Sympathy Card
OOC: Finally finished this thing. It's called "Sympathy Card", but I affectionately call it "Otto does not respond well to mind games".
Another lovely day in the Capitol. Sun shining on the buildings. People wandering in the street. Probably gossiping about the Games. About the amazing show and the surprising ending. Such an amazing turn of eventsâŚhow very loud it all was.
How absolutely obnoxious.
Otto rolled onto his side, away from the light that shown through the window. It wasnât enough though, and for extra emphasis he clenched his eyes shut and pulled a pillow over his face, blocking out the world and all those that inhabited it. He hadnât felt like doing much of anything for the past couple of days, but most people that knew him well enough would not likely be in any sort of position to hold it against him or tell him to buck up. Otto got low sometimes, but this was different. He was not used to this feeling of loss, of sadness, of mourning. It was exhausting, and it didnât seem to let up, only seeming to get worse when he wanted to quiet his mind of all the things that circled within it. It was dizzying even, made him light-headed. Not at all conducive to actually functioning as a proper member of society.
Perhaps in time his routine would return to him so at the very least he could go back to giving off some semblance of normal. Back to the whirlwind of fancy parties with overt themes and mindless gossip. Back to the hum of peopleâs chatter in his favorite spots for thinking and people-watching. Back to just being himself again. Maybe even something close to happy. Until then though all Otto wanted was to mope and sit at home. People were tiring, and reallyâŚwhy even bother with them? His own incompetence when it came to others should have been all too apparent at this point.
Routines were replaceable. Your friends were not.
Of course, there were those that found your friends replaceable, but stillâŚat the thought Otto tried to curl himself up tighter. Today had been full up enough by his own thoughts. He didnât need more of them. Still, his negativity was something heâd never been able to fully avoid or shake off.
FriendsâŚso much for those things. Seemed like he wouldnât have been able to maintain a relationship with someone even his he was tied to them. Though it would also seem that other people had the ability to sever the rope, through no fault of his own, with pruning shears. Then again, how true was that anyway? No fault of his own. What if that was just an ugly lie? A rationalization for the horrible person he truly was. Perhaps, this was all his fault. Perhaps, there were things he could have said, or maybe in this case have not said. To have had the amazing ability to keep things to himself. Maybe then things would have gone a bit differently than they had.
Oh, this was not helping a bit was it? If nothing else it was only making him feel a million times worse than before, and that was no good for anyone. The best thing to do would just be to sleep and hope that creeping doubts would allow him that.
However, as he started to drift off a new sound caused him to bolt upright. The sliding of something on the ground. Something small. Under the door? Otto turned to look at the floor. The cat was fast asleep. What on earth had been that noise?
Goddamn ghosts.
âYouâre not allowed in here!â he yelled in not particular direction, hoping to sound intimidating as he covered his eyes with his hands. After a few seconds he peaked out from behind his fingers. Nothing flung aboutâŚmaybe it wasnât a ghost, but if not that then what? Getting up, Otto walked to his door, very carefully as if the floor was going to cave in under him. Maybe that would be for the best. Knock him out or better yet kill him. But no such thing happened. He simply made it to the door. No drama. It was a bit disappointing.
To die would have been an awfully big adventure.
No ghosts. Just an unassuming little letter. Then againâŚwho the hell sent letters anymore? Well, not anyone in the Capitol anyway.
Bending down, Otto reached to grab the thing, but something caused him to freeze. Something enough to make him recoil, draw his hand back sharply. Something he had never experienced but had heard Seneca complain about from time to time.
Rose scented paper.
Otto took a few steps back before crouching low to the ground, half expecting the thing to self-destruct or something clichĂŠ like that, but all it did was sit there, which was only more unnerving. What did it want? Was it a treaty or a death sentence? A letter of resignation perhaps? All Otto knew was that he didnât know and that he was going to have to do something about the thing eventually. He couldnât just leave it there foreverâŚor maybe he could.
Well, he would have had he not spotted a familiar, furry, shape move past the corner of his eye.
âBalthyâŚstay away from that,â Otto ordered, but goodness knows that cat never listened to anyone. Sniffing the letter, Otto watched as his pet leaned forward, opened his mouth andâŚnoâŚoh no, that was not happening. âDonât eat that!â he said as he grabbed the gray beast to his chest. âItâs probably poisoned or something.â Kill his friend and his catâŚnow that just wasnât fair. Otto glared at the letter for a minute or two more before straightening back up, knees cracking in protest. âWell, Iâm not touching it,â he said, turning and walking in the opposite direction.
