She felt like she'd been glued to the bulletin board for days but didn't think it had been that long; it was difficult to tell time when one avoided the sun as ardently as she, and when the clocks on the walls seemed to lie so often that they were deemed stationary, decorative things -- objects relegated to the periphery of Door's consciousness, too unimportant to garner her attention at a time like this. A final scribble of pen, which she tucked away deep into the recesses of her jacket, and she was wandering elsewhere: at first in the direction of the rooms, past whose doors she went and touched and thoughtfully left in peace. It was impolite to open doors for curiosity's sake, and she had not done so while here at the Asylum, unless it was to escape for a time and to explore. The last time she'd done so, Dagmar had worried, she felt, and so it became a habit she frequented less and less.
It was her Talent, to open things, but so little was there to open without guilt here. So few places to investigate. She felt stifled and dumb, and when she looked into a mirror her eyes were glassy with monotony; but she preferred it to running endlessly, dry breaths burning her insides, hot, sticky blood across her arms and neck. She shuddered at the memory and moved quickly away from the residential halls and towards the common room. There television blared long and loud and she was not required to think so ardently as when there was silence. And if there were people, all the better, for she could watch and understand and remember. Distractions kept her alive; other peoples' problems reminded her of purposes other than survival. She wanted to live.
Quietly settling into a couch far enough from the television to avoid accusations of interference and close enough to let the noise wash through her like a purging agent, Door crossed her legs, one after the other, and shuffled free of the huge jacket that draped over her. Beneath it she was a tiny creature, unimpressive and mostly unmemorable. She was not pretty or ugly or interesting looking unless one looked very carefully, which very few did, and it did not bother her for it was simply the way of things. Instead of worrying about her appearance, she dug from her jacket a book, which fell promptly open to the last page she reread. It stayed in her lap as a shield of sorts while she watched those around her. It was easy enough to claim distraction than confess to staring. People didn't like it when you stared -- but given enough pretence, it was easy to make them forget.