` I can feel you all around me [Anastasia]

[Damien Evans-Marks]

Damien was known for quite a few things in his life. One was that he was a gambler. One of the better ones around this place, that was for sure. He was also known for his somewhat cold personality, but sweet, caring underlying personality. The last thing; his inability to sleep. Insomnia made him stay up into the early hours of the morning unless he took his medicine. Today was one of the days where he felt that he didn’t really want to sleep. Though it was only about seven in the evening. He hadn’t really slept the last few days, and he was pretty tired, but he couldn’t really sleep at all. So he had decided maybe relaxing in the white lounge would occupy him. Who knew? Maybe make a few friend or enemy. Or something more, but he doubted it.

Walking down the hall, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His gaze was focused on his black Converse as his feet hit the floor. The hoodie he wore wasn’t really his normal style, but that day was one of those off days that he had. A white T-shirt was underneath, but wasn’t as easily noticeable. He ran a hand over his brown hair as he walked down the hall, suddenly stopping as the familiar hallway leading down to the White Lounge came into view.

Slowly walking towards the door, he grasped the knob in his hand before opening the door carefully. Looking inside, he sighed; there were one or two people still in the room. Oh well; it was better than a big crowd of people. Closing the door behind him, he went over to the couch, sitting down on the far right end, crossing his leg, his elbow resting on the arm rest as his eyes stared down at the table in front of the couch. Looking up, he tried to put names to the faces he saw, but none stuck out to him. Typical. Sighing, he leaned back, his head resting against the couch as he sat there.

Lately he’d been bored. It was a sad fact of life. He hadn’t had a good gamble in a while, and he hadn’t seen any faces he’d known for God knows how long. It made him feel as though his life was being wasted in this place. Part of him wondered why he hadn’t walked out of the place a long time ago. Oh right; because he would have been caught and dragged back to the place. It was the sad thing; even if you were sane, just had a problem with gambling and money, they still didn’t let you go free. How stupid was that? In Damien’s opinion, very stupid, but his opinion didn’t matter here, sadly.

He grabbed one of the magazines that were on the table, flipping through it absent-mindedly. There was nothing to take his interest, so he threw it back onto the table with a slightly bored flick of his wrist. Sighing, he bit the inside of his cheek as he decided to watch the one or two people in the room doing whatever they were doing. But pretty soon he ended up staring at his right Converse-covered foot, which was tapping the air absent-mindedly, almost as though his feet were telling him to just get up and walk out. Course, he couldn’t do that. For some reason, he felt like maybe this wouldn’t be a complete waste of the evening, but he couldn’t be sure. He was probably just too tired to move anywhere to care. That was the most likely reason why he didn’t move at all. So he continued sitting on the couch, his head resting against the knuckles of his right hand, which was being supported by his elbow on the arm rest, waiting for something to actually happen, so someone that he didn’t know to actually try and talk to him.

[Anastasia Jenkins]

Anastasia had absolutely nothing to do. What a rare, precious thing that was. She had reorganized her book shelf by alphabetical order of the author's last name, re-folded the clothes in her dresser drawers, hung up her clothing in the closet by the colors of the rainbow, and had placed her desk so that everything was perfectly symmetrical. She supposed she could start all over again, but she'd probably end up redoing it over and over again throughout the night. There had to be something other than this to do here. When she got here at first, she was excited. That probably seemed incredibly stupid of her, but at the time she was relieved to escape from her father and brother asking her every five minutes if she was alright and treating her like a leper. She was sick of being avoided at school and stuff and while packing her bags to come to Kailyn, she decided that maybe this place wouldn't be too bad.

Unfortunately, that was before she realized she had been sent to a mental hospital! She's known it was an institute, but she hadn't figured she'd end up locked up in a loony bin. Not that everyone here was completely crazy. Nah, most people here seemed as normal as she did. Which probably wasn't that normal when Ana thought about it. Anyways, at first this place hadn't seemed too bad. People here would treat her normally instead of always worrying about her. She figured that wasn't the case when that doctors gave her meds and kept asking if she wanted to talk about anything. No, she didn't! Now, Anastasia wouldn't say she was forced here against her will, but in her defense she didn't know it was this sort of hospital.

