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)
thecapitol2014-05-08 02:06 am
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2014-05-08 02:06 am
Entry tags:
My Hungry Ghost of Hopefulness [Closed]
WHO| Howard and his interviewers (Rat, Eponine and possibly Roland), Howard and Orc, Howard and R, Howard and Wyatt
WHAT| Howard petitions out
WHEN| Before the latest Panem Nightly
WHERE| Tribute Suites
WARNINGS| None, but suicidal ideation may come up.
The paper in his hands is crumpled and grimy with sweat. He's been holding it in his hands for the last two days, picking it up over and over again to check times, check room numbers, make sure that he's ready to make his appointments. He doesn't sleep well, waking from nightmares where he misses his alarm, where he forgets what language is during his interview.
Despite his best efforts, he hasn't really been able to make himself look presentable. Typically he looks better after a few weeks in the Capitol to put some fat on his painfully skinny body, but the stress of waiting for his petition to process has done him no favors. He has dark circles under his eyes, which appear almost bulbous atop his hollow cheeks. His fingers on each hand are covered with scabs up to the first knuckle. His lips are covered with canker sores and he's developed a twitch in his right leg that ambushes him when he sits down.
He doesn't feel ready, and he doesn't feel like he'll feel any better once he's done with each interview. He gets to the doors over an hour in advance and paces outside them, lost, it seems, in his own shallow breathing and possible rejection. He knows, deep in his stomach, what he has to do if his petition is denied. He knows he can't handle another Arena. And yet while he isn't allowing himself to contemplate willfully, images of how he has to die start trickling into his mind and lurking in the shadows.
He knocks on the door at exactly the correct time for each interview.
-/-
After each one, there is no dissipation of tension. There's no feeling of relief, that he's done the hard part. The hard part is still the waiting, and that's still happening, like a car wreck he's going through in slow motion. He tries to sit by himself in his room but, to put it politely, he psychs himself out.
(The truth is that he finds himself unable to breathe, finds his legs unable to support his weight, starts shaking so hard he has to lie down and stare at the ceiling as if the white paint above him will swallow him up.)
He gets up and takes the elevator to District 4 and District 10. He goes and he finds his friends, no matter how they currently feel about him.
WHAT| Howard petitions out
WHEN| Before the latest Panem Nightly
WHERE| Tribute Suites
WARNINGS| None, but suicidal ideation may come up.
The paper in his hands is crumpled and grimy with sweat. He's been holding it in his hands for the last two days, picking it up over and over again to check times, check room numbers, make sure that he's ready to make his appointments. He doesn't sleep well, waking from nightmares where he misses his alarm, where he forgets what language is during his interview.
Despite his best efforts, he hasn't really been able to make himself look presentable. Typically he looks better after a few weeks in the Capitol to put some fat on his painfully skinny body, but the stress of waiting for his petition to process has done him no favors. He has dark circles under his eyes, which appear almost bulbous atop his hollow cheeks. His fingers on each hand are covered with scabs up to the first knuckle. His lips are covered with canker sores and he's developed a twitch in his right leg that ambushes him when he sits down.
He doesn't feel ready, and he doesn't feel like he'll feel any better once he's done with each interview. He gets to the doors over an hour in advance and paces outside them, lost, it seems, in his own shallow breathing and possible rejection. He knows, deep in his stomach, what he has to do if his petition is denied. He knows he can't handle another Arena. And yet while he isn't allowing himself to contemplate willfully, images of how he has to die start trickling into his mind and lurking in the shadows.
He knocks on the door at exactly the correct time for each interview.
-/-
After each one, there is no dissipation of tension. There's no feeling of relief, that he's done the hard part. The hard part is still the waiting, and that's still happening, like a car wreck he's going through in slow motion. He tries to sit by himself in his room but, to put it politely, he psychs himself out.
(The truth is that he finds himself unable to breathe, finds his legs unable to support his weight, starts shaking so hard he has to lie down and stare at the ceiling as if the white paint above him will swallow him up.)
He gets up and takes the elevator to District 4 and District 10. He goes and he finds his friends, no matter how they currently feel about him.
no subject
No matter. Exceptionally good act, sickness, addiction, or any combination of those three, it's some good information Roland's just been handed. He doesn't know just what Panem's people consider useful, but there's got to be something there. "Diplomacy. A fine skill to have. And your time as a warden? You must have dealt with a few riots and angry prisoners in your time."
Nevermind Roland's doubt that the figure in front of him could deal with the stress of walking against a strong wind. People can surprise you. And just in case, Roland raises his eyebrows and tries to think loudly, or at least get something across in his face. And if you haven't, for your father's sake think of something you can twist into sounding just as good.
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He thinks that that sounds good, right? And then he starts to worry, because what if that makes him sound rebellious? As if he's advertising his ability to create something from the ashes.
"I c-can, I can be a tactician, if the Capitol needs me. I'm smart, real smart, not like book smart but, you know. Practical." He takes a deep breath. "Do you, um, you have any experience with prisoners and stuff? We could swap stories."
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"We could, at that." Roland leans forward, setting an elbow on the table in front of him and keeping stare focused at Howard's face. "Nevermind any experience of mine, though. Seems you've got experience in a lot of things - diplomacy, strategy, keeping order. Must be difficult, knowing your work as a tribute can never use those skills to their full potential." Roland's less interested in making whatever emotional connection he thinks the boy's aiming for, and more in trying to toe the line between guiding the conversation and hinting too heavily. If Howard still wants stories once this is all done he can have all he likes, though that's not something Roland's going to say here and now.
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Maybe they would have helped here.
"Yeah, it just seems like, like I'm being underutilized." He hopes that's the right word. He think Roland might be trying to help him, but at the same time is wary of being led into a trap, of entering a sort of human pitcher plant. "And I'm sure the Capitol's getting bored of watching me die."
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He still doesn't know what to do with kindness. It's something too heavy for his weak hands. It's not something he expects from strangers, even older ones who see how vulnerable he is in a heartbeat.
So he says the truth.
"I'm not doing the next Arena. No matter what."
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