vito armani. d1. (fin)

calla RP Tutor 2,122 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 23, 2024 23:49:00 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	vito armani. d1. (fin) Feb 10, 2019 23:26:41 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on Feb 10, 2019 23:26:41 GMT -5 yeah 16!!
	Last Edit: Mar 30, 2019 0:21:05 GMT -5 by calla ⇀ tracker ↼ ⇀ 2024 upat ↼

calla
RP Tutor

2,122 POSTS

Pronouns: she/they
last seen Apr 23, 2024 23:49:00 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

vito armani. d1. (fin) Mar 17, 2019 17:11:28 GMT -5

Quote

Post by calla on Mar 17, 2019 17:11:28 GMT -5

don't look down
it's a long, long way from home
no one's ever survived before
wearing your crown

It always seems to happen in the morning, some funny trick of the light as it rises up over the road, so bright that it turns the very tops of the buildings a weird orange colour. It's early, so I can feel the chill through the window, the way it spreads through my forehead to relieve the pounding and "There he goes again."

Hugo's used to my shit by now, just keeps driving and glances at me through the rearview. It's cold enough that I can see his sigh fill up the car and hear the ice melting in his voice when he asks, "The one from yesterday?"

I trace the tip of my finger up and down the window until it's numb. "That's the bitch."

The bitch turns out to be me. Not me now but the me I was years ago, before everything went to shit, like some higher form of dissociation or whatever. Because it's like this every morning, watching some little rat wear my face and step over sidewalk cracks with all the superstition a nine year old can muster, seven years too young and six inches too short.

And just like every morning, I waste the three seconds it takes to pass him almost telling Hugo to slow down before I remember that he probably wouldn't even stop for Ripred himself. I only ever jumped out myself once, pried the door open and made it about five steps before Hugo had hit the brakes and slammed the car up on the sidewalk, a fist lodged in the back of my collar. It was the fastest I'd ever seen him move, even if I was too busy trying to sprint across the street to watch him.

It was great until everyone suddenly seemed to realize that I had two braincells capable of making such great decisions, and that it was only a matter of time before they'd come together again. But now there's this great big suit that sits beside me, all stoic and silent and awful company, who doesn't even pity laugh at my jokes like Hugo does. Because money's funny like that.

I think a lot of things are funny now that I've got them. Family's pretty funny when you only see them once a week, in the same way it's pretty funny that your only friends are your entourage and your entourage is six feet of bulky broodiness who carries a concealed weapon under his jacket.

I guess my whole life is just one big joke now.

Except dad doesn't think it's as funny. Figures. I could've thrown myself out of that car and split my dumb head open on the concrete and all he would've done was gone out and found some new little orphan to lock away because he always says that we need to learn to finish what we start. Even though that's a nice load of bull. I never wanted to be the beginning of anything, a sad revenge project that he got distracted from, something stuffed away in a shoebox under the bed, rotting away until the maid digs it out again, wrinkles her nose in distaste and throws it all away. Just like all the old trophies and the new toys that had their own room upstairs - I guess the novelty of a kid wears off pretty fast.

Especially since I was just some nobody, parents probably dead in a ditch somewhere, watching the puppet shows that Lu put on in the orphanage, all young and naive and wide-eyed. My favourites were the special weekly ones where he'd just stick his finger through the hole in his sock and wiggle it around, voice pitched high and funny. I guess that's why, when this suit-wearing stick in the mud found us on the stairs, I thought it was gonna be some kind of foster situation; a temporary fix for a quickly overflowing orphanage, a genius plan where they'd take a bunch of kids over to their big empty estate and set them up for a while.

Except at the end of the day it was just me packing up - stuffing a paper bag with my blue toothbrush and my extra sweater and my good shoes until Mr. Hotshot left it all behind on the curb and told me he'd replace it.

Don't get me wrong, I was fucking glad to be out of that place, bouncing on the seat of an actual real car, chugging half a bottle of that weird bubbly water rich people seem to think has driven real water extinct. And of course I was excited, I'd never even seen a car like that before, the closest thing to it was the guy with the rusty old bicycle who I'd watch go by every Tuesday.

