Take Me On Away [Open]

[Renasance [Admin]]

I don't ever wanna feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me on away

Quinn was one of those people that really had to go all in with his work.
This is probably why it looks like he'd just run a paintball course, totally covered in splatters of various colors and shades of paint.

The end of a paintbrush was clamped between his teeth and his hazel-green eyes were totally focused on the oversize canvas in front of him, as if it were suddenly going to start dancing cabaret . Scraps of white paper, covered with a chaotic splay of designs, littered the floor. The whole room was a complete mess.

This is what the art room typically looked like when Quinn went on a Bipolar upswing. He was having so many rapid-fire thoughts at once that he couldn't keep his mind on much of anything for very long. He had an irregular smile spread across his paint flecked face as he grabbed the brush and began making strokes of deep reds across the canvas before him. He was in a hyper-focus mode, all senses used to work on this one piece that he was sure would make him a millionaire. His hands darted about, adding various shades of skin tones and smoke tones to the canvas, until what looked like bodies were being formed.

He stood back momentarily before throwing himself into painting again. The scene was familiar to him, but wouldn't be to those who hadn't heard his story. A black converse shoe tapped a stead beat on the floor as he, for lack of a better term, bled his soul onto the canvas. [/size]

[Sunday Lovelace Jones]

------------

It was late in the evening, about five till six and the hospital was quiet... which was strange. All day today, Sunday had been in her room, reading and writing.. like always. She was reading about the Pythagorean Ideals until a random memory came into her mind, and she sighed. She forgot her art book in the Art Room, once again. The small girl bit her lower lip and walked over to her mirror.. well. it wasn't really a mirror, it was some sheet of reflective paper, that was like a mirror. They didn't really trust her with glass because of her suicidal background. She looked at herself, her long black hair was wavy and curly today, just because that was how it was naturally, all tousled and curled about. Her porcelain skin seemed to glow for some odd reason, and she sighed. She barely wore make up here, just a small tad bit of mascara and that was it. She didn't need makeup at all, so she didn't really worry. She was clad in a white tank top and black sweat pants. She ran her hands through her long hair and stepped out of her room, to the art room she was off to.


Sunday waved at some of the other patients who were walking around and some of the nurses, informing them that she was getting her sketch book. They nodded and smiled, they trusted little Sunday. The 4'11 ft tall British girl walked into the art room, she was surprised to see a boy was in here, painting away. The floor and some the desk and chairs were splattered in paint. Her bright blue eyes looked at him, then she scanned the room for her note book. Ah! Found it. It was right beside the boy, a table away from his right side. "Don't mind me, I just left my sketch book in here and I've come to get it." She said with a nervous laugh, her accent was thick and astounding. She wasn't really good at talking to new people, especially boys. Her small fingers rubbed her right arm, where her exposed half sleeve tattoo was shown. She was always known at the hospital for her tattoos and piercings. Sunday Jones walked over to the table near him, and as she did, she tripped over a bottle of paint that was left on the ground and fell forward, oh clumsy little sunday. The girl laughed sheepishly as she looked up, at the boy who was probably freaked out by her now. "Oops.. Heh, clumsy me." She said softly.

[Renasance [Admin]]

"And I find it kinda funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad world"

Depression. It was swallowing Quinn up in waves, drowing, falling, forever floating.
It hid like a snake and attacked when least expected.
Such were the results of bipolar. One moment you're on top of the world, the second you're depressed. He had been painting and it typically made him happy.
But now he wanted to curl up and die. Why had he painted it?
Why couldn't the memories stop grabbing him and dragging him back into that sad, dark place.
Why didn't she love him? Why had he been such a failure? Why couldn't he have just died?

The questions were a hail storm in his mind, thoughts darting, his mind trapped in memories like quicksand. He felt like he couldn't get out. Ever. The painting before him proved he was a failure.

Quinn was so self-consumed in his sorrow that he didn't notice the girl entering, though vaguely thought he heard a female voice. He stared at the canvas, the painting seemed to reach out to him, pulling in in further.

The painting was of a large blood-spattered boulder.There was a child 'hanging' as if in a cross position by laying on the boulder. Both wrists were slit, and the mouth was smeared, as if the child wasn't allowed to speak. an apron string was wrapped around the boy as if holding him to the boulder, and behind the child/boulder was one demonic wing, one angelic wing. The boy seemed familiar to anyone who happened to notice Quinn's eyes.

Quinn whimpered softly, trying to fight back tears. Suddenly a pretty girl went falling past him and looked up at him muttering something about being clumsy. In the startling noise of her fall Quinn flung himself backwards, slamming into a table. He gave a frightened gaze to girl, big fat tears in his eyes, a small bloody scratch visible below his left eye from the edge of the table. He put his hands up to his ears, closing his vivid green eyes, and made that pathetic whimpering noise again, as if trying to block out something.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I am sorry, please!" His voice was all out hysterical, choking sobs coming from his throat, giving him the same effect a wounded doe would have. Soft, childlike, painful.

"No! Help me, someone please, make her stop!" He wailed as he fell to the floor, quietly sobbing.

Great way to make new friends. [/size]

[Zed]

Soren[/i]

Quinn wasn't the only one engaging in art therapy. Soren, too, had decided to try and work out his issues that way. Unfortunately, it wasn't really helping. Sketching never turned out anything good, it was always the beasts and monsters he saw in shadows and whenever he closed his eyes, the knife-edged light that would strike, the worms of darkness that would swallow him whole. Drawing anything nice and normal was impossible for him; his mind simply would not let go of the monsters.

Someone stumbled nearby, and his pencil jerked across the paper, smudging the creature he'd been absently drawing - something out of H.P. Lovecraft's worst nightmares, no doubt. His pencil jerked again, as did the rest of him, when he saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and heard a slamming noise. Soren jumped to his feet, breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room, seeking out any of the creatures that had come for him.

It took him a moment to realize that there was no imminent danger - at least, none that was apparent. He glanced at the drawing on the table; it was still.

No monsters.

Not yet.

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