He slips his credit card to the curly haired waitress and lets her know who it's for. That boy. Yes. Over there. Him.
"It's a gift," he tells her, his voice soft and low. He wears a suit, his tie perfectly tied, his shirt perfectly ironed. "Keep it anonymous."
Anonymous. Anomia. Anomie.
The Capitol has not been kind to Aunamee in these last few days, but it has not been cruel either. He smotheres memories of his death through charity, buying flowers and gourmet nuts and bar tabs and gifting them to strangers. He is a generous angel, he is a smiling beacon, he is sweet and kind and a gentleman, and this is what they must remember when they see his face. Not the bruised neck. Not the swollen eyes. Not the fear or the rage.
(Fear and rage that tear him up every moment of every single day, trapped like a fucking animal, strung up like a puppet --)
When the deed is done, he waits outside against a light post, greedily smoking a cigarette.
no subject
"It's a gift," he tells her, his voice soft and low. He wears a suit, his tie perfectly tied, his shirt perfectly ironed. "Keep it anonymous."
Anonymous. Anomia. Anomie.
The Capitol has not been kind to Aunamee in these last few days, but it has not been cruel either. He smotheres memories of his death through charity, buying flowers and gourmet nuts and bar tabs and gifting them to strangers. He is a generous angel, he is a smiling beacon, he is sweet and kind and a gentleman, and this is what they must remember when they see his face. Not the bruised neck. Not the swollen eyes. Not the fear or the rage.
(Fear and rage that tear him up every moment of every single day, trapped like a fucking animal, strung up like a puppet --)
When the deed is done, he waits outside against a light post, greedily smoking a cigarette.