(Untitled)

[viridian_hue]

Isaac likes white, clean light. Not just to paint and sketch--though that is a large part of it--but because he feels like he can be in it again. Granted, it's a secure facility, he can't leave, there's no saying when he'll be allowed to leave. And if he can't manage to have a vision clean, he doesn't know what They'll do to him. He likes Eden

Comments

[carefulwishes]

Eden enters the room, wearing an off the shoulders long-sleeved shirt, jeans, pumps. Sensible, modern, a little off-beat.

She smiles at him ("You're going to shoot up and paint") a smile which is there because Eden is a polite young woman.

"You're sketching," she comments.

[viridian_hue]

When the lock buzzes open, he looks up, alert, wary. Seeing it's her, he softens a bit, actually smiles back, the red alert going down to yellow.

"I am," Isaac agrees, noticing the little details, the slope of her shoulders in the open neck of the shirt, the contrast between the color of the fabric and her skin. Maybe he'll sketch her later. He can't draw what will be. Maybe he'll draw what was, instead.

[carefulwishes]

Eden sees him looking and stifles the urge to ask if he thinks she's pretty. They flitter across her mind, the little-girl thoughts, just like the bad-girl thoughts do. It's up to Eden (the morally grey-girl? the spy-girl? the worthless-girl?) to clamp down on them.

Her smile grows a bit warmer in response as she moves into the room, giving the paintings a glance, they're still fascinating for all that she's stared at them before, as she goes to sit near him on the bed.

"And you're sober."

(No thanks to her.)

[viridian_hue]

Isaac's smile turns wry. "The locks on the door help."

And they do. He clawed at them for a while, he's pretty sure that was real. His nails still look ragged and torn from the effort to get out, get to one more hit, something, anything. If he thinks about it too long, his blood starts to itch again.

So he doesn't.