(no subject)
Characters: Basil Hallward
Rating: PG at the highest
Time Period: Modern
Location: The Greenhouse
Relative Date Several weeks after starting to suffer nightmare and insomnia related to the earthquake
Status: Open
He could not remember a time in his life when painting had been this difficult. Even as a small child he had felt more confident in his scribblings than he did now, sitting in front of a hyacinth plant, trying to figure out how best to turn his pot of blue pigments into a representation of this blossom-heavy flower. He had promised he would start painting again, trying to make himself do his old things to keep himself busy and force a sense of normalcy after his death.
So here he'd been since late morning, painting flowers. Or trying to. So far he was unhappy with all of his pages of work and this hyacinth blossom didn't look like it was going to turn out much better. He picked up his brush and examined it as if it held the mystery as to why he was struggling. He imagined the three tormented hours of sleep and more hours of equally tormented wandering the castle halls in the dark had something to do with it, trying to escape the oppressive, panicking feelings induced by staying in his room. Even his fear of being attacked again could not overcome this new, inexplicable terror. When he did sleep, he had dreams being chased down a long hallway filled with horrible, disfigured portraits of his friends.
But now he was in the bright sunshine, safe from the terrors of the night, breathing the sweet morning air, heavy with the perfume of flowers.
Rating: PG at the highest
Time Period: Modern
Location: The Greenhouse
Relative Date Several weeks after starting to suffer nightmare and insomnia related to the earthquake
Status: Open
He could not remember a time in his life when painting had been this difficult. Even as a small child he had felt more confident in his scribblings than he did now, sitting in front of a hyacinth plant, trying to figure out how best to turn his pot of blue pigments into a representation of this blossom-heavy flower. He had promised he would start painting again, trying to make himself do his old things to keep himself busy and force a sense of normalcy after his death.
So here he'd been since late morning, painting flowers. Or trying to. So far he was unhappy with all of his pages of work and this hyacinth blossom didn't look like it was going to turn out much better. He picked up his brush and examined it as if it held the mystery as to why he was struggling. He imagined the three tormented hours of sleep and more hours of equally tormented wandering the castle halls in the dark had something to do with it, trying to escape the oppressive, panicking feelings induced by staying in his room. Even his fear of being attacked again could not overcome this new, inexplicable terror. When he did sleep, he had dreams being chased down a long hallway filled with horrible, disfigured portraits of his friends.
But now he was in the bright sunshine, safe from the terrors of the night, breathing the sweet morning air, heavy with the perfume of flowers.