The Aristocracy At Its Best - A Gala (Open)
Aug 30, 2012 14:30:46 GMT -5
Post by JokerMorrison on Aug 30, 2012 14:30:46 GMT -5
"Son, I did tell you this morning that tonight was of the utmost importance, yes?", Patrick rolled his eyes and grimaced, tonight was yet another pointless gala which his parents masqueraded as being for the benefits of charity, but was actually for the sole purpose of social climbing and obnoxiously parading their obvious wealth to the rest of the District. Patrick often wondered if these events were as important as his parents habitually claimed, and though he always enjoyed the opportunity to converse with people of a similar social status to him, not to mention be adored and complimented by the sycophants in attendance, there was always something so frustrating about them to him. He'd long assumed that it was an existential product of the fact that it was his parents parties, and in being apart of it, he was technically living how they wanted him to based on their expectations of him, but lately, he had began thinking differently. After the last few parties, he had began seeing all of the crowd of fools as they truly were; superficial and shallow, and most tragically, a dark reflection of his own soul. This angered him to no end, not the fact that they pointed out how superficial and shallow he was, but because they made him feel less special, less than unique and that could not stand! Patrick was quickly drawn out of his thoughts by the harsh voice of his father berating him, as he continued "And you turn up late, dressed like someone from the outline districts, with an absolutely disgusting attitude! Your mother was so concerned she took to her bed, but thankfully after some of her medicine, she regained enough pep to attend, had she missed this because of you Patrick, I swear to god!"
"But she didn't!" Patrick sneered, and almost instantaneously regretted it, he knew that this would be enough to garner his father's rage. His rage etched into his face, Remington fails once more to control his anger and viciously slaps Patrick hard across the face, and though he stumbles to the side, Patrick nonetheless remains stoic, with his rich azure eyes giving only a glimpse into an emotional agony which cuts far deeper than his father's hand ever could. "Should that bruise like your other cheek, may God help you boy! You know that this is televised straight to The Capitol!", Patrick was sure this was a lie, his father had asserted this before, but it seemed to be yet another way of declaring his importance and power by presenting all guests with a fallacy which would be difficult for them to actually disprove, and most would care too little about to actually investigate. Roughly tightening Patrick's tie, Remington continued to scold his playboy son, "And for God's sake, straighten yourself up, you look ridiculous! No more COFFEE! And how in Panem did you get that bruise in the first place? At least you had the good manners for those around you to cover it with make-up!" Taking a reassuring sip of his coffee, the bitter flavour beautifully dancing on his tongue, Patrick felt at least some pride in the fact that he had beaten his father, at least in one aspect, and in some small way he had gained a measure of respect. Knowing how essential his father considered appearances to be, he wouldn't dare tarnish the slight amount of his father's love he had seemed to gain, and thus he thought of the perfect lie. "I tried out boxing, thought I'd follow in your footsteps", he noticed his father smile in genuine pride slightly, and though it was what he wanted, it was nonetheless incredibly bitter-sweet as this on moment where he had finally gained his father's pride, was based entirely on a lie. "Well, at least you earned it like a gentleman. Try to have fun tonight, oh and don't embarrass us, again".
He watched his father walk away into the ballroom, and was irritated to be reminded and chastised about their last party once more, where he had gotten drunk and ogled a débutante, promising her quite the company merger. The event promised to be as lavish as ever; taking place in their massive, ornately designed ballroom, the hope was to astonish all guests with the oversized crystal chandelier, the magnificent collection of art on display, the expensive rarities available within the hors d'oeuvres (including a rather garish chocolate fountain which captured Patrick's imagination), as all guests danced to the dulcet tones of District 1's highest-priced orchestra, all designed to affirm that the Morrison family were indeed premium members of the aristocracy, while portraying themselves as down-to-earth men of the people through their apparent charitable endeavours. Patrick sighed as he heard Remington greet the room, his father's voice now transformed from the bitter, harsh voice he was used to into a far more friendly, welcoming voice as he vociferously stated "Welcome all, to this, our annual gala...". Swiftly placing his fingers in his ears, Patrick needed to tune his father out, listening to his nonsense would only serve to aggravate him more, and to be able to survive the evening he would need to centre himself as much as possible. Naturally he would try to delay his entry as much as possible, but frustratingly it would do little good, aside from garnering the rage of his parents, but at least he postpone his entry for a brief moment, and walk in under the guise of being "fashionably late", and though he would be entering, at least this way he could be the centre of attention. He needed a distraction, a beautiful one, perhaps there was some pretty play thing in there just waiting for him.
His mind wandered, he knew the perfect distraction, that enchanting harpie he'd encountered earlier. Thinking of their meeting, he couldn't help himself but to laugh aloud, it was a happy, genuine chuckle that betrayed his true nature, and was reserved for only for him in absolute privacy. She was dressed terribly, with a horrendous personality, and to be perfectly honest, she was absolutely awful, but nevertheless there was something absolutely fascinating about her. He felt a sharp emotional pang when he considered just how badly their encounter had ended, and that sadly, it would logically be their last. Why was he even thinking of her? He reasoned that it was largely because she had intellectually and physically stimulated him like no other, and that for once, he had been on the losing end of the situation. But what he did not wish to admit to himself was that, aside from this, she was also one of the most beautiful people he had ever met, and that they were so similar in personality that she actually understood him, or at least she seemed to; he was sure that he was over exaggerating once more, and that these feelings were created within him as a means of distracting himself from the lethal tedium of the evening, and were a way of instilling himself with a brief sense of wonderful optimism, as though his isolation would soon be at an end. Regardless, he still appreciated these feelings, whatever they were, and should they ultimately be a placebo, he would still be grateful for the momentary release it provided him. Taking another sip of coffee, Patrick finds a strange sense of solace in the knowledge that he had managed to steal her precious sword "Nightshade", and had placed it on display within the ballroom's art section; it was bait, and hopefully his fish would soon come after it. He inhales deeply, psychologically preparing himself to walk out and into the party, he needed to do something, find someone, anyone to help him take his mind off of all these feelings. Maybe someone would take pity and come and find him back here, but sadly wishing was futile, and he was sure that no one would.
