Who: Ishaan and [OPEN] Where: Third Floor hallway, outside of his room When: Mid-morning
Ishaan wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling right now. He'd been mostly rotating through anger and confusion, and he knew panic was likely to set in at some point once the shock wore off. At least, that was what was supposed to happen in situations like this, right?
Situations like this.
He scoffed lightly to himself as he brought the paintbrush up to the wood of his door again, his head shaking faintly. He ignored the ache in his arm where the IV had been, the twinge in his neck he didn't even want to contemplate. Who the fuck had ever been in a "situation like this"? Well, apparently the answer to that was at least sixty other people, if the chick, or whoever it was on the computer wasn't fucking with him. When he thought about that, all he saw were his mother, his sisters, his aunt, his friends. Shit, he was supposed to bring his mom to the doctor today. Or yesterday? What fucking day was it? How was his sister going to open the restaurant on her own?
His arm paused its stroke and he closed his eyes, willing away the next flood of questions even as they fluttered on by in his mind's eye in bright technicolor. How long was he going to be here? How scared was his family? Where was his family? Was he going to die? Would he disappear like the thirty or so other fuckers who-
He shook his head, inhaling and focusing on what he did know. There were people here. He'd gotten glimpses and heard as much during his short exploration of the house. That had been after he'd gotten a good look out the window and realized that he wasn't going anywhere without warmer clothes. He hadn't gone all the way down the stairs to the first floor, but had caught enough hints of food to know that was where the kitchen was. The idea of eating had only made his stomach lurch, so he'd gone the other way up the stairwell and found the craft room. The familiarity of the space's contents settled him enough for him to recall that Cecilia, or whoever, had told him that he should write his name on the door. He hated the thought of the permanence of that, that effectively signing his name would somehow be seen as acquiescence to the situation. Still, it was a project and he knew it would help to chill him the fuck out until he could come up with a better plan to get to leave. He grabbed supplies and headed back to the room he'd been shoved into, leaving a few pieces of paper inside along with a set of colored pencils so he could write down the map the other guy had left for him on the computer. He spread out more paper on the floor in the hall after contemplating for a minute or two whether or not he gave a fuck if he made a mess. In the end, he decided that if he did have to stay here for more than a day he didn't want to trek over the gunked up flooring every time he came and went.
He'd stripped down to his jeans, exposing the watercolors dancing over his dark skin to the cooler air of the hallway. All of his jewelry were left in the safe confines of his coat pocket, save for his necklace, which he simply turned so the stone rested between his shoulderblades and out of the way. His pants were already dotted with paint, so adding a little more color to them wasn't going to do anything, but he didn't want to chance ruining the only set of clothing he had. Even if he did get something at the store in town Cecilia had mentioned, it wouldn't be his, but thinking about that only made him feel as if he were resigning himself to moving in. Instead, he did his best to shut off his brain and get to work. He'd started out with a large, swooping "I" in the middle of the door, but now it was the only clear shape to be seen. Now a large portion of the center of the wood was a mesh of random streaks and clouds of color. Essentially he was just letting his arm do whatever the fuck it wanted, his mental faculties tuning out as the familiar smell of the paint took him somewhere more familiar. He felt he could look over his shoulder and see, with relief, that he was bullshitting in his aunt Rani's studio space at the gallery, but was too afraid to actually do it. Afraid that she'd be there and that might mean he was going nuts. Afraid she wouldn't be, and that he really was stuck wherever the hell this was.
Another long sigh and he realized that was exactly it. He was scared shitless, and at the moment too overwhelmed to go stomping around looking for answers, or a way out. As soon as his brain thought "escape", it chimed in with "snow". When he thought "demand answers", a tiny voice in him sang "they're all prisoners here too" and "seventy days" and "sixty people". The circle just continued, his resolve kicking in, then dying, then rolling over until he just shut everything out again.