Returning to his couch Otto glanced over at his door. No, they werenât going to get him. He wasnât going to let themâŚbut did it have to be so damn alluring? Whatâd it say? Who had slipped it under the door? Surely not Snow. The President made things personal, but Otto knew better than to think the President would actually take more time than necessary to make Ottoâs life uncomfortable. Otto wasnât important. He didnât matter. He was just a flighty coward who needed a quick reminder of his place.
The thought was almost comforting. There was no need to harm him. He was harmless. Just a talk-box socialite with fraying nerves and few friends. Fewer now. At this rate the letter was just as likely to be blank as anything else, so why was it so terrifying?
Because itâs from him. I know what he can doâŚwhat heâs done. It would mean nothing to him to have me gone. To have me out of the wayâŚ
Otto sighed and pulled his legs up onto the couch, stroking the silver cat that now resided in his lap. âSomeoneâs playing games with me.â He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. âShame I donât know what the aim of the game isâŚâ He moved the cat to the couch, meeting the animalâs stare. âI should open it. If it kills me then it kills me. You know where your food is.â Balthar blinked and purred, rubbing his head against the back of the manâs hand. âIâm so glad Iâll be missed.â
And he was up again, soon face to face with the scented envelope and his apprehension once more. He was still afraid of it. Of paper and perfume and potentially ink. His stomach churned, but there was nothing in it, so all he felt was nausea and an uncomfortable wetness in his mouth.
Closing his eyes Otto reached down, feeling the tips of his fingers brush up against the envelope. Well, his fingers were still in tact, so that was a plus. He opened his eyes and looked down as he watched himself pick the letter up in slow motion. No burning. No smoke. Just an obnoxious smell and pristine paper. Pristine paper with his name on itâŚ
Mister Otto Majoris BaxwollâŚ
Otto wrinkled his nose at the perfect script and the use of every last bit of his name. It was painfully impersonally personal. They could know your name, but it didnât mean they knew you. He tried to read the name aloud, but the words stuck in his throat, so nothing came out but a strangled exhale. He walked over to the couch, but he couldnât sit. The damn cat was watching him, and Otto was convinced he was being judged by the stupid furball.
âIâm getting to it. Quit looking at me like that.â
He didnât want to use a letter opener, foolishly entertaining ideas of the letter stealing it from him. Running him through with irony. It was that or bleed out from the multitude of paper cuts it was sure to inflict upon him.
He knew he was being ridiculous and that such things were impossible, but there was something to be said for distracting himself with impossible tales. Certainly they had to be better than whatever awaited him under the seal. Otto understood fantasy. It was reality that kept throwing him off.
He turned the letter over a few times in his hands. It felt pretty standard, and he could tell there was something in there. A piece of paper, but he still couldnât drop the idea of it just being blankâŚor maybe covered in blood.
Mine or Senecaâs?
Otto shook his head. This ridiculousness was getting out of hand. What was he afraid of anyway? Of dying? Hardly. The frequency with which he pondered his own demise would suggest that worrying about it was just a regular activity for him, but not particularly something brought about by fear. Heâd always said that if someone killed him that heâd probably assume he deserved it.
Of course, he had never assumed the person who would potentially be offing him to be a certain old man.
Still, what purpose would that serve? It wasnât like he really made a difference one way or the other in this world. It would be a pointless exertion of power, and from what he knew of him Otto did not believe the President to be a wasteful man. Terrifyingly powerful but not one to do the unnecessary.
Slowly he brought the envelope close to his face. âIâm not afraid of you.â Carefully, he brought it back down again breaking the seal and hesitating for a moment or two before pulling out the folded piece of paper. The scent was stronger now and that much more off-putting. It was oppressively floral. Unnatural in its pleasantness, and it made him want to wretch, so he sat down to ease the feeling. He managed to contain it, unfolding the paper and glancing over at his cat. âIâm not dead yet. I think itâs a good sign.â
If cats could roll their eyes, Otto was certain his just had. He was stalling, and he knew it. He turned his eyes back to the paper, letting them fall on a similar black script that was on the envelope. He wrinkled his nose and wondered if it was in fact handwritten, but that was even rarer than a letter, so he couldnât be sure. It was nice to look at, but what did it matter how nice it looked? It was the words themselves that mattered.
And as he looked at them the churning of his stomach became violent. Amongst the words of comfort and cold distance he found himself lost.
