Deep in thought, Mello barely listened as the ever-perky nurse continued to try to sell him on various aspects of this place. "...wonderful chance for the patients to express themselves!" she concluded her latest spiel.
Give me a full clip, and I'll express myself all over the place, he thought, giving her his usual flat look. He hadn't seen the setup for arts and crafts yet, and while he didn't expect to find anything useful, he would've been remiss if he didn't at least look. There wasn't anything useful. The room had the same feel as the rest of the Institute, trying to be cheery but falling short enough to come off depressing instead. Maybe that was just Mello. Some of the other prisoners seemed to be getting on all right.
He took a few sheets of paper and a calligraphy pen, half-intending to pocket it, though there were better weapons to be found at night, grabbed a black magic marker as if in afterthought, and found an empty table. He got two fingernails colored black, the kind of pointless rebellion he'd almost always been too busy to bother with at Wammy's, before the nurse intervened.
"Really, Michael, that's unacceptable. These supplies are for art, not getting yourself dirty right after your shower."
"Jesus, lady, are you for real?" Mello snapped. That was a rhetorical question. He knew she was. "I'm expressing myself."
She took the marker away, and he indulged in a brief but vivid fantasy about finding a third bullet and delivering it to her. He had to do something tonight. Being reduced to kid shit like this (failing at it, too, came the unwanted, silent addendum, right on cue) was unacceptable. He'd find a more destructive outlet for his frustration later.
no subject
Give me a full clip, and I'll express myself all over the place, he thought, giving her his usual flat look. He hadn't seen the setup for arts and crafts yet, and while he didn't expect to find anything useful, he would've been remiss if he didn't at least look. There wasn't anything useful. The room had the same feel as the rest of the Institute, trying to be cheery but falling short enough to come off depressing instead. Maybe that was just Mello. Some of the other prisoners seemed to be getting on all right.
He took a few sheets of paper and a calligraphy pen, half-intending to pocket it, though there were better weapons to be found at night, grabbed a black magic marker as if in afterthought, and found an empty table. He got two fingernails colored black, the kind of pointless rebellion he'd almost always been too busy to bother with at Wammy's, before the nurse intervened.
"Really, Michael, that's unacceptable. These supplies are for art, not getting yourself dirty right after your shower."
"Jesus, lady, are you for real?" Mello snapped. That was a rhetorical question. He knew she was. "I'm expressing myself."
She took the marker away, and he indulged in a brief but vivid fantasy about finding a third bullet and delivering it to her. He had to do something tonight. Being reduced to kid shit like this (failing at it, too, came the unwanted, silent addendum, right on cue) was unacceptable. He'd find a more destructive outlet for his frustration later.
[for Lunge!]