(no subject)
Date/Time: Talking to Strangers/ Sunday, October 15th, 2006/ 2:32 PM
Location: Slythering Common Room
Open to: Adriana
Currently Involving: Illiana-- I mean, Illiad
There was no way he was going to be able to focus.
This fact hit him suddenly, in the chest-- so suddenly, that he felt his knees moving against his will to shut the Arithmancy book sitting on them with a hearty snap that echoed around the practically empty common room. There was simply too much on his mind. He couldn't focus-- not even on his favorite subject, Arithmancy.
Glancing down at the glass coffee table before him, Illiad saw his own reflection, remarking at once to himself how incredibly pale he was looking. All except, naturally, that bruise on his cheek. He'd done that one himself, angry with himself and with the shit that the rest of the world was currently dealing him. It had only happened last night-- in a fit of rage he'd never truly felt before, he'd started hitting his head against the countertop in the bathroom. Usually-- usually-- when he was this angry, he did it with his wand. But for some reason, that night, this had simply felt better.
Speaking of feeling better, Illiad felt a familliar mantra coming in through his head-- one that made him know he was, indeed, okay again. Or as okay as Illiad Hawkins could get.
I am cold. I am ice.
Location: Slythering Common Room
Open to: Adriana
Currently Involving: Illiana-- I mean, Illiad
There was no way he was going to be able to focus.
This fact hit him suddenly, in the chest-- so suddenly, that he felt his knees moving against his will to shut the Arithmancy book sitting on them with a hearty snap that echoed around the practically empty common room. There was simply too much on his mind. He couldn't focus-- not even on his favorite subject, Arithmancy.
Glancing down at the glass coffee table before him, Illiad saw his own reflection, remarking at once to himself how incredibly pale he was looking. All except, naturally, that bruise on his cheek. He'd done that one himself, angry with himself and with the shit that the rest of the world was currently dealing him. It had only happened last night-- in a fit of rage he'd never truly felt before, he'd started hitting his head against the countertop in the bathroom. Usually-- usually-- when he was this angry, he did it with his wand. But for some reason, that night, this had simply felt better.
Speaking of feeling better, Illiad felt a familliar mantra coming in through his head-- one that made him know he was, indeed, okay again. Or as okay as Illiad Hawkins could get.
I am cold. I am ice.