Whitley Duke Psychiatric Center // Rp thread // REMAKE // SIGN-UP LINK INSIDE

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    2. 2 things
    1 panic attacks are much different from mental breakdowns. during a panic attack she would not have even left the room and would be crying hyperventilated and dizzy.
    2 May does not know old insults are being thrown at her all that is going on inside her head on the outside she looks like she is having a possible anxiety attack
    Eventually the other voice did come and started defending her though in the end her protests of not being weak were drown out, the nice voice beginning a screaming match with the taunting voice. Her thoughts couldn't be processed and her brain was filled with screaming. next she could tell is the voices died out and her eyes shifted to the dull black clock sitting next to her bed. She must have fallen asleep. Funny, she felt more tired than before. slowly she uncurled herself he right foot landing on the floor followed by her left as she stood walking back towards the room she had fled not to long ago. her tongue darted over the thread through her lips and a small sigh pushed through the blocked opening.

    May shrugged, she would rather be alone right now anyways. She flopped on to her bed, she had nothing near insomnia but she always happened to find fatigue creeping into her bones. Although she didn't desire to sleep, she found herself missing her melatonin (a sleeping medicine). She rolled up the sleeves of her arctic monkey sweater, my it was hot in here, which left 1/4 of her scars exposed. She wasnt all to sure if she should keep these hidden from her inmates. Her voices seemed to love them. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them to stare at the ceiling blankly. She couldn't do this, she got up too fast and walked down the hallway without her vision all the way to the day room. When all the spots cleared, she sat by a window

    [font=times new roman]{It was just an explanation. Please, just keep the drama ic <333}
    /mobile

    (Can someone please tell me what the hell's going on? I can't click the things with my stupid fingers, in fact, I'm surprised I can type on this at all D; I'm havin a long busy week, have school today see you in six.)

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    [size=25pt]AGLAIA[/size]
    I had an angel on my shoulder,

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    I'm so sorry I did not mean that to sound rude it's just a common mistake that gets annoying after a while.
    So rose had a small mental breakdown she is going back to the day room where most people are right now. Please add more if you know more others.



    not my wrists

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    [font=times new roman][color=Maroon]but the devil always won.


    [font=arial][color=red][size=5pt]©callie, edited by frostiful


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    His black hair covered his eyes, and he was cuddling his fox tail. His best friend had given this tail, and his beloved kitty backpack to him before he was admitted here. How he missed her. Dixon had to wonder if she still thought about their adventures, and if they'd ever meet again. He was getting out of his old habits; he no longer had blood streaming from his arms. What a perfectly good, clean wrist; it was no longer like that anymore. His brown eyes traveled to the mirror, where he sat up on his bed and looked at himself. What a mess he'd become since he had friendly contact with the outside world. With one mistake it all was havoc. So, he stared, thinking of the girl he knew as his best friend in the whole world and still thought there was a possible chance of finding her again. If only he could be released.

    [justify]
    [size=9px]Jack meandered out of the room, making sure to keep an eye on the other two in the room. Bored. Bored. Bored. Everything in this place was dull, and blurred. At least, that's how he imagined it. Anything even remotely interesting was to be taken away, because it could become a dangerous weapon. He thought that had to be the stupidest thing ever. As he took the stairs back to his shared room, his mind turned to his parents for the first time in a while. How were they doing? Probably better off without him.


    Jack turned into his room, and spotted one of the other boys in his room. His name he remembered. Dixon. Dixon was on his bed, clutching what seemed to be something soft. Jack frowned, and turned away. Though they were roommates, he couldn't remember the last time he had said a word to them. A word to anyone, in fact. But honestly, why should he have to talk to these people?


    (I apologize for my last post, I was having an extremely bad day. Family stuff happened and I took it out on someone I didn't know. To clarify, it wasn't I that thought it was a panic attack, but Jack being ignorant. I fully understand what they are, having had many myself.)

    The boyish 23 year old looked at Jack, signalling a little wave. He didn't honestly know who he was, since they'd rarely ever talked. His eyes brightened up in hope that maybe they'd share a word together again, but perhaps he had too much faith in conversing with anyone. It was as if in this whole decade he'd been in this room, he had never befriended anyone and the closest he'd ever gotten to a friend was his sketchbook. For a while, he thought that was all he ever needed.

    Now, Dixon was focused on having human interactuon and contact again. He hadn't spoken but a few words and phrases since his time in the center, nor did he hold a full conversation with any of the inmates here. Maybe this would be the day, the day he remembered how his jokes would make the girl whom he never knew her name laugh. He wondered if the beautiful people ehre would laugh at them, too.

    [justify]
    [size=9px]Jack took off his hat, the one he had used countless times to hide himself. Throwing it on his bed, he brushed away the strawberry blonde hair. He watched as the older boy's eyes brightened, and he narrowed his. Paranoia set in, and he looked around frantically. No, no, there was nothing Dixon could use to hurt him. Jack pulled his sleeves over his too small wrists, and rubbed the bone that popped out there. His green-blue eyes darkened, and he sat on his bed.


    Jack opened his mouth, and then abruptly shut it. Was making conversation a bad move on his part? Potentially, yes.

    "Are you scared of talking, too..?" he asked, his voice surprisingly deeper than his appearance would allow to match. He didn't want Jack to ignore him, but he also didn't want to irritate anyone. That was neevr the purpose, and that was all he ever did to anyone. He always ended up irritating his parents. Maybe they were better now, and maybe they've forgotten him. He focused again, turning on his bed to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling, his fox tail in his left arm, and with his right with the tattooed thumb, he fiddled with his blue spide bite loops.

    May sighed boredly and flipped over in her chair, her purple hair pooled on the ground and her legs draped over the back of the to balance herself. The images around her twisted and blurred as blood rushed to her occupied and tainted head. She let out a giggle and then groaned in aggravation, the restlessness was eating her alive. The temptation crept through her bones, leaving her feeling cold. If only people here would help take her mind away from the reminiscing and self conscious taunting her voices tortured her with.

    [justify]
    [size=9px]Jack turned to face him, glimpsing the tattoo on his thumb. Jack scowled, and muttered, "No." Afraid of talking? What a preposterous idea. Jack looked down at his own arms, pale and inkless. He'd never thought of getting a tattoo, it seemed like it hurt. Besides, he was afraid of needles. "Why would I be afraid of talking?" Jack asked, his voice shifting from anger to mild curiosity.

    "I'm not sure. I was always afraid of talking..." he said, looking down at his thumb. He read it over and over. "Maybe that's because I haven't talked a full conversation in nearly a decade." Dixon mumbled, messing with the trings that tied the tail around his finger. He untied it and tied it again as if in a trance, but honestly had zoned yet again as he always had.

    Here.

    IC:

    Dixon stared, skipping down the stairs and heading out to the garden, slipping away to pick himself a rose to add to his collection. His eyes darted around the luxurious greenhouse, picking himself a blue opium. Yes, it was poisonous, but there was a very odd, strange beauty of the harmful.