Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-03-24 03:43 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2014-03-24 03:43 pm
Entry tags:
I Used to Think I'd Get Over Everything [Closed]
WHO| Howard and Ellie
WHAT| Gay teenagers with their unrequited crushes on adults.
WHEN| Before the crowning and Riley's appearance.
WHERE| Rooftop.
WARNINGS| Some suicide ideation.
His petitions are in. Howard thought the act of actually turning them in would help calm his nerves, but all it's done is fueled regret, notions that he should have changed his answers to something or another, that he should have turned them in on expensive paper, should have, should have. His appetite, normally fueled by the tenacious fear of starvation, seems to have dissolved entirely, and he stumbles, as if his center of gravity vanishes and reappears on a whim. The laws of physics seem to pull at him rather than guide him, at least in his head. His head feels divorced from the rest of him.
He spends the rest of his time trying to be alone. Being around other people rubs him raw, as if his skin is papery and easily torn, leaving only bare exposed nerve underneath. Sounds get too loud inside his head, syllables incomprehensible, people talking too much to handle. He feels his heartbeat wherever he goes.
He knows there's a forcefield, but he still walks along the side of the rooftop, wondering why it is that it helps him think to play through the idea of his body crumpling like a soda can upon impact with the concrete so far below. He paces along the roof, wearing out yet another pair of shoes ("if you want to gain weight you should stop burning calories with all that fidgeting and walking back and forth", his stylists said).
John's not back. That petition may be for naught. He doesn't even think you can petition for someone else, honestly. The petition for himself has so few skills listed that it looks desperate. He can think of a thousand reasons to throw him back in the Arena and none to stay alive.
He sits at the edge of the rooftop, occasionally spitting and hoping some dumbass Capitolite thinks it's raining.
WHAT| Gay teenagers with their unrequited crushes on adults.
WHEN| Before the crowning and Riley's appearance.
WHERE| Rooftop.
WARNINGS| Some suicide ideation.
His petitions are in. Howard thought the act of actually turning them in would help calm his nerves, but all it's done is fueled regret, notions that he should have changed his answers to something or another, that he should have turned them in on expensive paper, should have, should have. His appetite, normally fueled by the tenacious fear of starvation, seems to have dissolved entirely, and he stumbles, as if his center of gravity vanishes and reappears on a whim. The laws of physics seem to pull at him rather than guide him, at least in his head. His head feels divorced from the rest of him.
He spends the rest of his time trying to be alone. Being around other people rubs him raw, as if his skin is papery and easily torn, leaving only bare exposed nerve underneath. Sounds get too loud inside his head, syllables incomprehensible, people talking too much to handle. He feels his heartbeat wherever he goes.
He knows there's a forcefield, but he still walks along the side of the rooftop, wondering why it is that it helps him think to play through the idea of his body crumpling like a soda can upon impact with the concrete so far below. He paces along the roof, wearing out yet another pair of shoes ("if you want to gain weight you should stop burning calories with all that fidgeting and walking back and forth", his stylists said).
John's not back. That petition may be for naught. He doesn't even think you can petition for someone else, honestly. The petition for himself has so few skills listed that it looks desperate. He can think of a thousand reasons to throw him back in the Arena and none to stay alive.
He sits at the edge of the rooftop, occasionally spitting and hoping some dumbass Capitolite thinks it's raining.