⊰ ribbon in the sky ⊱

내게 말해 너의 달콤한 미소로 내게 내게 말해 속삭이듯 내 귓가에 말해

[samson--grove-blog]

sebastian-wild:

Sebastian eventually stops playing for a moment. “Nah, singing isn’t really my thing.” He continues, “I can play the guitar, electric and acoustic.” Even with his lack of interest in their interaction, Sebastian continues to indulge the therapist. “I guess I’m lucky.” He’s glad he has music to lean on while he’s staying in the asylum. 

“I used to be in a band… someone else did all the singing.” He used to be known as quite a slick keyboard player. “We were pretty famous, but not sure if you’ve heard of us.” Yet, losing fame and fortune doesn’t hurt as much as losing loved ones. It was nice to be making an income from music, but that was all he liked about it. Maybe he has given the therapist too much information. “Honestly, I didn’t like it. The leader was a douche.” He adds, “I can’t believe I let him persuade me to join his crappy band.”

Samson’s lips purse for a moment as he nodded, all in all impressed. It was rare people indulged in more than one instrument these days, as much as he knew. “Multi-talented. Perhaps keeping up those little hobbies of yours could fare well, given the circumstances of eventually being released.” His finishing words were cut with a curt nod of the head.

Though hearing the patient was in a fairly renowned band was what caused an eyebrow to raise, almost out of interest. “Did your band have a name at all?” He’d questioned. He was void of music during his studies in the Federation, thus perked the notion of perhaps knowing the band. He didn’t hold onto hope, though, as the majority of his time was spent in medicinal and psychological papers. Only occasionally did the Therapist urge himself into rooms filled with lights, people, and music. “It must have been a pretty decent ride, though, right? Money and fame. Humans are fickle when it comes to both.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sebastian-wild:

Sebastian is not surprised since he cancare less about the other male’s music background. “Nope, to each to their own,I guess…” Well, by the Federation’s standards, he’s a little taken aback. Heknows how fortunate he had been to start learning music at such a young age.Judging by the therapist’s response, there probably aren’t many patients wholearned music at a young age. He has been playing for as long as he canremember. He also used to be fascinated with the piano as a kid.

He still has his guard up; even thoughthe therapist remarks that he has been listening to Sebastian play out ofgenuine interest. At least it’s good to know that he doesn’t have any hidden intentions. Sebastian offers nothing but a simple remark, “I see…” He’s used toperforming for others, but it feels different this time. This is not the sameas playing a gig, where people are drinking and making merry. He turns back to the piano and hits a few keys. He starts playing “Misty” by Ella Fitzgerald.  

With little reason to respond, given the lack of one received in the first place, Samson decided to merely take a seat nearby. It saved awkward stance, for the most part. Now he was left to lounging, with his phone in hand. He, too, was raised in the Federation, though scholarly pursuits were more-so his thing, in expense of his parent’s will, than his own. Being sent through schools, to find himself absorbed in medical and psychological studies, took away from hobbies and pleasures, such as music, and other artistry works.

Once more, lacking a response in return, the Therapist could only release a shallow sigh as he looked around. When the other began to dance over the keys once more, though, his umber eyes cast upon the piano. “Do you sing, too, or are your musical talents exclusive to one thing?” His question was voiced softly, eyebrow raised and all, as if to show genuine interest. His past experience showed relationships with his patients, was often better than merely ignoring them outside of sessions.

[samson--grove-blog]

sebastian-wild:

For a moment, he forgets he’s playing piano in amental asylum. Running his fingers through the black and white keys obviouslytriggers feelings of nostalgia. Good memories or bad memories? It was before hebecame a full-blown drug addict, when music made him somewhat successful. He hitsthe last note harshly, bringing the piece to a sudden halt.

He looks around, only to find someone standing behindhim. Sebastian recognizes the male as a therapist. There’s silence between thetwo males. Had this man been watchinghim? The former alcoholic clears his throat and asks, “Never seen a guyplay piano before?” What do therapists do? They usually just observe patients doing whatever activity, which is probably what this guy is doing.           

Lost in the piece, it was such a calming aspect. To hear the glistening of gently pressed keys, ushering notes that blessed rather than raged. They seemed like skilled fingers, as if the Therapist has ever been met with anything to compare the sound to. He’d only heard pieces over records and the like. Still finding the sound of it all to be entirely peaceful. Until the abruptness of the stop drew a raised eyebrow from the male. 

He’d straightened up, as large hands slipped within his pockets, to maintain his collected air. Eyes skimmed over the patient, quickly, to recall the photo he’d seen in his file. One of his own patients, as he could remember. “Would it surprise you if I said no?” He’d questioned, eyebrow raised as he waited for a response. “And before you ask, no, I’m not here to hound you about sessions, or to watch over your progress. Consider it genuine interest.” He spoke fluidly, as if each word had been rehearsed perfectly, to the dot.

