William made his way towards the art room, head down, face hidden, hooded sweatshirt hugged close, hood tucked over his hair. He was hoping to spend some time after school, not entirely eager to head home, knowing his uncle didn't go to work for another few hours. He often took the opportunity to remain on campus and hide away in his sketchbook, or working on a new piece, anxious to dodge walking home and accepting abuse for merely having said hello.
With a sigh, and a weary shake of his head, he shoved the art room door open, bursting through into a aura of color, wooden desks and easels spaced out amongst tables bearing numerous sections of supplies.
"Hello, Will," Ms. Harvey greeted, one brow arched, a sharp smirk dancing across her otherwise soft features, "Playing hooky from home again?"
He nodded slowly and faintly, strolling towards the back of the room, where he sat down and pulled his sketchbook from his backpack, his sketching tools along with it.
"I won't be staying past 3:30 today," She pointed out, grading another piece of artwork sprawled across her desk, hair bouncing as she made to grab another, "Okay?"
William nodded yet again, eager to remain silent, to fall into his subconscious, to give in to the darkest, surrealist corners of his mind. Because that's what his art was; it was dark, depressing, morbid, and surreal. Of course, he'd been told by his therapist, when his uncle chose to actually supply him with one (usually only when he was feeling particularly generous), that it was a portrayal of his thoughts, memories, anger, all forming together on the paper before him.
He figured he ought to be concerned by that, but, in all honesty, he couldn't care less.
With a huff of annoyance at himself and his silly thoughts, he rolled his eyes and began sketching.