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
Howard recognizes the importance of sharing food - it's something that they did many times back in the FAYZ, a grace they don't extend to others - and, naturally, doesn't refuse the cheese triangles even though his guts are doing flips.
"Your handler your therapist now?"
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He's just watching, always watching.
"Better then doing nothing I guess." He reasoned, though what he was thinking was Better then drinking till I'm numb.
"Lots of people give me advice these days." He added "Most of it is good."
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Howard's cruelty comes from his nerves, and as such he doesn't even feel guilty as he tries to cut his way through all the bonds Orc's made with other people. He just scowls at the table top.
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"Because some people want to help." He answered plainly. "We're all in this together you know, us tributes."
Wasn't it obvious? Was Howard mad at him for some reason?
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"No one wants to help us. Everyone's playing us."
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"Not everyone." He argued "There are good people out there. People who give their lives and suffer to protect other weaker tributes. People who look for tributes in trouble and talk to them."
He pointed a thick finger at Howard's chest "People who have helped you at one point or another. Is that what R is doing? Or Eponine?"
Tred carefully here Howard, Orc isn't drunk enough to be tired.
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It's a habit he should recognize in himself, because he's done it enough, and yet. And yet. "And honestly, look at R and Eponine's track record, will you?"
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Forcing himself to calm down he took a swig from his drink letting out a sigh once he'd swallowed.
"Not everyone is as miserable as we are. They didn't live through the FAYZ."
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"They made me interview to petition out of here. They made me have to pretend to be likeable."
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But then the content of Howard's words settled on Orc.
"Wait you can do that? Just ask to be done with the arena? Why would they do that?"
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Was he actively trying to make Orc mad? Why would Howard do something so stupid?
No words, not yet. He was just going to glare and wait for Howard to apologize or dig himself deeper.
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"I put in my petition to get out and they ain't gotten back to me yet. Because no one's going to save us."
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"The lord helps those who help themselves. Maybe this is all a test to make up for the rotten things we've done."
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Passive-aggressive? Say hi to outright aggressive Howard, Orc.
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It was shallow, Orc knew it. But anything was better then nothing.
"I can't believe in myself, I have to believe in something."
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"You keep believing that. Whatever. Just keep it away from me."
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"You don't know everything." He muttered "It's fine if you don't want to believe in him, but you need to believe in something. Running on fear and hunger only gets us so far anymore." It used to be that fear, hunger and anger were all Orc needed to keep moving after crippling depression had made him suicidal. Howard had done all he could to help those emotions and needs stay in check but it had only gotten them so far.
They both needed more now.