[samson--grove-blog]

sebastian-wild:

As part of his music therapy, Sebastian is allowed toplay the piano. A beautiful melody fills the hallways as his fingers touch thekeys. The movements feel like second nature to him. The melody is soft and gentle, which is a sharp contrast from itsmusician. The song eventually builds to a chaotic and louder melody. 

He’s sofocused that he doesn’t even realize someone is watching him.  

When sessions had come to an end, and the day was slowly coming to a working end, Samson would often find himself exchanging words with the music and art therapists, lost in their rooms. At times, he’d even find himself lost within the work of the patients. At times, their creative constructs were all entrancing. 

This instance was no different, as he found himself taking slow steps closer to the patient, occupying the piano. The tune that slipped from fingers was, to put it bluntly, beautiful. And the Therapist moved closer to snap a closer look. 

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“I just some need time to adjust to the idea that someone is actually trying to help, I suppose, that’s all.” She gave him a faint smile and walked towards the door.

“Well, you’re going about it the wrong way, that’s for sure. And I’m not going to be here for you when your disorders cause problems for you. That’s on your own head.” He shrugged his shoulders softly. “Close the door behind you.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“Would you trust someone who you just know the name and profession of? Right off the bat? It doesn’t matter if you are a therapist or not, I can’t trust someone that easily or quickly. My bad, Doctor.”

“Then why did you come to the Asylum, huh? And don’t give me some bullshit excuse that you were forced to come here. You’re of legal age, meaning you can make your own decisions. You don’t have a criminal record, thus coming here was at your own personal volition. If you have little reason to trust your own Therapist, then I suggest you ask to leave the Asylum all together.” 

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“It’s not easy to open up to a complete stranger that judges everything you say and do, alright?” She muttered standing up. Her head down. “Thank you for your time, Mr.Grove.”

“I’m hardly a complete stranger if you know my name and profession, now, am I?” He’d questioned with raised eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders, and looking down. “It’s Dr. Grove. I didn’t go to medical school for four years to be called Mr. Grove.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“I don’t know what to talk about. I don’t know what is appropriate to talk with a therapist and what isn’t. I-I don’t really know what’s supposed to happen in these sessions besides talk about disorders…sorry.” She bit her lip nervously. He was getting annoyed at her and she was getting very nervous and self conscious because of that.

The man groaned. It seemed like an obsession convulsion to react so dramatically in light of frustration with these patients. They were all the same, all coming up with excuses, and then playing the victim as soon as they were called out. Samson was growing tired of it all. “You know what? No, I’m a little too tired to continuously offer you chances to talk. I think I’ve offered enough for you to take into regard that perhaps I’m here to listen to anything that’s troubling you. I’m not playing ball anymore. So, if you’ve got nothing to say, the door’s behind you.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“Not really, no.”

“If you’re going to put no effort into talking to me, then please, get out of my office. I’m not running my time around trying to egg you on to talk.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“Let things go for a while I suppose, and then if you’re sure that my diagnosis is…wrong, then re-diagnose me.” 

The man could only nod his head once, with little intention to continue. He’d noted what she said down, before dropped the pen completely. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

She hugged herself tightly. Her voice low. “You’re the therapist, you decide I suppose.” 

The Doctor rolled his eyes as he looked around. “You’re hard work, you know that?” He’d questioned rhetorically, as his elbow rested upon the arm of his chair, palm turned upwards, so that his chin could rest. “It’s not my choice. I’d appreciate it if you gave me some leeway and actually suggested what you want to do.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

“I don’t really know what to say.”The girl bit her lip. “Regardless of what I’m diagnosed with, I’m probably still going to be here for a while aren’t I? There is something wrong with me, that’s why I’m here.” Her eyes widened a bit, did she just snap at her therapist? “S-Sorry I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

The male sighed, as he sat back. It was clear talking to this patient, was like talking to a stubborn brick wall. He took a moment to think, at times gazing off around the office, before crossing his legs on his chair. “If you’re here for a while, it’s because you’re too bone-idle to consider getting better. I’m not in control of your progress, nor am I responsible for the rate of your healing, that’s all down to you. The fact is, you’re either getting better at an alarming rate, which suggests you’re not suffering from your current diagnosis. Or, you’re completely fine.” He explained, before tapping at his lips. “I’m honestly unsure what to do with you. I have three options. One; sit back and watch your progress further. Two; get you re-diagnosed and see if there’s any changes. Or three; send you home.”

[theamberrosesibley]

Running into trouble (Prompt)

[samson--grove-blog]

theamberrosesibley:

I’m not the only one in here that might need protecting, that’s why?“ She scoffed and gave him a thoroughly disgusted look, "Thanks for confirming that you’re an indecent being.”

“It doesn’t but your demeanor on the outside and the way you claim you won’t help anyone, because it’s not in your job description tells another tale.” Amber spat straightening herself up and standing on her feet instead of leaning against the wall, “If you’re not going to assist anyone, I don’t see your reason for being here? Perhaps go back to your office and twiddle your thumbs until this is all over?”

