St. Peter's Asylum discussion

"Um..." Self-consciously, Peter began to scratch a hidden wrist. The wounds were not yet healed, and he winced as he scratched at the burning wounds.

An arch of one eyebrow. "Not good?"

"Guess not," he muttered, sitting in a chair far enough away from the artist that he couldn't touch him. Again, he refused to look at him.

Timothy frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the scratching writer replied, sucking in a silent curse of pain. He kept his tone stiff, not wanting to reveal too much.

One eyebrow was arched in disbelief, but Timothy shrugged it off and went back to his book

[Hmmm, I don't wanna fade so how should we do this?]

[idunno. You're the one with the untalkative guy XD]

[LOL, true... Grrrr. Curse my untalkative guy.]

"So. How are... You?" The words were forced, but at least Peter was talking. And looking at Timothy, though his eyes revealed too much. The fear and the caution couldn't be hidden, and especially not to Timothy.

Luckily, the artist didn't look up as he replied. "I'm fine."

"Oh." Peter looked away, mouth twitching slightly to prevent him from saying anymore. Sighing, Peter restrained himself from scratching anymore, as he was certain that he had began to bleed again. He just prayed it wouldn't seep through his clothes.

There was a certain awkwardness kn the air that Timothy felt, but he did his best to ignore it as he read on.

Peter, meanwhile, was having a battle with himself. He was deciding on how to best approach the topic, yet wasn't sure how. I'm a homophobe, but the kiss had been nice. Just wrong.

So, did you get tested again?

Instead, he settled on something more blunt. "I did it again."

A cock of his head to the side. "Did what?"

White teeth tore at the soft flesh of lips, causing them to bleed again. "Qhat got me in here." Tears stung at his eyes, but he managed to swallow the hot lump in his throat.

Timothy paused. "Mhhhm..."

Peter hesitated, wondering if he remembered why he was here in the first place. "And I got caught."

Grey eyes flicked up from the page. "Okay."

"And um, I did it because I'm... Iunno." He gave up quickly on that sentence. Too much too soon. He shook his head, running hands through his blonde waves, trying not to pull them out from frustration.

Timothy smiled sadly. "It's okay; don't tell me if you don't want to."

Peter huffed, looking down at his hands. "It's not that... It's just hard. I don't want to upset you... And it's a hard thing to confess."

A simple shrug. "Then don't."

"I'm scared of myself." He kept his words to himself, barely audible to the demon-drawer beside him. And you, too, I suppose.

Timothy failed to hear Peter, or if he did, he did a good job of hiding it.

Peter watched Timothy for a reaction of some sort. He got none. Maybe it would be best to save this topic for a rainy day, put it in his back pocket. "So, how far are you?" He nodded towards the book.

Timothy glanced down. "About halfway. [Describes scene]."

"Good part. What else have you read by him?"

"[Lists random books cuz I'm too lazy to look on my shelf:3]. Yourself?"

"[Lists mostly same books except a few to keep conversation going]. I like him and James Patterson, as well."

[... I'm derping. This is awk XD]

[Okay. Lol. ~Fade~]

An odd sight adorned the library today-- Roxanne herself, perfectly put in the open. Lap acted as a desk, and journal was set atop her legs. Flowing, cursive writing decorated the page, and trailed it's way back to Roxie's pen as she wrote.

An innocent look was placed upon the dark woman. Her blonde hair, held back only slightly by a black beret, released a few strands to hang j. Front of her mint-green gaze. Pearly teeth bit down on one plush lip as the black-marketeer herself wracked her brain.

From across the room came the gentle rustle of a book's turning pages as Raven thumbed through a copy of Suzanne Collin's The Hunger Games. How ironic it was to him: the library was unintentionally giving these lunatics (himself included) ideas with which they could use to kill people. And so creative they were, too! A soft chuckle escaped his lips at the thought of the patients here turning upon one another with knives and spears and bows and arrows.

Gaze flashed to the dark boy in the corner; a moment of doubt, and then Roxie quickly recognized him as the mysterious Raven.

Pulling her legs up beside her, glossy black heels glinting in the sunlight shining through the window, Roxie smiled at the boy. "I don't believe we've met."

Raven glanced up from the book, folding a corner of the page back to mark it before it closed. "We haven't," he confirmed as he looked the girl over. He didn't recognize her right off the bat; there were a lot of blondes in this place. But she certainly seemed different from the others he'd met--she carried herself with much more confidence than the patients.

Leaning across the space between the pair, a hand was offered. "I'm Roxie, though a lot of the patients just call me Mama." She smiled.

"They call me Raven," said he in response, grasping her hand and shaking it firmly. His lips twitched as if he wanted to smirk when she mentioned her nickname. "You look after people here, eh?" Raven hoped she wasn't one of those stalker-nurses. He couldn't stand them. Always bugging him, asking him questions about what he was doing...it made him grind his teeth together in irritation just thinking about it.

Roxie returned her hand to her lap and snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. I take care of their needs, that's all."

"Their needs," Raven repeated. He frowned thoughtfully. "Say, you wouldn't happen to be that famous girl who runs the "black market", would you?" he asked, using air quotes. He'd heard a lot about the girl who volunteered at the asylum and smuggled all kinds of things to the murderers and psychopaths--those of the bad crowd liked to rave about her prices.

Hands were folded, and as Roxie crossed her legs she rested her hands upon her right calf. "If I was, what would your opinion be?"

"Hmmm." Raven looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked her in the eye. "I might say that you were brave, creative, quite interesting and most definitely a little stupid. But if you want an elaboration, you'll have to answer my question." He took a seat on top of the table and crossed his arms, ignoring the librarian who snapped her fingers at him when he did so.

A small smirk, and Roxie chuckled. "Welcome to the Black-Market, hon. How can I serve you?"

Raven returned her smirk with one of his own, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not interested in anything," he told her. "I'm not somebody who would require your services, however famed they might be." He tapped his fingers against the tabletop, shrugging as he said, "apparently, they've got me in here simply because I'm a very naughty boy."

"What'd you do?" Inquired Roxie with a tilt of her head. Blonde locks cascaded down one shoulder, along with the dropping of a rather loose, long black sleeve.

"Hacked into a couple of important places, robbed a couple stores in my younger days." A pause before he added, "killed my parents. You know. Just the usual moderate to major type of criminal activity."

Roxie chuckled darkly. "No shit? Did they toss you in jail for killing 'em?"

"They tried to," Raven replied. "But I'm just a teenager, so they couldn't. They sent me here instead." He looked around, then lowered his head and leaned forward towards Roxie. "I'm being watched," he whispered dramatically, pulling back with a grin.

Roxie laughed. "That makes two of us, kid. You don't know the hell k go through for these patients; cops on every street."

"I feel your pain," Raven muttered. "Feels like all of them are going to look at you and claim to know who you are and what you did. It's complete and utter torture." A pause, a tilt of his head as he studied her. "What kind of hell do you go through, Roxie? All the high-securities can't stop talking about your high prices and smuggled little gifts."

"Well, you see kid, a while ago my boyfriend convinced me to drop from school with him. Long story short, I do, we live in a motel, he starts screwing around with these two blondes. I find 'em, I shoot 'em, you know? Then I'm supposed to be killed, found guilty in court, and so I run."

Roxie sighed. "The patients need dogs, or knives, or... Anything else, really. But the cops are really hard to avoid."