[h3][color=red][i]Bernard White[/i][/color][/h3]
[right][color=gray]Starring: [@Kino End] & Everyone else that arrives on scene[/color][/right]
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[right][color=gray][sub]Location: Inland Empire -- Time: ???[/sub][/color][/right]
	[color=gray]Clean metal doors before Bernard clearly reflect his image. A man in his fifties, though rather dignified even in his casual utilitarian wardrobe, is wracked by bouts of paranoia and hardship. While he has had noticeable improvement over the last year, and more so with the group therapy as he no longer felt like an outcast, he can feel the looming wave of familiar anxiety about to crash down on him; personified by an early onset of sweat in his pits. With a quick sniff, he does his best to hide his demeanor by straightening himself up and pulling the front of his jacket center and downward. As far as nobody else in the elevator can tell he is unwell just from the ride, then he will get over it. [sub][i]But why is this all so familiar? The feeling is intense... How long have I been in here? Seconds... Days... Years...[/i][/sub] The doors slide open--[/color]

[right][color=gray][sub]Location: Bethel Baptist Church, Brooklyn, NY -- Time: 7:43AM[/sub][/color][/right]

	[color=gray]Even before his eyes could open, the man recognized his bed instantly. Early traffic honking on the street outside; the old linens that, while clean, have been around far past their wear date; lingering musty smells from the small, wooden room. He opens his eyes wearily, a blurry nightstand greeting him first. A moment lulls as he considers getting up, and the damp sheets along his arms, back, and legs encourage him to try out the brisk air and allow himself to dry out. With a wide motion, the blankets are thrown aside and he pushes himself up, after which he reaches for the nearby spectacles.[/color]

	[color=gray]A few blinks later, he raises a hand to his jaw. [sub][i]Tight. Was I clenching it all night?[/i][/sub] He massages his cheeks with the same hand, focused on nothing else in particular for the time being. During the pause, however, he is visited by intrusive thoughts. [sub][i]The dream. What happened? Where was I?[/i][/sub] Once his jaw is no longer tense, he stands and brushes a hand through his unkempt hair. It's long, and while it may not be a part of his religion, for some reason it feels as much a part of his faith as the symbolic cross. He steps heavily over to the small dresser with a mirror affixed to it, and he is hit with a flash of his dream. Staring back at himself. The mirror itself resonates, as if it's in motion. And the flash is gone. No more vibrating.[/color]

	[color=gray]No use dwelling on the thoughts. Dr. Stanton has made some very cogent points with their brief times together, including how he should attempt to focus on immediate tasks at hand. But first, his book. Set neatly side-by-side are two books, one of which is his heavily worn leather-bound Bible and the other is a much newer notebook. The latter he uses for a little bit of everything. He isn't organized enough to have tabs or binders, not yet anyways. For now, everything will be written as they come. A dog-eared page brings him to the present and his careful handwriting. [b]Thursday, Nov. 28: Clean up -- Wed night Youth Group. Weekend groceries (pasta?). 8PM Stanton Group Therapy.[/b] A rather uneventful day, but he can fill in the time with walks and some other exercise. He turns the page to detail as much as he can about his dream, as little as he can remember really. Feelings, if anything.[/color]

	[color=gray]A prescription bottle sits in its usual place and he promptly takes care of himself with the morning routine, starting with a dry swallow and ending with his gray-brown attire. Eyeglasses have been replaced by prescription contacts, something he's done for the past two decades. Then he exits his bedroom for his first simple errand.[/color]
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[right][color=gray][sub]Location: Upper West Side, NYC -- Time: 7:45PM[/sub][/color][/right]
	[color=gray]A small crowd of people ever dwindling in number fill out the area around the Soldiers' and Sailors' monument. Most are locals on their regular walks, some are visiting with friends, one or two that Bernard could identify easily as not being from around here like he was. Nonetheless, the sidewalks are quiet and void of foot traffic as he approaches the statues and structures from the rear. He really discovered the river walk just two weeks ago when he decided to explore the area before one of the meetings. Now he intends to make it a part of his ritual, to take in the open air before stuffing himself into a more populated room.[/color]

	[color=gray]Hood pulled up to brace against the turning winds, his eyes keep to the steps before him until he sees the figure waiting ahead. Although his pace doesn't slow, he does his best to not look up and make it obvious that he's looking at this person until finally noticing it's Stanton's assistant. Her name escapes him, but she's been friendly to him. [sub][i]I should write it down next time...[/i][/sub] Not wanting to look like an intimidating sort by approaching her from the shadows, he offers a hand up in a wave and calls out.[/color]

	[color=red]"Evenin', ma'am! It's Bernard,"[/color] [color=gray]at the same time, he pulls down his hood to show his face more clearly. When he pulls it aside and watches her silhouette against the nearby lights, his stomach tightens. For a moment his smile fades, though he gathers the strength to be polite.[/color] [color=red]"I, uh, excuse me. Best be forward, I've forgotten your name."[/color]