It couldn't have been any earlier than 5:00am. While fragments of the first coming light could be seen, the birds hadn't started chirping, and the night's chill still was clinging in the air. Sleep came to Clary in bits and pieces. She laid awake most the night with the images of something trying to claw it's way forward. Without her sketchbook to give the vision a home, her nerves were fraying and uneasy.

Clary was reduced to gently tracing her slim fingers along the cinder block wall, attempting to keep track of the lines she 'placed' there. Even with a good eye for art, it was hard to follow without a physical image coming to life. The curving lines kept tangling, and her frustration only growing by the second. She wanted to scream out, tell them keeping her away from any form of paper and pencil was butchering her dwindling sanity even more. Despite never wanting to say it, Clary knew she was sick; no clue with what, but she was sick. This sickness had earned her a bed in this place.

The time was dragging on as more daylight started to creep in. Still unconsciously skimming her fingers to try and sort her drawing, voices soon drifted their way down the corridor. Most particularly hushed in contrast with the one yelling with all it's might. Curiosity sparked her out of bed to peek out the tiny window of her door. Five or six orderlies were trying to drag a boy down the dim hall, thrashing with all he had, voice abraded from protesting so much.

He whipped his head back and forth, jabbing his elbows sharply back into the male nurses pulling him along, "Let me fucking go! You have to let go of me! Now!"

Managing to get the upper hand, he swung his now freed fist, knocking one of the other men back. In the confusion, it was his one shot to run. His legs darted, eyes searching for some escape. He frantically pulled on nearly every door in the hallway, Clary assumed he was hoping for a staircase, something to get him out of here. His form got closer and closer, she could now make out his wild blonde hair, his tanned skin, his dark clothes, and the blood dripping from his knuckles and near his temple.

Voices now bellowed from the dark hall, all screaming for him to stop and cooperate. The boy's desperate search reached Clary's door, he was pounding on the metal, golden eyes pleading with her to open it and help him. Frozen in place she watched as he looked back to see the army of nurses and security coming to seize him. "Please, open the door! I need you to open the door!", he pressed his forehead to the glass, his ragged breath fogging it. "Fuck, just please!"

Clary began to jiggle the handle, hearing it rattle against the lock and hinges. It was bolted on each side. She locked eyes with him, mouthing the words 'I'm sorry', she was too late. The mob of workers had snatched him. He kept his gaze focused on her, they shoved him, pulling his right arm back, holding him prisoner. The commotion seemed to continue in slow motion, as if it didn't apply to the rules of time. As each detail slowed she finally saw it. One of her own doctors was wielding a small syringe, eyes darting back and forth to see if any prying eyes were near, and before Clary could scream out to alert him, she'd stabbed the slim needle into the crook of his arm. A new fury reached his eyes, as he whipped his head around to see what caused the sudden pain. The realization washed over him just as quickly as the sedative now coursing through his veins. His form slowly began to crumple, the fight leaving his muscles, as Clary watched in horror.

"Please, let me go, please! Please. . . please. . ." his voice was fading and words slurring, chest heaving. He was still trying to convince them to let him go, the words an endless chorus until he drifted off and collapsed to the ground dragging the orderlies down with him.

Silent tears were now trailing down her cheekbones. The quick work began, to clean up this mess and do damage control; they carried his malleable frame further away from her. Her doctor was staring in on Clary as she watched. There was an underlying warning in the doctor's posture and expression. The stare would have normally made her cower back and retreat to her bed, but Clary was oddly drawn to the boy. She felt as if it was one of her own relatives that had been viciously attacked; wanting to claw her way through the metal door and protect him. And she had not the slightest fucking idea why.

Dr. Belcourt approached the door, "Go back to sleep, Clarissa. Now. There's nothing to see here. Everything is handled, no reason to fret." Her long pale fingers motioned towards the small twin bed toward the back of Clary's room. Her soft voice suggested kindness, while a scowl began settling into her stern features.

"I- I'm not sure. . . not sure sleep will come to me after witnessing that," Clary challenged. The sudden boldness of her words did not go unnoticed. Dr Belcourt vaguely raised her hand holding the empty syringe to offer an unspoken reminder of what her options would be if she didn't comply. Clary nodded, and skittered back to the safety and warmth of her bed.

"We will talk this over after you've rested, your mind needs a moment." Clary listened to the retreating steps of Dr. Belcourt. After fading into silence, she scampered out of bed to see if any evidence of the ordeal remained. There was nothing. Nothing out of place, no crowd of nurses, no blood drops staining the pristine white tile. . . absolutely nothing.

A dizzying queasiness over took her, Clary's thoughts were reeling, breath knocked right from her chest . . . Was this boy even real? Or did her head take a vision much too far?

Alright, small installment, thoughts? - Leah