Moneybags made me call him dad on the drive over, started telling me all about his house and his waitstaff and I didn't even think twice.

It wasn't until we got to the big golden gates that I actually remembered Lu, how through the whole ride I'd been holding a green plastic bottle instead of his hand, turning my head to crack a joke when he wasn't there, and everything sort of caught up with me. Because he wanted to get out of that place more than anyone. Even tried to once. I was too chicken to go with him but he actually made it a couple blocks before someone brought him back, holding him by the scruff like an six-year-old kitten, all tiny limbs and soaking wet, pouting up a storm.

He got in big trouble for that one, had to take over a bunch of the kids' chores, but I got to hear all about his hour of freedom that night. Plus a little part of me was glad he didn't make it. He was always long shadow shapes and low voices in the dark, something that felt right, something mine. Which was a lot to a kid who didn't have anything. Especially on the nights where he'd press the flat of his hand to his chest and tell me how much he hated the other kids, the ones who still had that starry eyed look whenever a couple came in, just like how he hated the couple and all the other people who lived out on the big hill with their warm fireplaces and their marble pillars and their old money.

We swore under the staircase that we'd never be one of them. Maybe I've just always been shit at keeping my word though, one consequence of mingling with the enemy, soaking in their big words and their nice clothes and their perfect posture.

Except I could never sit up quite straight. I think it's from Lu sitting on my shoulders when we were eight, ghost hunting obviously, he had stretched his arms as far as he could to reach the attic when someone came around the corner and I jumped so bad that he slipped a little, fell forwards against my neck and almost bent me in half.

It's probably one of the only things still with me, the only picture standing out in a scrapbook of itchy woollen blankets and creaky floorboards, something backlit by the window in the hall that never shut quite right and always, without fail, would let in a draft.

I haven't even seen Lu since I left, but unless some sorry sap dragged him out kicking and screaming, I guess he's still in that place, a gangly sixteen year old writing his battle plans on that peeled back wallpaper in our room. Or maybe he did get out eventually, on his own terms, made it past those first few blocks and never looked back.

Probably should've checked up on him at some point, but I'm not allowed in those parts of the District anymore.

I remember thinking that if I was difficult enough, dad'd send me back and everything would be back to normal. It's been four years ago already when I last tried to get out to see Lu, sent a message through this girl at the lounge and got a room in a fancy out-of-the-way place, raided the minibar while I waited for him to show up with a bag packed for the both of us. We were just going to run, twenty million holes poked into a plan that was doomed from the start. Except Lu never showed and just when I thought I'd make a break for it myself one of dad's great big thugs practically kicked down the door and I had to throw myself out of the second storey window. I was pretty sure that I was gonna die, had no idea why the guy was giving chase as I followed the back alley down to where it met the street before he caught up and stuffed me back into that fucking car.

I kind of expected him to bring me home in the trunk and when I told dad that he didn't quite laugh like I did. Just settled my tab and put me on house arrest, like I hadn't already been confined to the same two buildings for three years.

"If you want respect you have to earn it" he'd said. "Nothing in life is free." But then he'd try to ruffle my hair a bit, scrape his rings against the back of my scalp and send me off with a "Nothing but love."

And I thought that was ridiculous because he had been trying to buy my love for years. But I still spent the whole month stuck with stuffy old business men, some kind of entitlement in their mothball suits and their sad combovers and their scuffed shoes.

I think it'd just be easier if he hit me or something.

Maybe one day he'll have had enough and decide to stick me on a shelf, hire someone to do the dusting every now and then and just be done with it. Embezzling bastard.

The only reason we had all this luxury anyway was from great old grandad's finance company, a web of shady buildings and board rooms that he tried his absolute hardest to pass down to his eldest. Except I don't think dad was ever meant to run the company - he didn't have the mind for it, see. He was always quiet, more laidback than whoever was behind the big desk at the time, and instead of screaming bloody murder at someone he'd just tell them how very very disappointed he was. And his tells were always too easy to see - like the way his fingers would twitch when he was thinking real hard, or how he'd stutter when he'd lie. So he did everything he could to fall out of favour before the old guy kicked it; rejected peacekeeper training, married his secret high school boyfriend, even adopted some nobody kid from a bunch of nobody corpses. I was fine with being used to spite someone, especially since I didn't know what the word meant back then.

