He was growing use to the schedule of the Shelter. The first few nights had been hard. The unfamiliar, being unsure if he had made the right choice leaving. Something about this morning though - it all seemed different. Like it didn't matter, or the fear that had a hold of his heart suddenly let go. For the first time in a very long time, Darien woke up and felt alive. He felt good.

Around his wrist was still the Hospital identification band, though faded and showing his hardships for all to see. He chose to wear it until it finally disintegrated off of him like some symbolism of rebirth. It seemed even others in this situation (homeless) were judgmental and the moment they saw the wristband, they'd stay away from him. Not that he minded or cared. Darien kept to himself, maybe once in awhile he'd smile, but mostly his life was one of silent observation since arriving at the Shelter some days ago. How many days has it been? Four? Time really had no meaning in here. From the moment he had packed all his things, lying to the doctors and nurses that he had a safe place to go (home), butterflies in his gut as he ran - time had no purpose in his life. He could remember buying the bus ticket and racing to the back seat, adrenaline giving him a high. Then it was just a blur that he passed by drawing in his notebook the passengers around him. People, just like him, going someplace far and new. It would be an understatement to say that when he finally got off and was standing in Sacrosanct that he felt really alone. He almost ran after the bus and begged to be taken back. Back to that shit?

Things are going to get better, or so he tells himself each night before going to bed on these prison-like mattresses. Those butterflies he felt when leaving were still swirling inside him. And he still wasn't sure if this was what he was meant to do. All he knew was that it was better than his current situation...or was it?

It was a little after 8am by the time Darien got dressed. Tan skinny jeans with bright red, old skater shoes. He wore a matching and equally bright red beanie to hide his messy bedhead and a brown hoodie unzipped showing a plain navy shirt underneath. He had the sleeves of the hoodie rolled up to his elbows, that Hospital wristband sticking out like a white sore. A five o'clock shadow and bags under his big blue eyes finished off his presentation today. In fact, he looked rather strung out, as if he had been on a three day cocaine binge. Looking around the main lobby, he finds an empty table in the very back, cornered too, and takes a seat. He carries everything he owns with him, which happened to be all in a green hiking backpack, due to a nasty stealing spree plaguing the place. Taking his seat, he reaches inside and pulls out his drawing notepad and a pencil, zipping his bag back up afterwards and shoving it underneath his seat and perfectly to the wall in a protective manner.

His stomach growled, but he was too nervous to go stand in line for a plate. He desperately wanted a coffee and a smoke, and all of these things he usually waited until there was less people (and just leftovers) each morning. To make the time pass, he would draw. Draw what he saw outside. A mother and daughter sitting and getting the only food they'd get for the day (which was yesterday as he flips through the pages) Whatever caught his attention. He scans around the room, looking shy and uncomfortable. He sees an old man in a wheelchair a few tables from him. Beside him, his loyal mutt of a dog sat, waiting for scraps. Darien has seen this old man every day, and something about him and his companion is what gives him inspiration this day. In an instant, he's sketching them without a care (and without them even knowing). The world melts away, all his worries and anxiety go into the paper. Darien forgets he's even alive in these moments and suddenly the world made no sense, and then it made perfect sense all at once.

He doesn't even notice a fight starting just a few tables from his. Two very drug fueled, drunk men fighting over something ... dirty needles, a drop of coffee on the floor, a pair of urine soaked socks? They get more and more heated, but Darien's eyes never leave the paper and if they did, it was to look at his muse.