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museboxedinWho: Linden Lockhearst and Dr. Caesar Salazar
When: After Linden's latest stint in rehab, between Arenas
Where: District 6's suite in the Tribute Tower
What: Some self-destructive Victors go through doctors faster than others.
It had felt like a sudden pain, a sudden weight, and then the floor rushing up in a punch-drunk smack of cold marble.
Usually, Linden knew his tolerance, until it got higher and he had to adapt to survive. But this time had been different; this time, he was at least two kilos thinner. They'd taken in his clothes before the party, pinched-lips and shaking heads he barely registered. Wherever the weight had gone, it had left him sparser, paler and more vulnerable, and as he did what he needed to in order to stay alive in the colorful sea of sick indulgence, the room had started spinning, too much, too fast, too LOUD.
The rest was related to him later after he woke up. He learned that he'd been dead for a few minutes after his heart stopped, and then that his rib cage had been cracked open like a Capitol child's birthday gift so they could restart it. All very desperate and dramatic, and under the hazy influence of the good drugs that weren't even usually accessible to Victors, he'd resented that they couldn't just leave him alone after what was probably a better run than he'd ever counted on having.
Rehab, as usual, was terrible. Nothing happened or changed there. Folding paper into fragile flowers, talking about feelings and productive ways to stave off cravings. Bullshit, in so many words. Linden saw it in the other addicts' eyes, met them, shared silent understanding and laughter. If those were truly alternatives, and life is so fine, why the hell would we run from it in the first place?
Counting down the days, the hours, the minutes has finally paid off. He's been released but not allowed to return to District 6 until after the next Arena when he'll presumably be stronger. They think that putting him here in the Capitol will keep his brittle, wasted body safer. They're wrong, of course, but it's a tired song and dance now, the futile cycle of keeping a man who wants to die present, painting roses in his cheeks and presenting him as a spokesman for a government he silently despises.
There's nothing to do for it, of course, but tie off his arm and examine his needle collection on the surface of a chessboard. Long-neglected pieces look on and silently judge him; the Bishops turn up their noses, the Knights gape hungrily. Linden looks for a vein that isn't collapsed, burst or otherwise destroyed. The suite, built for socializing with a large fireplace in the center of the room, is still and silent and crawling with anticipation. It almost doesn't matter that a doctor is on his way; what can he really do?
When: After Linden's latest stint in rehab, between Arenas
Where: District 6's suite in the Tribute Tower
What: Some self-destructive Victors go through doctors faster than others.
It had felt like a sudden pain, a sudden weight, and then the floor rushing up in a punch-drunk smack of cold marble.
Usually, Linden knew his tolerance, until it got higher and he had to adapt to survive. But this time had been different; this time, he was at least two kilos thinner. They'd taken in his clothes before the party, pinched-lips and shaking heads he barely registered. Wherever the weight had gone, it had left him sparser, paler and more vulnerable, and as he did what he needed to in order to stay alive in the colorful sea of sick indulgence, the room had started spinning, too much, too fast, too LOUD.
The rest was related to him later after he woke up. He learned that he'd been dead for a few minutes after his heart stopped, and then that his rib cage had been cracked open like a Capitol child's birthday gift so they could restart it. All very desperate and dramatic, and under the hazy influence of the good drugs that weren't even usually accessible to Victors, he'd resented that they couldn't just leave him alone after what was probably a better run than he'd ever counted on having.
Rehab, as usual, was terrible. Nothing happened or changed there. Folding paper into fragile flowers, talking about feelings and productive ways to stave off cravings. Bullshit, in so many words. Linden saw it in the other addicts' eyes, met them, shared silent understanding and laughter. If those were truly alternatives, and life is so fine, why the hell would we run from it in the first place?
Counting down the days, the hours, the minutes has finally paid off. He's been released but not allowed to return to District 6 until after the next Arena when he'll presumably be stronger. They think that putting him here in the Capitol will keep his brittle, wasted body safer. They're wrong, of course, but it's a tired song and dance now, the futile cycle of keeping a man who wants to die present, painting roses in his cheeks and presenting him as a spokesman for a government he silently despises.
There's nothing to do for it, of course, but tie off his arm and examine his needle collection on the surface of a chessboard. Long-neglected pieces look on and silently judge him; the Bishops turn up their noses, the Knights gape hungrily. Linden looks for a vein that isn't collapsed, burst or otherwise destroyed. The suite, built for socializing with a large fireplace in the center of the room, is still and silent and crawling with anticipation. It almost doesn't matter that a doctor is on his way; what can he really do?
no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 01:52 am (UTC)"Well, I wouldn't want to keep you," he murmurs in clipped tones, picking up his cards and examining them.
Though his expression doesn't change, his cards are fortuitous indeed. Though they're low, they line up, and they're all spades. It's a straight flush, and he realizes that he can get on top if this if he bets appropriately.
"The ante's raised to two this time, as is the custom, given that this game will be a short one. I believe it's your turn to start," he drawls, twisting a strand of his hair idly as he slides his ante toward the center and waits for Cesar to bet.