The rumor mill churns quickly in the Capitol, but the storm's gathering rather than broken at this point. What will be hot news tomorrow is still rumor and speculation tonight, and those are the circumstances under which Nill has found him locked up here. Her relief is palpable to have found him, even under these less-than-ideal circumstances, and he's squinting through the forcefield to read her writing.
"Don't worry about the bail," he's quick to tell her, shaking his head briskly. It aches, but that's beside the point. "As for what happened..."
There's got to be a way to make it sound less fractured, sad, and crazy than it is.
"I was on my way to 9. I wanted to see you, but while I was going upstairs I heard some commotion in 7 and stopped off. I thought maybe Tributes were fighting and I wanted to break it up. But Jason Compson was hitting one of the tower Avoxes, and we sort of got into a fight, and... I guess things escalated. He grabbed me and I blacked out, but apparently I sliced him badly enough to need stitches. On his face. With a piece of broken ceramic."
He runs a hand through his dark, disheveled hair.
"...They're keeping me here tonight. I have to talk to a psychiatrist. They're telling me that I shouldn't quit cold turkey, and that I have to write a letter and publish it publicly apologizing to Compson."
The idea sounds bitter and hateful to him; if he could, he'd spit it out of his mouth as soon as say it.
no subject
"Don't worry about the bail," he's quick to tell her, shaking his head briskly. It aches, but that's beside the point. "As for what happened..."
There's got to be a way to make it sound less fractured, sad, and crazy than it is.
"I was on my way to 9. I wanted to see you, but while I was going upstairs I heard some commotion in 7 and stopped off. I thought maybe Tributes were fighting and I wanted to break it up. But Jason Compson was hitting one of the tower Avoxes, and we sort of got into a fight, and... I guess things escalated. He grabbed me and I blacked out, but apparently I sliced him badly enough to need stitches. On his face. With a piece of broken ceramic."
He runs a hand through his dark, disheveled hair.
"...They're keeping me here tonight. I have to talk to a psychiatrist. They're telling me that I shouldn't quit cold turkey, and that I have to write a letter and publish it publicly apologizing to Compson."
The idea sounds bitter and hateful to him; if he could, he'd spit it out of his mouth as soon as say it.