Who: Oliver Knapp What: Narrative. Oliver hasn't been in a good mood since Holly's hospitalisation. Where: At home in Bristol. When: Sunday evening. Rating: Not too bad...a little depressing, but actually pretty safe. (I don't do ratings well...>.>)
Ever since getting back from his training in Brazil, to find Holly shacked up in the hospital after she took some stupid amount of drugs, Oliver hadn't been feeling quite as chirpy and chilled out as he normally was. It didn't help that he'd broken a couple of bones in his right hand, which meant his artistic skills were compromised. It was really difficult to stop himself grabbing a pencil from his desk in order to sketch something out, the only real thing that had stopped him for those first couple of days was the pain of gripping the implement. After that though, he got used to it, and gave up attempting to be sensible about letting his hand heal.
His current sketches were messy, not on his usual form, but that was only to be expected. They also tended to be a lot darker than anything he usually drew. His walls previously filled with portraits of a particular face were now covered with scenes of creepy forests in the night, or Charon, the boatman crossing the river Styx. Several canvas' lay piled up at the side of his room, filled with deep mournful colours, blues and greys mostly. Not even his mother had asked about this sudden change in decoration, or what had happened with this girl. She had noticed that the old pictures hadn't appeared in the garbage, though.
Oliver frowned at the canvas before him, and then at his palette. He was running out of prussian blue, not that it mattered right away with oils. They weren't going to dry over the next few hours. He could happily go to sleep and not worry about it until tomorrow...but he wanted to work on it now. Setting the palette down next to the easel, he turned around, wiping paint from his fingers onto his old jeans as he walked over to his closet. Opening the door he immediately began muttering curses under his breath as he was faced once more with the Jack and Sally costumes he had foolishly bought for Halloween. He moved these aside, and then did the same with the carefully stacked books at the bottom of the closet. Behind them he found the box of paints he was looking for. Hopefully that would have a blue in that would match.
Selecting several tubes of paint, Oliver approached his canvas again with a sigh. He hadn't even noticed what he was painting to start with, but now seeing it from across the room, he recognised certain features. The angle of the eyes, and the slack expression on the mouth that suggested sleep. Yet he knew that in this picture, Holly was more than asleep. The paint was dropped unceremoniously on the floor somewhere near his work, and then all that was left was the sound of the door opening, then softly falling shut once more.