The white walls in her room were driving her crazy. Whoever had decided that white was a 'soothing' color had probably been a little loony themselves. She had to get out of this room. She already felt herself picking her room apart, trying to find the slightest thing out of order. Anastasia picked up her black sweater, draped it over her purple top, and sped out the door before slamming it. However, before she could proceed down the hall, she opened her door a crack and reached her hand in to make sure the photo was still at a perfect 180 degree angle. After making sure it wasn't crooked, she shut the door lightly this time and walked down the hallway, her flats making clacking sounds on the ground underneath her.

Where to go, where to go. Honestly, what was there to do here? Everything was 'safe' so that none of the patients could hurt themselves and everything was painted the same old white and cream colors. What she wouldn't give to splatter the walls with red, or green, even pink! She made her way down the hallway, biting her lip and self consciously pulling on the bottom of her shirt before brushing the dark hair out of her chocolate eyes. She walked down an unfamiliar hall until she found the room she was looking for. The White Lounge. Oh how she hoped the name of it wasn't an indication of the room inside. If it was, she may just go as crazy as people expected her to be. She leaned against the door for a moment, breathing in a count of three, then opened the door and looked inside.

The first thing that hit her was creamy white. Of course. "Great," she muttered. These people really needed to learn that white would probably just drive more people insane. The next thing that she noticed that there were people inside! None of whom looked as insane as she was feeling at the moment, but she couldn't really judge their appearances. She dragged her feet over to the couch, seating herself on the opposite side of it from the guy who looked as bored as she felt and grabbed a magazine. Instantly, she noted the mess of the magazines on the table and grasped them all in her hands. Neatly, she divided them into piles, choosing the piles by determining the category of the magazine. Entertainment on the right, then tabloids, next business, further back sports, and then finally the others. Anastasia clasped her hands together, looking relieved at the organized piles and then felt herself calm instantly.

The OCD hadn't been bothering her as much as it had at first, but there was still a part of her mind that was nagging her to organize things, to make sure every single thing is perfectly straight and symmetrical. Ana pinched her nose for a moment, trying to being those thoughts out of her mind, and then she smiled in perfect serenity. Alright, that was a lie. She smiled because she had to. If she wanted to get better, or whatever else this treatment was supposed to do, she had to at least act like it. Of course, the smile on her face was probably looking maniacal to these 'patients' and honestly, she couldn't blame then. She was in a mental hospital. She was insane. No freaking way. It finally registered that people had given up on her. Her father, her brother, all her friends thought she was loony. Who knows, maybe she was the only one who didn't. Maybe she did belong here, with the pyros and the people who had full conversations with themselves. Maybe she should shave her head, the mark of a true crazy person.

Great, now she was on the brink of total insanity.

[Damien Evans-Marks]

Turning his head up, he sighed as he was greeted with cream walls. What was with doctors and white? White lab coats, white uniforms, white walls, white bed sheets. It was just so freaking annoying. White drove these teenagers more insane than being stuck in his place. This place would be almost like boarding school if it wasn’t for the stupid white walls and everything. He could understand the white lounge being white; it was hinted in the name. But the whole building’s name wasn’t White Institute or something. So why did the whole bloody school need to be white?

Those were the thoughts that were running through is head as he waited for something to happen. And something did. Hearing the door open, he looked up slowly, seeing a girl pop her head in the door. Raising an eyebrow, he turned his attention to his black Converse, his right foot continuing that rhythmic tapping. He felt her sit down on the edge of the couch, on the other side, and he sighed. Great. It she was one of those talkers, he would probably go jump in the fountain. But he didn’t hear any words from her. But when he felt her lean forward, he turned towards her curiously.

