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)
thecapitol2013-02-17 11:18 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2013-02-17 11:18 pm
Entry tags:
Everybody Knows This Ain't Heaven [Open]
WHO| Howard and OPEN
WHAT| Howard tries to prepare for the next arena.
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A couple days after Valentine's day.
WARNINGS| Post-trauma, so some recollections of death.
In a way, Howard already misses the arena. Not the killing, of course, but the solitude, the way he spent so many days there in relative isolation, alert but alone, catching birds and melting water, ears pricked for every sound. There's no possible way to do that in the Capitol; if he jumped at every sound, he'd never stop startling. As it stands, he can't shake the idea that he should be listening for something, should be aware of someone sneaking up on him through the crowds that he can't hear over the white noise.
He's taken to shadows, to dark corners, to trying to exist as part of the periphery rather than in the middle of any attention. Before curfew he goes out into the Capitol and tries to find alleys to hide in, quiet locations, places away from televisions and radios. He's taken a liking to the pitch dark restaurant. After curfew he hides in his room with locks and a chair lodged under the door, or tries to visit Eponine. It's as if he's trying to lift himself away from this world, to become so convincing that he's not there that eventually it becomes true.
But spending all this time hiding doesn't actually accomplish anything recuperative. He's worn out. He spends so much time looking over his shoulder that he can't sleep at the Tribute Center. He has dark circles under his eyes and sores from biting his lips, including one that travels all the way up to the scoop above his mouth. He jumps at loud noises and stumbles when he's not staring directly at his feet as he walks.
Death was hard, but rebirth has not been kind to him. He wishes he could turn it off, banish it to the arena. He wishes he could trust the other Tributes to do the same, but he knows none of this will just be forgotten when he looks at Draco again, or Alpha. Aunamee.
Eventually he finds himself at the Speakeasy. He gets a non-alcoholic drink and finds a booth in the back. He has a book with him, Basic First Aid in the Field. If he's going to be prepared for next time, he'll need to be self-sufficient, and useful enough to keep alive for anyone whose graces he relies on. He goes over the book, getting visibly agitated and frustrated as his scattered mind fails to retain information as fast as he wants it to.
WHAT| Howard tries to prepare for the next arena.
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A couple days after Valentine's day.
WARNINGS| Post-trauma, so some recollections of death.
In a way, Howard already misses the arena. Not the killing, of course, but the solitude, the way he spent so many days there in relative isolation, alert but alone, catching birds and melting water, ears pricked for every sound. There's no possible way to do that in the Capitol; if he jumped at every sound, he'd never stop startling. As it stands, he can't shake the idea that he should be listening for something, should be aware of someone sneaking up on him through the crowds that he can't hear over the white noise.
He's taken to shadows, to dark corners, to trying to exist as part of the periphery rather than in the middle of any attention. Before curfew he goes out into the Capitol and tries to find alleys to hide in, quiet locations, places away from televisions and radios. He's taken a liking to the pitch dark restaurant. After curfew he hides in his room with locks and a chair lodged under the door, or tries to visit Eponine. It's as if he's trying to lift himself away from this world, to become so convincing that he's not there that eventually it becomes true.
But spending all this time hiding doesn't actually accomplish anything recuperative. He's worn out. He spends so much time looking over his shoulder that he can't sleep at the Tribute Center. He has dark circles under his eyes and sores from biting his lips, including one that travels all the way up to the scoop above his mouth. He jumps at loud noises and stumbles when he's not staring directly at his feet as he walks.
Death was hard, but rebirth has not been kind to him. He wishes he could turn it off, banish it to the arena. He wishes he could trust the other Tributes to do the same, but he knows none of this will just be forgotten when he looks at Draco again, or Alpha. Aunamee.
Eventually he finds himself at the Speakeasy. He gets a non-alcoholic drink and finds a booth in the back. He has a book with him, Basic First Aid in the Field. If he's going to be prepared for next time, he'll need to be self-sufficient, and useful enough to keep alive for anyone whose graces he relies on. He goes over the book, getting visibly agitated and frustrated as his scattered mind fails to retain information as fast as he wants it to.
no subject
This is how it always goes. There is always a person set adrift, clawing for meaning. For acceptance. And there is always Aunamee, a savior in white, waiting on the shoreline with an ore covered with splinters.
"I was wrong to be angry with you," he says, low and gentle. "And I might have been wrong about death being your only hope of salvation."
no subject
He's uncertain. He can tell something's happening, but he can't discern that he's being dismantled from the inside, rearranged. "And I don't need salvation, anyway."
no subject
"Salvation is all you've ever wanted."
He spins the words from his lips like spiderwebs.
no subject
He doesn't know why Aunamee's placing another riddle in front of him when his very presence is a puzzle. His head's spinning too much to try and crack the code. It's maddening, disorienting, like a flurry of attacks he can't recognize as such, and he can't get his bearings enough to protect himself.
"I'm not religious."
He should run. One moment to catch his breath and he'll run.
no subject
He looks upwards as though looking at Him, God, but nothing is up there except for the sky, absent of stars, murky with light pollution. He is on a stage, right now. He is a performer.
He looks back to Howard.
"What you want, Howard, is happiness." He purses his lips. "Safety. That is your salvation."
no subject
It's true, of course, it's all he's ever wanted was to be safe, in a world that started by throwing bullies on the playground and his cousins at him and has been upping the ante with plague, with abandonment, with mutant animals and death matches and starving and brutal murders without conclusion and the whole goodie bag of Hell's party favors. Nightmares, cold sweats, anxiety attacks, pains in his neck and hands and chest, insomnia, the taste of blood always on his lips, the strips of skin pulled from around his fingernails, bloody noses, bloody mouth, blood soaked into the way he sees the whole world.
The one thing he can never have.
When he does breathe again it's a strange, weak little wheeze that seems more like a rat escaping from the gutter than setting loose the bird of life. He stands for a moment, not so much torn between options as bereft of ones that seem any good, and then he bolts.
He trips on the edge of the curb and scrapes his knees, but he's back on his feet in a moment, sprinting far far away from Aunamee. Far away from here.