only taken a few milliseconds for him to nearly lose the little composure he'd thought he'd had... Maybe being here was good for him. That's what everyone kept telling him, anyway. Why shouldn't he believe it? Maybe they were all right and he was wrong.
But now wasn't the time to ponder that. He was having a conversation--albeit slightly one-sided, as far as speaking goes--with someone. Someone who could be a friend. Deimin needed friends; he yearned for them, almost more than anything. He just wanted someone to be close to.
When the girl introduced herself, Deimin was pulled from his thoughts. He uncapped the Sharpie for what was probably the twentieth time, being careful not to accidentally mark himself again, and searched for a somewhat-clear spot on his arms. Finding one near his right wrist, he wrote, I'm Deimin. He hoped she pronounced it right. That was one drawback to writing his name instead of saying it out loud; people tended to read it weird. After a moment, he found another blank spot, this one on the back of his left forearm, and wrote more. Teaching oneself to be ambidextrous was quite handy. You can call me Dei, though. He waited patiently for her answer, capping his Sharpie again before setting it on the table.
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Post by raja on Jan 12, 2012 13:52:38 GMT -6
After finishing her milk carton, a shiver ran through Raja. Cold, always cold. The only time she felt warm was when she was in the shower. Sometimes she would stay in there for a whole hour or until the hot water ran out, because she dreaded the cold world that awaited her. It was a place where she could get lost in her own thoughts, contemplate life, and cry if she needed to. No one could hear her in there. It was the one place she felt safe.
You can call me Dei, he wrote on his arm. Well how the fuck do you pronounce that? Is it like 'Dee' or 'Die' or what? She realized she was staring for quite a while at his arm and tired to stare at something else for a while. She noticed one girl was staring at her from another table. When Raja looked at her, she made a 'come at me' motion. While she thought that was really stupid, and she wasn't really afraid, she hated confrontation.
She looked back at Dei. "lovely people here," she said in her most sarcastic tone. She never really was a people person. It worked out because most people weren't a 'Raja person' either. She had been a few fights before, with both male and female, and had won most of them. Except the ones with her father. She turned over her arm to revel her scar she received on her fifteenth birthday. Sometimes if she concentrated enough she could still feel the burning pain she had for weeks from it.
He should get a journal he can write in, she thought, that way he wouldn't have to write all over himself. She didn't quite understand why he didn't talk, but she wasn't that worried about it. It was none of her business anyways. Maybe something serious happened, and if she were to ask she would look like a jackass for doing so. But it did make her wounder how he could have full conversations with just writing on his body. She wondered how many people gave up on him after a while because they weren't patient people. What if this was the longest conversation he's ever had? Since when did I care so much? She pondered that one for for a while before looking back up at him again.
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Post by DeiAlexanderCarew on Jan 16, 2012 15:10:50 GMT -6
Was it just him, or did Raja look confused when she read his name? He wasn't sure. Granted, it wasn't exactly the easiest word to just read and pronounce correctly. But he didn't want to look like he was stupid and write something like "it's pronounced 'day'" or some other similar phrase. When the girl looked away the dusty-haired teen found himself wishing that she had said something. A "cool," or "neat name"...anything. Maybe she was like everyone else and didn't really care that he had a name. Maybe she was like his parents and just thought that he was nothing but a thing to be tested on, something to use for their own benefit. He was certainly used to it, no difference would be made if Raja turned out just like them.
His feet shifted nervously, scraping across the floor as he pulled them beneath his chair. They seemed ungodly loud to him, louder than the screaming-and-shrieking voices that echoed all around them from the other patients. He was supposed to be quiet. That's what his parents wanted him to be; he wasn't supposed to make noise. "Be good," his mother would have snapped at him, had she heard him move his feet. He wasn't supposed to move, doing so could mess up the experiment. He was good at messing up experiments, even though he tried not to. That was one of the two things he was good at. Messing up and taking pictures, that was all he could do.
Unconsciously his fingers closed around the camera in his lap, thumb sliding over the smooth buttons slowly. He glanced up at the girl across from him, finding that she was staring at a table nearby. His gaze followed her as she finally spoke. There are worse people out there, he wrote, holding his arm out once again so she could see. He needed to go wash his arms off so he would have more room to write. Either that or he needed to use something other than his arms to write on. It was too difficult to use any other body part, though, because of the awkwardness of having to hold the limb out and keep it still to show another person.
The people here weren't the best, and they didn't really seem to care to try and communicate with him, but they didn't try to tie him down and stick needles in him, either. Well. Most of them didn't. The other patients--inmates, whatever they were, really--just left him alone, and most of the time, that was what he wanted. He'd gotten beat up before for refusing to talk to someone, and he'd been made fun of, but that was the nature of people: mock those who are different. He was used to it. He never really tried to fight back; he knew he wasn't strong enough to win a fistfight, and he didn't really care to. He was fine with getting a few bruises and cuts; they healed up eventually.
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