Asylum

The Dragon

Sarah Lewinski

I found out that we had a newcomer the day after he arrived. That's odd, but I'm delighted at the fact. I'm tired of painting these same old faces over and over. I need a fresh set of eyes to color, a new profile to study. Hopefully, this newbie has some inspirational features. I heard that he's a boy, but that's about it. Maybe he's younger, like me. I'm only 15, which makes it harder to socialize with everyone else because they just see me as some little girl.

Currently, I'm painting an abstract of the scorch mark that Elektra's lightning left on a cement wall in the courtyard. I use watercolors and shades of everything but black. My hand makes graceful swoops and curves to master the shape of the scar on the wall. Taking my hand back, I observe what I've done so far. However, I do so abrasively and some of the watercolor gets on my long sleeves. Sure, it comes out, but this is my outfit for today.

The sun beats down on my back and I wonder if I should take a break and go inside, anyways. I head to the right wing of Asylum, the room complex for girls, and enter my room. Taking off my shirt, I look myself in the long mirror.

You might be wondering: why even wear long sleeves if you know you're going to be outside all day?

Well, let me paint you a picture. My skin is a collaboration of lacerations, scars, and stretch marks. I wasn't abused as a child. This wasn't from my parents. When I was taken from them by Asylum, my parents kicked and clawed to get me back but...oddly enough, I can't remember what happened to them.

People who know about my powers call me Voodoo Doll. If I focus my energy on someone in particular, I can cause them pain by hurting myself. If I wanted to give someone the effects of being stabbed, I'd pinpoint them and stab myself. A perk of my body is that it heals at a faster, superhuman rate. What might kill someone else will only make me bleed. Unlike the others here, I don't have any markings besides my self-inflicted scars.

There's so many because I was taken to Asylum when I was only nine. I was picked on a lot and physically bullied. Once I proved I could handle myself and more, everyone backed off. Eventually, I had no use for my ability. So rather than use the ruggedness of a razor or the brutality of a knife, I resorted to the elegance of a brush and the grace of a stroke.

But that doesn't mean I wear my coat of marks proudly. I cover up every inch of myself whenever I can.

Another oddity or two about my body, are my hair and eyes. My hair is thick, shoulder length, wavy, and an estranged cream color. My eyes are a shade of light lavender. The mutations coin me as dainty and delicate and easily harmed, but don't let that fool you. I can handle myself.

Once I'm dressed, I head back down to the courtyard to finish my work.

There's a crowd of people gathered around someone, but being 5'5", I can't see much. So, I sit on the tabletop by my easel and peer over everyone's shoulders and heads. I look up to see what must be the new guy.

Artistically, I study him and turn the page in my mass watercolor book. My eyes study him as my hands move. Tall...lean, but very strong...shaggy hair that curls on the ends and swoops just over his brows...tan...interesting marking and a style of clothing only he could pull off. The sun hits him just right to cast shadows over his cheekbones and the hollows of his eyes, as well as make his blood red ends glint in the sun.

I pause and look over my work. It's pretty good for the first go around, now all I need are his eyes. What do they look like?

Come on...look over here, look over here.