Snippet #14194

The early morning sky. It's become so predictable. The cold gray already had the faintest signs of sunlight whitening its thinner spaces. A mild wind was gusting through the trees, already beginning to push the silvery puffs away. I wished it would rain. For thunder and for lightning. For heavy sheets of rain. That would more-or-less accentuate this place. Yes, like every sanitarium - or most others, really - the grounds were pleasant. But underneath it all was the underlying horror of those who resided here. The psychotic. The disturbed. The delusional. Those deemed a danger to themselves, or to society.

Me.

I sigh. A space of fog blurs the window, but fades quickly. The glass is cool to the touch. I didn't actually feel it, it seemed to give off that airy chill. The window was rimmed with black steel, and the glass was shatterproof . . correction: Shatter-resistant. I wasn't suicidal, but they still took the precaution. I wasn't crazy, so why was I here? I laugh internally. "Not crazy". Don't they all say that? I find the cliche both annoying, and somewhat unsettling. I had my right leg on the bed. My room was not facing the street. It overlooked the extensive grounds of the Academy. A long field, dotted with tiny trees. About a mile away was a forest. Wind made the branches and leaves sway rhythmically. I'd written a lot of poems about the wind and the clouds.
Aether cotton of icy, steely silver,
O'er the windswept fields and forests play,
But even with all the weight in the world, granted from thine titanium shade,
Still you are moved by the wind's slightest sigh.
Not one of my best, but one of my more recent.

There was a knock at the door and I turned to see which nurse it was this time. She opened the door and smiled with shocked surprise, "Oh! You're already up." she said, a slight tremble in her voice. She was new, I could tell. I had already showered and dressed; black jeans, socks, sneakers, and t-shirt. I was always up this early. I tilted my head to the left, black hair falling over my left eye. Her eyes flicked to the wall over my desk. Pages from my sketch pads had been tacked to the white wall; they depicted the same figure: Rippling with muscle, carrying a bloody hatchet, but the face was a dark blur. Empty. She swallowed hard and looked back to me, "I was told," she continued, "to tell you to come down and eat breakfast. According to your doctor you haven't eaten breakfast in three days."

I wasn't hungry, "I'm not hungry." I decided on being blunt. She looked a little more nervous, as if she thought I was dangerous. Couldn't really blame her.

She pursed her lips, "The doctor said you need to eat breakfast." she said, trying a more authoritative tone. I looked back at the window and let a ghost of a smile quirk the corner of my lips.

"I'll be down in a minute." I relented.

((A bit long, yes, but I wanted to try and give a general idea of Damien's personality.))