Watching her organize the magazines on the table, he watched her, slightly amused. She probably had OCD. Either that, or the girl had something else wrong in the end if the magazines bugged her. He watched until she was finished, and he watched her clasp her hands together as she looked down at the piles the magazines were in now. Clearing his throat, his eyebrow was still raised as he spoke. “Did that really bug you?” He didn’t mean that in a mean way at all; it was just funny for him to see this. For him, he didn’t care the order of things. As long as he could find them later on, he didn’t care how they were set up. Obviously this girl needed order in her life.

He looked her up and down, taking in her appearance. Dark brown hair that was in slight waves, black sweater. Girl seemed to be one of those little proper girls. He didn’t blame her; it was a good look for her. He just didn’t think many people here had that kind of look. She looked….innocent. That was a word for it. Like one of the younger patients that went here. He gave her a soft smirk before saying, “You new here?” That was on his mind. He couldn’t recall seeing her at the institute before, so his first thought was either that she was new, or he had just missed her in the crowd of other people in the institute.

He decided to be nice. The girl seemed to be just recovering from some kind of attack. Maybe she was s serious OCD case or something. He didn’t want to make her nervous or something. Then it would be on his hands. Sticking his hand out, he said, “Damien. What’s your name?” He spoke in a soft, yet clear voice. He wasn’t usually this polite, but he didn’t want the girl to feel as though he hated her at first sight. Which he didn’t; something about the girl made him curious.

[Anastasia Jenkins]

As she looked around the room, her dark eyes glinting in slight amusement, she felt the guy on the couch stir. She didn't, however, look back over at him just then. This room looked perfectly...dull. Everything in here was bland and colorless, especially the walls, and there didn't seem like much to do. She deliberated over whether she wanted to pick up a magazine or not, wondering how long she could go before the crookedness of the table that held the magazines drove her up the wall. She held her hands together, hopefully not looking like a total freak, but then relaxed when she realized it didn't matter. So what if she did? This was a mental institution. She gripped her hands tighter, trying to will herself mentally not to straighten out the table. Finally, the war between her willpower and the OCD ended and she found herself tugging on the corner so the table was perfectly straight.

She couldn't suppress the sigh of relief that came out of her mouth at the sight of the perfectly straight, perfectly organized table. Now that it appeared to be in order, Anastasia felt herself relax into the couch and she allowed the frown from her face to disappear. She had completely forgotten about the blue eyed boy beside her until she heard his voice. She found herself thinking that he did, in fact, have a rather nice voice. It was clear and smooth, nothing like the rasp she was so used to hearing from most of the guys she used to know. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes, it did." She may have gotten a tad too defensive over his words, but it wasn't actually any of his business. She softened the defensive edge in her voice and replied once again."Sorry, I just hate messes. Can't stand them, actually."

She arched one of her dark eyebrows, wondering how on earth he got away with looking over people, girls in particular, so conspicuously. Must be one of those guys who doesn't care about what people think of him. Good for him, she'd be extremely lucky if she ever reached half of that level of confidence. She primly put her hands on her lap and found herself looking over at him. The Converse shoes, bright blue eyes...He had the appearance of a normal guy and a great looking one at that. She wondered what he was here for. Maybe Mr. Confidence was a pyromaniac. Or maybe someone with multiple personality disorder. Hopefully not the latter, because Anastasia wasn't too sure how she'd deal with that one. "Just got here a week or to ago. Got any tips about how to not go completely crazy living here?"

God she hoped he did. She wasn't sure how long she could last here without tearing her hair out or doing some other melodramatic act of the insane. On that note, Anastasia wasn't sure she was the crazy one in her family and she didn't even want to think about the one who was. Her mother had tried to send her four letters from rehab, but they were all torn to shreds and locked in a box underneath her bed. She didn't even want to think about what was written in them. "Anastasia." There it was, the long name that she used to hate but soon realized it wasn't as horrible as names like Prue or Fredricka. She extended her hand and shook his lightly, offering him a tentative upwards turn of her lips. "So what got you thrown into this 'institute', Damien?''

