Her hair is rebel-punk length—too short to be easily recognized as that of a young woman. A twisted tattoo is perched upon her left shoulder, spreading down over her breast, partially obscured by her bra. The bra is only there for convenience and decency; not to look pretty.
She has some sort of mental or neurological condition that allows her the claim of insanity. It’s where she gets her art, supposedly.
Her face is stoic, her features pretty but their beauty is uniquely ignored by their owner—just as it is for everyone. She has bruised arms and pale skin. Her eyes are glassy with thought.
She’s special and interesting and a loner.
She sits at her desk silently, the windows with all the world in them facing her, indifferent, voiceless, just as she is. A face-off.
Her fingers rest like rocks on the keys. She doesn’t breathe. The sky overcasts itself. She does not move for some time yet, waiting patiently for the thoughts to stream through.