Though Nemo (nor those whom he antagonized with his antics on a daily basis) had never thought himself a reserved being, the discussion of his psychological disadvantages never failed to inflict that dreadful feeling of unease upon him. While he knew not of the boundaries of others, and often made a point that he cared not for such knowledge, he avoided over-sharing for the sake of his own personal privacy at any and all opportunities.
He withheld from those who pestered and pried all information about the workings of his mind as was possible, but it was under such circumstances as these: time spent in a psych word in St. Mungo's Hospital amongst a fellow Ministry employee, that he found himself with no other option than to conform - even if he fidgeted and squirmed as he did so. "If you've taken a peek inside that," he gestured towards the file with the hand with which he did not loosely hold in his grip his renewed glass of Firewhiskey, "you'd know that I gave that option a try when I was a student at Hogwarts. My professors insisted, but it didn't turn out exactly as they'd hoped." Nemo recalled with a vague sense of detachment the effect that the treatment for his disorder had had on him, and his first, and perhaps most successful suicide attempt to date when the sensation of having been numbed had grown too difficult to bear. "I jumped from the Owlrey tower." He shifted in his chair, so to utilize the armrest as a method of relieving himself of the itch that continued to tear through his side.
He had thought he'd been discrete about it - nay; in truth, he had given the plausibility that Khaat had noticed his excessive itching no thought at all, but had he, he surely would have assumed himself capable of being at least somewhat secretive. He paid the rash a brief glance, having skirted his fingertips across the hem of his shirt and pulled it upward a few inches. It had begun to take on the appearance of green road-rash; which he would not have minded too terribly, if the itching would cease. "You got some sort of magical anti-itch cream?" Nemo asked, as sarcastic as was typical of the lad. "I would ignore it if it were f'ckin' possible," he added, speaking to himself. Nemo adjusted his shirt, pulling it down over the rash to conceal it once more.
"Pass me those cards?" He asked with a beckoning motion if his hand, and he took another large gulp from his glass. His ability was beginning to grow increasingly more powerful as he basked in the afterglow of his earlier attempt to kill himself. It was always so pleasant: that need to put his sight to use, simply because he could and it was present.