[Damien Evans-Marks]

He watched her, that amused look never wiping off his face as he watched the girl beside him fixing the table so that it was perfectly aligned. Wow. Serious case this one must have been. He couldn’t help but chuckle a bit thinking that; he didn’t really know anyone that had this bad of OCD, but it was quite interesting. For him, anyways. He just found things like this amusing. He had no idea why. Probably because the girl looked to be probably the most normal looking girl he’d seen around here in such a long time.

Hearing a sigh escape her before she turned to him, he figured that he might have been forgotten from her mind. Either that or he wasn’t important enough. Either way, he wasn’t expecting that hard edge in her voice as she snapped at him. Eyebrow raised, he looked at her before hearing her apologize, and he shook his head at her. “It’s cool. And I’m not saying anything’s wrong with it. It’s just weird.” Okay, so one thing to know about Damien; he never thought about what he said. What he said, he meant, and what he meant, he said. It was always the case with him.

He gave her a once over, and he had to admit, she was a pretty cute looking normal person. Brown hair that was wavy, ending at about her shoulders, chocolate eyes, pale flawless skin. She looked to be one of the most normal people he’d met so far. Okay, that might not have been exactly true, but she was definitely up there. Hearing her question, he laughed. “My suggestion? Just ignore what everyone else says and treat this place like a school.” That’s pretty much what it was; a boarding school. Except with mental cases or people will addictions or whatever. It was just a different kind of school.

He felt her take his hand, and he shook it almost as lightly as she shook it. She might have been apprehensive, or it could have been normal. He wasn’t sure, but it made him wonder; was she one of those quiet girls, or one of those wild ones that was quiet at first and then grew to be louder than life? He didn’t know, and he was curious to find out. Hearing her name, he gave her that same soft smirk. “Nice name.” It was a pretty unique name. He hadn’t met an Anastasia yet, so he couldn’t confuse her with anyone else. Hearing her question, he raised an eyebrow. He had been certain he saw a slight upturn of her lips. “Me? Oh, you know, a little bit of gambling, a little bit of sleepless nights, you know.” he shrugged; he wasn’t exactly proud of his insomnia, but he was sure as hell proud of gambling. He was one of the best; he still had the money he saved up from games under his bed in a box for the day he left the God-forsaken place and got a place of his own. He looked her up and down before saying casually, “So are you one of those visitors that want to live here, or do you actually have a reason to be here?” He didn’t mean to sound like that, but that was him; never thinking and just talking. Sometimes it was good, sometimes bad; he just wondered how this girl took it.

[Anastasia Jenkins]

His chuckles made her flush a bit in embarrassment, but it wasn't strange for someone to be laughing at her about her OCD so it didn't bother her much. She shrugged rather sheepishly at him and then looked down at her feet, still a little bit embarrassed by the way she blatantly moved the table. If she hadn't moved it then, it would be a constant reminder in her mind, like a never ending beep of a pager, until it was perfectly aligned. She looked back up at Damien, her skin slowly draining of the pink color. He didn't seem to exactly fit in at a place like this, with his golden boy good looks and his blatant...well, his obvious averageness. He didn't seem to have split personalities or a social problem, but there must be something that got him sent here. Then again, just because he was one of the better looking people she'd seen here, it didn't mean that he didn't have multiple personality disorder or fear of socializing.

She did, however, feel bad for snapping at him. She'd barely been here a week and already she was feeling like a caged bird. Honestly, how did people survive here without going crazy? Oh, wait, this was a mental institute. How much more insane could someone get? Anastasia wasn't willing to test out that theory and frankly, wouldn't want to see anyone try it. The forks were plastic, the knives an even softer plastic since it was rumored that some sociopath tried to stab his roommate with a leftover utensil. "Believe me, I know. It can't get much weirder then getting up in class and starting to organize the desks while everyone else is leaving. It's just...messes and disorganization get stuck in my head until I can't take it anymore and I've been known to get a little too stressed because of it."