Mr. Baxwoll,
It is with great sadness that this letter finds you. As I am sure you are aware your friend, Seneca Crane, is no longer among us. I wish simply to express my deepest sympathies for your loss and to let you know that you do not grieve alone. This sudden loss of a dear friend distresses many a heart in these days so soon after. Hopefully, time will heal these wounds and the pain be forgotten. Such things are a part of life, and the most we can do is try and follow the best paths we can to ensure that such occurrences are rare. Life moves on, and there will be other troubles that will bog you down in your path. I wish strength and patience to you in these trying times. You are known as a man of intelligence and understanding, so I can imagine that you have no difficulties dwelling on such unpleasant things, but do what you must to persevere.
Goodness knows Seneca would not wish for you to dwell on such sadness and unpleasantness at his expense.
Condolences,
President Coriolanus Snow
Otto could find only silence and his tongue sat like lead in his mouth, his eyes reading and rereading the words and focusing on the signature. That part was definitely done by hand. A small touch that was just enough to make things personal so than they cut deep and stung as well.
He wanted to scream and to shout. To rip this damn thing to shreds so that it existed no more. CondolencesâŚcondolences? The president was offering him condolences? Why, it was almost enough to make him laugh, but his tongue would not move. Did the president think him stupid or blind? Did he think that Otto was not clever enough to see the threats and thinly veiled orders to keep his mouth shut and to act as if this was all nothing? That he had never known a man by the name of Seneca Crane. That he had not known the strange man from Three with the Capitol Pedigree?
Surely not. Snow was more clever than that, and he likely knew that Otto was clever himself. No, noâŚhe knew Otto was not stupid. There was no point in trying to go over his head so it was said directly.
Do not mourn the loss of the traitor.
Do not expect any sympathy.
Forget your silly ideals, and accept this.
Do all these things or else weâll know.
Iâll know, and Iâll kill you.
Otto didnât move until he tasted blood, feeling it starting to pool in his mouth. He must have bitten the inside of his mouth. He let his mouth hang open a bit, feeling the slow drip of blood and spit down his chin. Seems today it would be him who would be spilling his blood. Not Snow.
He closed his mouth again and hissed in delayed reaction, coughing as he felt some blood tickle his throat. Placing the letter down on his table he got up and went to the kitchen, spitting in the sink. Blood and spit and nerves. What did you do in this situation? Salt waterâŚright. The concoction was easy enough to make, and Otto stood there and tried not to focus on the brine taste or the slight sting until he no longer spit out red into the sink, washing it down and watching it swirl down the drain. Between that and his tongueâs insistence on rubbing against the raw spot on his cheek he somehow felt a lot better, almost at ease. He continued to stand there for a bit, contemplating his reflection in the smooth metal of the faucet.
Youâre getting so skittish. Well, more so.
He managed to pull himself away and returned to his spot on the couch, still warm from before. Cat curled up lazily on the arm. Letter sitting and waiting right where heâd left it. He picked it up again, scanning the words and focusing in on flecks of red that had not been there before. His blood splattered upon the page and of his own doing, already dry.
He had done this to himself. The President needed not lift a finger. Otto was already afraid of him. Otto already lived in the shadow of this city. These people. Too afraid of his own shadow to bother being a real pest to anyone but himself. What threat was he? None at all, and made this all the more ridiculous. His blood already shed for a cause he didnât even know about or even at this point cared about.
His cause was himself.
And so he laughed, tearing the damn thing in half. Once, twice, and in half again then simply ripping and tearing with no rhyme or reason until it was nothing but a handful of tiny scraps, throwing them up in the air so that they fell likeâŚ
Snow.
Balthar picked up his head and batted at a few scraps as they came down. Ottoâs laughing ceased and he remained still, staring out across the room and through the window at the beautiful Capitol day. The ever-obnoxious Capitol day that refused to go away no matter how much the man wished it would.
The sun was shining. People walked around in their flashy attire. Seneca was no longer amongst the crowds, but Otto could still imagine, still picture him out there as if nothing had ever happened. The reality he wanted to wake to when this bad dream was over. If it would ever be over. Reflection pools and shops seemed to shimmer in the light of day. People basked in the warmth, and Otto smiled as he pictured it all in his mindâs eye as he stood up. Out his window he could see it all, and for a few moments he felt a bit like himself again, anxiousness branching out from within his chest.
There was no place for snow in this tableau, and there never would be if he had any say in it.