"But she didn't!" Patrick sneered, and almost instantaneously regretted it, he knew that this would be enough to garner his father's rage. His rage etched into his face, Remington fails once more to control his anger and viciously slaps Patrick hard across the face, and though he stumbles to the side, Patrick nonetheless remains stoic, with his rich azure eyes giving only a glimpse into an emotional agony which cuts far deeper than his father's hand ever could. "Should that bruise like your other cheek, may God help you boy! You know that this is televised straight to The Capitol!", Patrick was sure this was a lie, his father had asserted this before, but it seemed to be yet another way of declaring his importance and power by presenting all guests with a fallacy which would be difficult for them to actually disprove, and most would care too little about to actually investigate. Roughly tightening Patrick's tie, Remington continued to scold his playboy son, "And for God's sake, straighten yourself up, you look ridiculous! No more COFFEE! And how in Panem did you get that bruise in the first place? At least you had the good manners for those around you to cover it with make-up!" Taking a reassuring sip of his coffee, the bitter flavour beautifully dancing on his tongue, Patrick felt at least some pride in the fact that he had beaten his father, at least in one aspect, and in some small way he had gained a measure of respect. Knowing how essential his father considered appearances to be, he wouldn't dare tarnish the slight amount of his father's love he had seemed to gain, and thus he thought of the perfect lie. "I tried out boxing, thought I'd follow in your footsteps", he noticed his father smile in genuine pride slightly, and though it was what he wanted, it was nonetheless incredibly bitter-sweet as this on moment where he had finally gained his father's pride, was based entirely on a lie. "Well, at least you earned it like a gentleman. Try to have fun tonight, oh and don't embarrass us, again".
He watched his father walk away into the ballroom, and was irritated to be reminded and chastised about their last party once more, where he had gotten drunk and ogled a débutante, promising her quite the company merger. The event promised to be as lavish as ever; taking place in their massive, ornately designed ballroom, the hope was to astonish all guests with the oversized crystal chandelier, the magnificent collection of art on display, the expensive rarities available within the hors d'oeuvres (including a rather garish chocolate fountain which captured Patrick's imagination), as all guests danced to the dulcet tones of District 1's highest-priced orchestra, all designed to affirm that the Morrison family were indeed premium members of the aristocracy, while portraying themselves as down-to-earth men of the people through their apparent charitable endeavours. Patrick sighed as he heard Remington greet the room, his father's voice now transformed from the bitter, harsh voice he was used to into a far more friendly, welcoming voice as he vociferously stated "Welcome all, to this, our annual gala...". Swiftly placing his fingers in his ears, Patrick needed to tune his father out, listening to his nonsense would only serve to aggravate him more, and to be able to survive the evening he would need to centre himself as much as possible. Naturally he would try to delay his entry as much as possible, but frustratingly it would do little good, aside from garnering the rage of his parents, but at least he postpone his entry for a brief moment, and walk in under the guise of being "fashionably late", and though he would be entering, at least this way he could be the centre of attention. He needed a distraction, a beautiful one, perhaps there was some pretty play thing in there just waiting for him.
His mind wandered, he knew the perfect distraction, that enchanting harpie he'd encountered earlier. Thinking of their meeting, he couldn't help himself but to laugh aloud, it was a happy, genuine chuckle that betrayed his true nature, and was reserved for only for him in absolute privacy. She was dressed terribly, with a horrendous personality, and to be perfectly honest, she was absolutely awful, but nevertheless there was something absolutely fascinating about her. He felt a sharp emotional pang when he considered just how badly their encounter had ended, and that sadly, it would logically be their last. Why was he even thinking of her? He reasoned that it was largely because she had intellectually and physically stimulated him like no other, and that for once, he had been on the losing end of the situation. But what he did not wish to admit to himself was that, aside from this, she was also one of the most beautiful people he had ever met, and that they were so similar in personality that she actually understood him, or at least she seemed to; he was sure that he was over exaggerating once more, and that these feelings were created within him as a means of distracting himself from the lethal tedium of the evening, and were a way of instilling himself with a brief sense of wonderful optimism, as though his isolation would soon be at an end. Regardless, he still appreciated these feelings, whatever they were, and should they ultimately be a placebo, he would still be grateful for the momentary release it provided him. Taking another sip of coffee, Patrick finds a strange sense of solace in the knowledge that he had managed to steal her precious sword "Nightshade", and had placed it on display within the ballroom's art section; it was bait, and hopefully his fish would soon come after it. He inhales deeply, psychologically preparing himself to walk out and into the party, he needed to do something, find someone, anyone to help him take his mind off of all these feelings. Maybe someone would take pity and come and find him back here, but sadly wishing was futile, and he was sure that no one would.