She bit her inner lip, looking over Damien with her dark eyes. He was better looking than she gave him credit for, with his tousled golden blond locks and pink lips. Not to mention the electric blue eyes that managed to keep drawing her gaze back into them. She'd never actually seen that shade of blue in someone's eyes before and it was really nice to look at. Drawn out of her thoughts by his next answer, she pouted slightly. "That's probably easier said then done. How long have you been here anyways? You seemed experienced with this place." The white walls were still driving her mad, but she managed to ignore them a bit longer. So that's what this place was. A boarding school. A place for people to bond or whatever. She liked the sound of that. Who cared if there were crazies here? As long as they weren't homicidal she'd been fine.

She managed a small smile and looked up at him, feeling the lightness of his shake. It wasn't that she was afraid of physical contact or anything, she just was careful about who to trust. Life at the Institute seemed easier then life was back home. There would be no one to be considered a freak seeing as they were all essentially freaks, just of different kinds "Thanks, Damien isn't so bad either." It definitely wasn't. Between the name and the color of his eyes, he would definitely be easy to remember. He seemed pretty honest and even if some of his words came out wrong, it didn't seem like he meant to be rude. "There's people who want to stay here?" She asked in disbelief, though she could understand why. "No, I have a reason. Some pretty bad OCD, as you can probably tell and when I get too stressed I get panic attacks, which used to happen a lot. And a little bit of 'night terrors', or whatever they call them." Wiggling her fingers at 'night terrors' she smirked. Anastasia tried hard to sound casual about her 'problems' or whatever they called them and it seemed to work pretty well. "Well Damien, how's the whole 'I must quit gambling' thing going for you?"

[Damien Evans-Marks]

His eyes stayed focused on her. She was probably the most interesting thing in the room. Okay, so he didn’t really refer to her as a ‘thing’. A beautiful person, yes. So it was how he thought; everyone else just kept to themselves, afraid to make friends. Sure, he had expected her to snap at him, but he had been a bit of a prick laughing at her for fixing the table, but it had amused him. Sue him for having no life and laughing at that. Hearing her speak, he let his eyes look her up and down. Seeing her, she did seem like the type to worry about the order of things. She looked like a clean cut person, and that was interesting. He didn’t blame her in the slightest; he found her quite interesting, even with the little weird OCD moments.

His focus went back toher as she spoke, hearing her ask him how long he’d been there. He tried to think; it’d probably been over a year, maybe nearly two now. Okay, so he might have been out earlier if it weren’t for the ‘I love gambling’ addiction he had. But he couldn’t exactly lie to this girl. So clearing his throat, he spoke in that same clear, yet soft, voice, “Hm..a little over a year now. Probably close to two by now, though…not sure. I’ve kind of lost count.” It was true. He’d been here so long that he rarely ever counted anymore. It was just ‘Oh, it’s Sunday’ or whatever day it is and that was it. He enver really cared.

Hearing her say Damien wasn’t a bad name, he rolled his eyes. He hated his name. His past roommate also had the name Damien, but of course he left. Why, who knows. But it was weird sharing a room with another Damien. Then they’d get confused as to who a visitor was referring to. And that made it difficult. He chuckled slightly, hearing her question. “There are those few psychotics that love to live here.” He remembered one of the doctor’s kids had actually wanted to stay at this place, and thinking that made him laugh out loud. He quickly stopped when he remembered he wasn’t alone; the girl would probably think he was psychotic. “Sorry. Just remembered something funny.” better than going into detail. Hearing her talk, he nodded. Though he didn’t seem to be that crazy or anything, he knew something had to have been in her to get her sent here of all places. Hearing her last question, he laughed. “Oh, quite, quite well.” There was sarcasm in his voice, which was easily heard so she shouldn’t have mistake anything. It just made him laugh; he didn't try to quit. He just loved gambling; it was a rush when it was a particularly difficult game, where he could have either earned more money than needed, or lost everything. So he rarely ever tried to quit. Though he would probably soon, just to be able to leave that place and actually live life.