Weightless. Not light as a feather; weight, gravity, it was all inconsequential. No floor to give a stable footing, no ceiling to stop her from climbing further and further away. She was powerful, absolute, and free. Nothing. . . not a fucking thing had ever felt like this, as if the grace of an angel was surging through her veins.

Her pale hands gripped the delicate and deadly blade. It was clear as starlight, glowing with a fierce elegance. Her movements flowed, a graceful and dangerous choreography she knew all the steps to. Within a steep lunge forward, nearly balancing on her toes, a swift flourish of her arm; the blade found it's prey. Black smoke pouring out, a deep green ichor flowing down, the figure began to collapse in on itself.

Sharp golden eyes were emerging from the black crowded all around her, reaching for her free hand, a delighted smile beginning to twist itself on the boy's lips. Their hands connected and the space around her hurled itself into overdrive.

Weightless. Breathless. Boundless.

The sharp rapping of knuckles on the metal door startled Clary out of her fitful sleep. Her head was dizzied, as if her lungs decided to stop taking in oxygen all night. The room was filled with bright sunlight, looking to be just about late morning. A petite nurse ambled into the small space. A tray of food balanced on her fingertips, and Clary's sketchbook tucked under her other arm. Dropping the tray on the desk, she offered Clary a pencil and the tattered drawing pad.

"Dr. Belcourt wanted you to have some extra time with it today," she smiled. It wasn't often they gave her more than a half hour to draw in her usual therapy sessions, and she treasured every moment with the only thing that helped sort her thoughts.

Clary was eager to snatch the pad and begin working on re-creating the scenes of last night. "Thank you, Isabelle."

Isabelle watched carefully as Clary folded her legs underneath her and flipped to the first clean page available. She could now see the subtleties of Clary leaving this world the moment her fingers placed pencil to page. Here for a moment, then gone forever. Her pencil was moving ferociously, the graphite quickly forming a mysterious image. Lines were tangling, shapes darkening, forms quickly being constructed. Isabelle thought she was again drawing those strange symbols. The more she watched, a space began to show, a space much like the hall of the hospital.

Her reaction time was remarkable, snatching the pad clean of Clary's hands. Eyes horrified, anxiety settling in Isabelle's perfectly sculpted brows. "You know you can't be drawing this, Clarissa. You cannot," voice dropping to angrily whisper them.

Clary could feel the boldness from the previous night emerging, "Why can't I draw this? Why won't you people let me draw?! I need to draw, I need to sort this!" Blood was flushing her cheeks, anger burning as her hands reached for the pad clutched to the nurse's chest.

She began to rip out the troubling page; first out of the book, then in half, in half again, the pieces soon resembling confetti. "Clary, you need to understand what I'm saying. Do not draw this. You are asking for trouble," concern started to touch Isabelle's eyes, "Your time is already limited with this. For now, store this in the back of your mind. Draw something else."

The sudden shift in Isabelle's demeanor told Clary not to push the issue any further. Dr. Belcourt's reminder slowly entered her mind. Isabelle gently placed the book back in Clary's lap, nodding for her to start over.

The raven haired nurse took her usual seat in the corner of Clary's room, nearest to the door. Her drawing always supervised. She found it silly; this was the only place she felt solace, and they wanted to take it away from her? It didn't make sense. Why try to stop her so much? How much could these aimless sketches hurt? She could understand the cause for alarm with the visions that accompanied them, but still. . . didn't they want to know what she saw during them?

Clary began yet another drawing. The last three she attempted just weren't coming to life. They felt stale and dead with the vivid memory of last night pacing in the back of her mind. Limited time to create, and of course she'd fuck it up and not find something to place on the page. "Shit. . . shit, shit, shit," her sighing words filling the quiet room.

Isabelle looked up from her book, cocking her eyebrow up with a silent question. "It's fine, I'm fine Isabelle." Clary ran her hands through her mess of tangled curls, rolling her neck back, trying to shake off the block. Clary suddenly gasped, the approaching image was choking her, hands flying to grab the forgotten pencil among the white sheets. There. There it was.

Her pencil swirled across the page's expanse, a sharp jaw appearing, wild curls with even wilder eyes, a mouth twisted into a crooked smile. There he was, if she couldn't draw the entire memory she'd focus on the crux of the whole entity. This boy was the essential piece, like the final puzzle pieces dropping in. One sketch of him completed, on to another, concentrating on the different angles she'd seen him. His shadowed profile from the end of the hall, his deadly posture and strength from his battle against the orderlies, and finally his face again- the pained horror while he pleaded, and the strange calm as he slowly succumbed to the sedative.

Clary felt as if she'd run a marathon. The drawings pulling all the energy from her, body falling back into the pillows with a contented sigh. He was there in pencil, a physical being, no longer a fuzzy memory. "He's real, so very real," she muttered.

Rather unfazed by Clary's first outburst, Isabelle stood to investigate what she'd drawn. She flipped through the sheets, seeing image after image of the same boy. Her eyes locked with Clary's, the growing concern from before returning to her face.

"I knew he was real- real, tangible, a physical thing to see and touch, he's there. I know it", she professed it like it was the only truth she knew.

Isabelle's hands snatched up the drawing supplies, beginning to dart out of the small room, "That's more than enough for today."

Isabelle skittered down the hall, rushing towards the elevator. Pressing the button for the sixth floor, heading for Dr. Belcourt's office. Her slim fingers knocked against the dark wood door, before entering abruptly.

"I'm not one to be easily alarmed, but I do believe you should see this."

Alright, kids. . . it's been a few days, so here you go. As always, let me know what you think. -Leah