hangout | dares club [pre-93rd]

Heads I'll go, tails I'll skip.

...

Goddamn it.

The worst part of myself figured Flynn Garner becoming my friend was something of Avriel's doing. He and those pesky puppet strings, I can't help but wonder sometimes how he still tries to control everything from three districts away. I thought I'd feel more at home away from it all, starting at square one by myself, but all it's done is isolate me with all those terrible feelings. There was something in me that just hadn't died off yet - though, I hoped it was on its way out - that keeps 9 somewhere deep in my heart, not ready to be completely forgotten. 

If it weren't for Duke, though, I don't think I'd ever return home. District 6 was... nice, that much I'll admit. Massive, double in size that of the district I grew up in with people around every corner, my first impression was I'm going to fucking hate it here. Thankfully, I hadn't, not really. Trauma still knocks unnoticed on my apartment door, but sometimes I like to pretend I've lived here my whole life, mysterious single child with two doctor parents. 

Sure, I steal more than ever and have a much harder time staying clean, but I was learning I didn't like the world sober that much anyways. My vices aren't hurting anyone but myself, so I think that means they're fair game. 

Still, I convince myself to try today. Waking up at 2 p.m. on the couch with my work scrubs thrown across the floor, I clean myself up and don't even take a peak of what's waiting in my drug cabinet. I ignore my impulses and even grab my nice coat on the way out, as if I'm any kind of presentable with my fucked up hair. I keep convincing myself I can cut it myself, and then crying every time it comes out botched. 

Dale's diner comes into view and my first thought is to puke my guts up in their bathroom. Avriel spoke of it once, but the more tangible it becomes, the sicker I find myself feeling. These things shouldn't be real, I knew District 9 so well, it feels as if anything outside of it should just be some kind of fantasy. Even Flynn himself, I'll catch him around the hospital and rub the shit out of my eyes as I try to convince myself I was seeing things. It feels the same as I glance over myself in the mirror - a mistake. Nothing makes me hate myself quite like a good visual. 

How am I going to eat at all? I try to convince myself it's just nerves, to grab the bull by the horns and get out there- and so I do.

It's always easier when I shut down, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I dip out of the woman's restroom. Just be normal, instead of, y'know, whatever I am now. There's hardly anyone here, so I make myself comfortable shouting from the entry way, "oi, Flynn!" He must have come in while I was hiding - it's not too late to go back. Or to just straight up leave, though, I think I could use a friend at this point. 

All I've got at the moment's my reflection, and I'm starting not to like that bitch too much, either.  

"You'd never believe the hours they've got me working, they must think I'm a vampire or something," the joke lands flatter than the barstool I climb myself onto. Hope I'm not interrupting, I give an awkward wave to the man behind the counter, the smell of fry batter welcoming my appetite. "Can I get onion rings here?" That sounds like something I can stomach. At least it'd give me something to do with my hands.