Milk, eggs, sugar. No butter, they had that in the freezer. That’s all Quentin had to get at the store, and his aunt Gail would bake him cookies. Milk, eggs, sugar, and if they had any fruit he liked he should feel free to pick it up. She’d bake him cookies to congratulate him on getting his first paycheck in God only knows how long. All he had to do was get milk, eggs, and sugar. Milk, eggs, and f***ing sugar. Okay, so he had been really excited about it all the way to the store, and he was so overjoyed to see the look on Aunt Gail’s face when she saw that he had held down the job for once, and he thought he could maybe get his life back, but it all just fell apart.
He had gotten the milk. It and the eggs were in the quaint black shopping basket he held over his arm. He looked at the shelf with 300 different types of processed sugar, millions of grains of the stuff, and it just crumbled. What was the point? Eventually all the sugar would sour, and soon Aunt Gail would be dead. And her cookies were awful. What. Was. The. Point?! He let the basket slide down his arm, and it clattered onto the floor. The pre-packaged cookies were right down the aisle, and he found himself staring at them without even realizing it. Might as well get a box of Twinkies or something before they vanished into eternity. It wasn’t hurting anyone, and since he was going to quit his job tomorrow he wanted to make sure Aunt Gail got her money back…
As he slid the box under his shirt, the shelf fell on him. People promptly rushed over to help him up (and the snacks slipped into the pile of spilled stuff, he could get away without trouble), but he pushed them aside. Someone DID this. Someone had been watching him, and was out to make his life living hell. He had to stop them. How? He didn’t know who they were, but they were out to hurt him and they probably knew where he lived and everything. “I KNOW YOU’RE HERE. SHOW YOURSELF!” he yelled, backing into another set of shelves.
@The Psyentist: "Yeah, I don't hurt people." There's a certain light behind his eyes now. He's started to talk about one of his passions, and his foul mood is vanishing. "And I can control it pretty well. I don't shoot eye beams or anything, not usually anyway. Though I can't fly most of the time either, which sucks."
@The Psyentist: She still might be trying to play him...Quentin doesn't show her what he can do yet. "Uh...I can take on abilities, sort of. It's hard to explain. Usually I help people, but I don't think they really deserve it right now."
@The Psyentist: "I dunno. It just seems to tone everything down...I don't like it" He left the obvious implication and the last date of refill speak for what he wouldn't say...he didn't take it like he was supposed to.
@The Psyentist: Quentin sighed. "Acute Bipolar Disorder, diagnosed several years ago, I've been on...uh..." He rummages in his messenger bag. "These things" He tosses the bottle of pills to the doctor.
@The Psyentist: Well, at least this wasn't one of the overly-cheery types that grated on Quentin's nerves as if they were trying to make it even more like Swiss Cheese. He took a seat in a couch furthest from the doctor