“But, now, you’re the only one who seems to be complaining.” He retorted, rolling his eyes as he spoke. “Oh, ouch. You really hit the nail right on the head there. How ever will I recover from such a painful blow. Get a grip, ungrateful twat.”

“That’s funny, since I don’t recall saying I wouldn’t help anyone. I said it wasn’t my job to protect you. And now, with your blatant spoilt behaviour, I don’t feel like doing either at all. So good luck when you’re faced with a murderous tin can.” His features remained as unmoving as ever, simply watching the patient, until a smirk caught the corners of his lips. “Is this you asking? See, what I’d rather do is stalk you until one of the Cyborgs actually finds you. I wouldn’t mind watching them have their way with you. It wouldn’t take much, either, given your diagnosis. See, if I were you, I’d think twice before insulting one of the only people here that can actually help you out. Buck up, before you fuck up, Darlin’.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

She just shrugged and looked down, not really sure what to do or say. Maybe she was getting cured faster? would that mean that she would be released sooner?

He’d brought the file forward in order to write all of his notes within it, as a reference for a later date. Once he was done, he’d closed it and pushed it to the side, to lay his dark eyes on hers. “We can’t get through this session if you’re as silent as a lamb, now, can we? Usually people give their opinions on what I say.”

[theamberrosesibley]

Running into trouble (Prompt)

[samson--grove-blog]

theamberrosesibley:

“It’s nobody’s job to protect me I can protect myself,” She shot back defiantly, though her body still trembled, “But if I did need protecting, I probably wouldn’t ask you.”

Amber rolled her eyes looking around annoyed by the other’s tone on top of everything else. It was the paranoia making her speak like this after being trapped for so long, the brunette thoroughly believed people were out to get her. “Oh yes I can see the shock just pouring from your features, it’s crippling ”

“Then why are you running around, complaining that I’m not doing anything about the Cyborgs?” He questioned, features unmoving once more. “That is literally what I’ve just said I won’t do. Thanks for confirming my claim, though, I appreciate it.” 

The male merely tucked his hands within his pockets as he watched the other patient. It was clear she was scared, perhaps anxious, or maybe it was the simply the disorder speaking. Who knows, with how frantic things seemed to play out. “It doesn’t take a Psychologist to know that shock doesn’t have to be visible, but please, keep being sarcastic about things you clearly know nothing about.”

[samson--grove-blog]

sorcha-glamberne:

She nodded to his question. 

“Maybe it was always there, but because the circumstances changed, it became somewhat more prominent. Like, before I came to the asylum, I had always someone there, if that makes sense. But now that I’m here, I spend I lot of my time alone, and I hate it because I feel helpless and I can’t do the simplest decisions on my own and I feel useless and worthless all the time… Does that make sense?” She robbed her eyes, trying to keep her tears from falling. It felt nice to talk a little bit of how she felt but at the same time she hated that he was judging every single thing that she said.

While the man may have listened to everything she had to say, nothing seemed to piece itself together. It was like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle, on the pieces had all been tampered with, so the picture would never be complete. He sighed, still, and took a moment to think. “That doesn’t make any sense, no.” He stated simply, before pushing his hair back. “It doesn’t just become more prominent. Even if someone was always there for you, it doesn’t mask the symptoms of DPD, nor does it halt them. As for making decisions on your own, that’s just you. You’re surrounded by members of staff at all times, so I find it hard to believe you struggle with decision making to that extent. I’m half considering asking to get you re-diagnosed, because from what you’re telling me, it’s far more likely you’ve simply got depression, as opposed to Dependent Personality Disorder.”

[theamberrosesibley]

Running into trouble (Prompt)

[samson--grove-blog]

theamberrosesibley:

“Right,” She exhaled taking in his words, but not registering them, then they dawned on her. “Wait, what?!”

“Aren’t you going to DO something about that? You’re a staff member aren’t you? I thought this was supposed to be a safe place!” Amber was near hysterics due to lack of food and all the running. His calmness seemed to agitate her nerves as well, sure there were worse things than robots whilst being locked up in place full of other supernatural beings, but Amber was powerless beyond splitting herself.

“I find it hard to believe that no one thought that this could be a potential threat either.”

Through her raging and shouting, Dr. Grove didn’t seem to bat an eyelid once, maintaining his calm exterior towards her outburst. “It’s not my job to protect you, is it? I wasn’t aware the Therapists had to do the job of the Security Guards, too. Where did you read this was a safe place? You’re surrounded by Psychopaths and Sociopaths. Are they agreeable people?” He’d raised an eyebrow sharply, looking around. 

“Then please, be my guest and contact the government. Just in case you weren’t aware, it’s become a mandatory thing to have Cyborgs look over us all. So before you run around blaming the members of staff, please recall that we’re just as shocked as you are.”