the door locked from the outside
WHO: Katurian Katurian and anyone who wants to talk with him! (Open)
WHERE: All around NOHoPE
WHEN: Saturday the 5th through Tuesday the 8th
WARNINGS: None as of yet.
SUMMARY: Just an open log for visitors, doctors, other patients, etc. Please tag in with a date and time. :>
FORMAT: Whichever you please!
In their sessions, Dr. Nadia Verma had Katurian pound into the foam blocks she was holding, again and again, until he was wheezing and his good arm was sore, and then she told him to watch out, the City's got a new hero, and they both laughed because it wasn't true. He had been finding more reasons to laugh, lately. In his isolation, in his road to recovery after his latest breakdown, his medication had begun to set in, and while he didn't feel good, he felt a passing glimpse at it. A promise where he had no promise before. Something.
The therapy helped, too. He had given away his whole past to her. He had talked and talked and she had listened with a keen ear and a sharp gaze, her leg kicked up over the chair, and when he had finished, she had said, hell, how could you keep quiet for so long? and that was when she brought in the foam. It was lashing out without consequences. Without trails of words and language. It was almost nice.
(When it was over, between the gasps of laughter, he could feel that his elbow ached. Right above his elbow. A scratch he had given himself, his mind hummed. A mistake.)
He wrestled his copy of 1984 back from the nurses, although he knew they had seen his rambling writings inside of it. His theories. His accusations. He knew they had given it back to him to see what he would do, and that someone somewhere was ticking it off on his list of supposed delusions. Thinks he can change the past. Looks for messages in fiction. Verma asked him at the end of one of their sessions what that book meant to him, and he shook his head and said he needed inspiration-- and that he had found it.
On Saturday, February 5th, he was allowed to go to the recreation room again. He was allowed to have visitors. There was an energy in his eyes, now, that same energy he had when he told his stories in Central Park, when he mused aloud about turning his own misfortune into brilliant fiction in that jail cell so long ago, before his whole world crumbled and he arrived in the City. It was a look he hadn't had in a while.
WHERE: All around NOHoPE
WHEN: Saturday the 5th through Tuesday the 8th
WARNINGS: None as of yet.
SUMMARY: Just an open log for visitors, doctors, other patients, etc. Please tag in with a date and time. :>
FORMAT: Whichever you please!
In their sessions, Dr. Nadia Verma had Katurian pound into the foam blocks she was holding, again and again, until he was wheezing and his good arm was sore, and then she told him to watch out, the City's got a new hero, and they both laughed because it wasn't true. He had been finding more reasons to laugh, lately. In his isolation, in his road to recovery after his latest breakdown, his medication had begun to set in, and while he didn't feel good, he felt a passing glimpse at it. A promise where he had no promise before. Something.
The therapy helped, too. He had given away his whole past to her. He had talked and talked and she had listened with a keen ear and a sharp gaze, her leg kicked up over the chair, and when he had finished, she had said, hell, how could you keep quiet for so long? and that was when she brought in the foam. It was lashing out without consequences. Without trails of words and language. It was almost nice.
(When it was over, between the gasps of laughter, he could feel that his elbow ached. Right above his elbow. A scratch he had given himself, his mind hummed. A mistake.)
He wrestled his copy of 1984 back from the nurses, although he knew they had seen his rambling writings inside of it. His theories. His accusations. He knew they had given it back to him to see what he would do, and that someone somewhere was ticking it off on his list of supposed delusions. Thinks he can change the past. Looks for messages in fiction. Verma asked him at the end of one of their sessions what that book meant to him, and he shook his head and said he needed inspiration-- and that he had found it.
On Saturday, February 5th, he was allowed to go to the recreation room again. He was allowed to have visitors. There was an energy in his eyes, now, that same energy he had when he told his stories in Central Park, when he mused aloud about turning his own misfortune into brilliant fiction in that jail cell so long ago, before his whole world crumbled and he arrived in the City. It was a look he hadn't had in a while.