R1 of RR Debate Tourney: USM vs MiG

So Nathaniel painted. He was pretty sloppy at first, juvinile even, but at least he was doing something. He created what seemed like a thousand different paintings. It was amazing because he had lost most of his vision and had begun to loose his fine motor control. His hand trembled as he gripped the paintbursh; he had to look so closely to the canvas as to sometimes get his nose wet with paint. But he painted. Over time, he got to point where he was fairly good at it, even if he wasn't encased by a contageous brain-eating disease. For a while, I thought that his work reflected if a maker of Japanese prints took up impressionist painting. The figures were diliberately placed and were detail-less, as if they were seen from afar or by a nearsighted person. Colors were used only when absolutely necessary, and sparcely at that. Each painting expressed it's own deep and powerful emotion ranging from content joy to willess boredom to the savage highs of anger. Throughout his paintings there were a few themes: the sea, a beautiful girl, the color red, a bird.But the disease was unrelenting, as ever. It marched on his neurons, making them missfire, or killing them outright. Each axiom brought silent or changed into a grotesque shade of its formal self brought Nate's condition further downward, and slowly marched him at a slow but furious pace to his grave. While his end brought him inspiration, it also brought with it the prerequisite suite of other symptoms, maladies, and other evils that accompanied a Pandora's box, opened intentionally or not. One of the first things that became obvious over time, but were new to his particular condition, was actually fairly subtile. Nate had started to become more and more introverted. He discussed his intrests, his paintings, his philosophy less and less. He, at the beginning of his painting experience, was fairly open about this. But he eventually stopped talking altogether. While his declining speech faculties could have been a co-conspirator in this, it was by far not the sole reason for his dislike of talking. He eventually stopped communicating entirely, never letting us in on his insigts, his thought process, what he was going through.But the limited time where he did let us into his mind let another thing clear: he had begun hallucinating. He believed that the white bird of his paintings visited him, not only in his dreams, but in real life, too. It reasted on his left shoulder, telling him things and giving him instruction. He believed that it would light his path, make his metaphorical waters calmer. At the end of his span that he would actually communicate with us, I saw him in bed, holding his hand with nothing. I assumed that it was the vision of the girl that he always painted. I looked on in sadness. In addition, not all of his hallucinations were pleasant. I once saw him shriek and tear apart a beautiful and nearly finished paintings and hide across the room from it, saying that something horrible had possesed it. We took away the painting, not as a service to his misgivings about it, but as trash. I was sorry to see that particular piece go; it was one of the most gorgeous that he had created.His antics didn't discourage certain members of the hospital form trying to get past the wall of silence that he had erected around himelf. Dr Sorenson earnestly tried to get to her ill patient, but he didn't repsond to any of her advances. She tried various methods to communicate with Nate, but he refused her every single time. She tried writing to him, with no success. She tried being around him more often, and therefore get him comfterable with her, with no success. She even tired to paint along with and in response to him, with no success. I think that Nate took the last step as a kind of insult; her work had no artistic intent, why should he even consider it? Dr. Sorneson's paintings were bland and shallow, letting me believe that whatever she would not understand what Nate would have to say even if he did talk.During this time, I guess that I became a sort of friend of his. While his friends and family were there and were tolerated by Nathaniel, and Dr. Sorenson was flat-out rejected, he seemed to build up a sort of comrederie with me. He showed me most of his paintings, and by his expression I could tell, almost, that he was interested in what I had to say. Mostly I talked about what was going on at home and at work, here at the hospital. I also dabbled in other things like literature, which had been a life-long hobby of mine, and the deepest complexities of science, which were another personal pet interest of mine. I tried to explain to him how black holes worked, how stars could shine for millions of years, and how planets were formed. At least he didn't go up and paint whenever I started talking, as his want with Dr. Sorenson.One night, I came into Nate's room, late at night. I was in there because he needed checking up at this particular hour. After putting on the proper attire for the room (as well as to protect myself), I quietly slid into the room. It was dark and peaceful, with Nate's paintings hanging up on the wall. He had begun to use more red in his work. The heart monitor went beep-beep-beep too quickly for comfort. The silver cast by the moon fell in like curtains blowing in the wind. I noted his heart rate, internal temprerature (he had begun to run a small-to-moderate fever) along with something else. A few of his paintings had been taken down. I instantly begun to run over with anger. I knew instantly who the theif was. I looked to Nate, who was peacefully dreaming about the sea and his halcyon bird and his girl, and I made a silent promise to him. I hurredly marched out of the room.Outside, in the sleepy hall lit by the harsh florescent lighting, I see a walk that could only be from the legs of one person, and one person only. I tailed Dr. Sorenson, and found that she had carried of with a plethora of Nate's work. I followed her passionately until her office, where I confronted her. She was genial as ever, in that supremely irritating way."Why are you doing this, Roxanne,' that WAS her name, by the way, "he didn't let you have it!""Because he woudn't talk to either of us, I thought that the best way to examine his psychological state is through his outlets, his writings, but most importantly his paintings.""That's theft!"By this time Dr. Sorenson had unlocked her door and strode into her office. I had no choice but to follow."We, as a hospital, have a right to try to do anything possible for the benefit of the patient. Examining...""Oh, this is about your pie-in-the-sky idea that he'll somehow get better, isn't it?""Why, yes.""He's never going to get better. I know it, he knows it...""I don't. We don't know what might save him unless we try to.""All evidence has pointed to this being an incuable disease.""We can change that.""By what, stealing his art?""I told you already, this could help us examine...""I know! I know!"Dr. Sorenson had placed the paintings down. On top of the stack that she had placed was a painting I had never seen before. It was perfectly white, except for the two subjects of the painting. First of all, there was his halcyon bird. It wasn't white this time, but rather a desperate state of scarlet. It was dead on the bottom of the painting, with it's last rays of hope gone from it. But more disturbingly, there was a onyx-black raven coming out from the bird of red.Many stars go supernova when they die. It became very clear that this was going to happen to Nate. And the countdown to that moment was ticking by incessently but forever quicker and quicker and quicker.