communion :: [ calliope + mace // blitz ]
Aug 28, 2020 22:10:05 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Aug 28, 2020 22:10:05 GMT -5
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safe to say that growth is an uncomfortable process
and pain is a necessary investment for progress
and pain is a necessary investment for progress
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— the delicious feeling of her knuckles colliding with his cheekbone, the purity of her hatred forcing its way through his flesh and the splitting skin of her own hand, kissing bone to bone in morbid celebration of everything that brought them together. She remembers spitting at him, she thinks. Perhaps she has falsely embellished the memory with such petty flourishes, but either way there's still a glow of satisfaction that bursts in her chest when Calliope thinks back on the day she met Mace Emberstatt and sucker punched him in the fucking face.
There is an inexplicable fondness in the way she toys with the phone cording as it rings and rings, wrapping the black plastic coated wiring around her finger like a schoolgirl fussing with her hair. It's akin to madness when the sound of his voice on the other end of the line causes her to giggle. "Fuck you!" The mayor of District Six exclaims through a peel of laughter, sounding as if she's having the time of her life. She's not. She feels like complete and utter trash. That's why she's drunk.
She's a mean drunk — as the oft-smashed statue of former President Snow can attest to, once again laying in approximately thirty-nine and and a half pieces across the hallway floor just outside her office door. The justice building is dark and empty enough to make her angry, because how dare it. How dare it challenge her for the title of Darkest and Emptiest. Looking down on her now, the brutalist building holds its tongue, lest it risk testing her temper further; she looks awfully bright with her watery eyes glinting in the shadows and impressively full of cheap whiskey. No wonder she's at risk of being dethroned.
"I hope you were sleeping. I hope you were having the best dream of your life and that you heard the phone right before the really good part," she says pettily, gleefully, still trying to figure out if taking little moments away from him like this will ever add up to punishment enough for that one big wrong he did.
Only it wasn't one wrong. On her fingers she tries to count the corpses that the Victor of the Fifty-Ninth Games left laying in the snow, like so many statues that have been destroyed by the baseball bat kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard under the musty rug in front of this desk. Her fingers are blurry and she gets distracted waving them in front of her face, as if running tests on her own sobriety that she certainly does not pass. Mace didn't only kill Aesop, the same way she didn't only cause the death of Sara Hartfield. She smiles drunkenly, deliriously into the phone receiver. She smiles so wide it hurts and then she tries to force the corners wider still.
There is an inexplicable fondness in the way she toys with the phone cording as it rings and rings, wrapping the black plastic coated wiring around her finger like a schoolgirl fussing with her hair. It's akin to madness when the sound of his voice on the other end of the line causes her to giggle. "Fuck you!" The mayor of District Six exclaims through a peel of laughter, sounding as if she's having the time of her life. She's not. She feels like complete and utter trash. That's why she's drunk.
She's a mean drunk — as the oft-smashed statue of former President Snow can attest to, once again laying in approximately thirty-nine and and a half pieces across the hallway floor just outside her office door. The justice building is dark and empty enough to make her angry, because how dare it. How dare it challenge her for the title of Darkest and Emptiest. Looking down on her now, the brutalist building holds its tongue, lest it risk testing her temper further; she looks awfully bright with her watery eyes glinting in the shadows and impressively full of cheap whiskey. No wonder she's at risk of being dethroned.
"I hope you were sleeping. I hope you were having the best dream of your life and that you heard the phone right before the really good part," she says pettily, gleefully, still trying to figure out if taking little moments away from him like this will ever add up to punishment enough for that one big wrong he did.
Only it wasn't one wrong. On her fingers she tries to count the corpses that the Victor of the Fifty-Ninth Games left laying in the snow, like so many statues that have been destroyed by the baseball bat kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard under the musty rug in front of this desk. Her fingers are blurry and she gets distracted waving them in front of her face, as if running tests on her own sobriety that she certainly does not pass. Mace didn't only kill Aesop, the same way she didn't only cause the death of Sara Hartfield. She smiles drunkenly, deliriously into the phone receiver. She smiles so wide it hurts and then she tries to force the corners wider still.
last supper d smoke
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