The whole shebang eventually ended with the old man giving in, handing the reins over to dad's little brother. And I guess everything was fine and dandy for a while, granddad eventually graced us with his departure and dad didn't really have a use for me anymore, so he ended up loosening the leash. Business must've been booming then, all those important priceless papers getting filed, because I could actually convince Hugo to take me home early and dad never even said a word. Except then his brother shot himself right in the head, right out of the blue, did it in his own office in his own chair and everything just kind of went down the drain.

But it was all hush hush, someone got in there right the next morning and cleaned up the mess, sent all the piled up letters and triple checked the books, told the outside world that no sir everything's just great don't you worry about a thing the new statements will be out before you know it. Suddenly no one had heard of a time where dad didn't run things. The name on the office door was switched out and new business cards were printed, all stiff and shiny.

Dad was never really the same after that. It's not like his brother had been coming over for cozy family dinners, and I think I maybe only ever saw him twice in the five years I'd been living there. Maybe dad did love him. But if he loved his brother the same way he loved me then I get where the whole blowing your brains out thing comes from.

That week, all the old guys on the board started asking me if I'd be attending the end of year party like I had every year - even though not once in my life had I ever mingled with a bunch of dry middle-aged business fucks, sipping chardonnay from a flute instead of straight from the bottle, watching everyone walking around in stiff collars and knock-off watches.

I think I'd remember something like that.

Except I didn't really know what to believe. I was fourteen, teetering on the thin edge of puberty, and suddenly if I wanted to talk to dad I had to make an appointment with his secretary.

Not that I did anyways.

I heard them say that this was an opportunity, that a rags to riches story was a sure fire way to teach humility, and no matter what you gain you'll never forget where you came from. I guess that meant a nine year old kid from some slum orphanage would get them the best heir this side of Panem. Except the only thing I can remember is the weight of Lu on my shoulders and the sound of his voice when he'd fallen off, how my back still twinges if I turn funny.

Maybe it wasn't the best plan, because instead of being groomed for some boring office job I just spend my precious time wasting away in the middle of dad's new lounge, full of lacquered wood and golden fountains and Capitol mockery, gaudy art pieces that cost more than most people's rent. All these desperate gamblers wandering around in silk and velvet and chiffon, looking for some kind of distraction. I still don't know why he felt the need to buy the place.

But I do know there are a handful of guys that come to cheat each other at cards. They walk in everyday and sit at the same table, order the same thing from the same bartender in the most monotonous display of wealth I've ever seen. Their betting pool never has any money it but I know they must be throwing something big in, because I've seen the same guy lose twice in a week and turn paper white, almost keel right over in his chair. I think they know that I watch them too, since I've caught them looking over and then away faster than I can blink.

But it helps me keep count of the seconds until it's considered acceptable to go back home and sleep off a day's worth of boredom, a distraction from trying to ignore the guys in the corner who stand ramrod straight and watch for wandering hands behind their sunglasses.

It used to bother me, the way people'll look at a teenager who hasn't moved from the same spot in three hours and probably looks dead. I could get them kicked out easily now, even tried it way back when with a girl who I thought was sort of pretty in the right light, just to see what would happen, and I haven't seen her back here in months. I don't know what I expected, but the payoff isn't really worth the effort. I don't even feel the stares anymore, just keep an eye out for the runt who ruined my life, watch everyone lose their money and their minds from the little roped off section in the back corner.

I think I'm gonna die in here.

song: cold blood

Last Edit: Mar 30, 2019 0:18:51 GMT -5 by calla

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calla RP Tutor 2,122 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 23, 2024 23:49:00 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	vito armani. d1. (fin) Mar 30, 2019 0:22:46 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on Mar 30, 2019 0:22:46 GMT -5 ahhhHkdfj lol??
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Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Apr 25, 2024 23:24:22 GMT -5	vito armani. d1. (fin) Apr 7, 2019 20:49:26 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Apr 7, 2019 20:49:26 GMT -5 You are now allowed to use this character on the boards. If your character has a play-by, please register them with the Face Claim. Plotting opportunities can be found in Character Plots.