I am very cranky and so I wrote random horrible Johanna Mason bits, which I am putting here in case anyone else wants random horrible Johanna bits. Warnings for suicidal ideation, excessive drinking, and smoking. Also for very bad writing, probably.
Johanna wonders how Finnick does it. She’s always wondered, since she was a confused 16 year old and he was the same damn age but acted so tough because he knew his way around already. Doesn’t know how he’s survived this far without sticking a knife in a vein or organizing an accident at sea or whatever the fuck dangerous thing looks plausible. Because she’s clutching at straws and stupid plots in back alleys that are supposed to fucking mean something. Supposed to make it worth getting up in the morning and dragging herself through another goddamn day, when all she wants to do is go to sleep and just not wake up.
She tries. For Finnick, and for Blight and Ila some days, and for sheer stubborn spite of not letting them think they beat her, throwing herself into anything that feels like life because she can’t find the real thing.
Johanna’s not sure when she lost it, whatever threads tied her to real life, she just knows they were there, once, and now they’re gone. The Games, the Capitol, the fire, all wear at those threads until they fray and break, one by one or all at once, snapping back at her and leaving welts.
Two more dead kids and it’s just another thread snapping and she doesn’t give a shit anymore, what they think or say or do to her or anyone else, because two more dead kids means 12 on her watch, twelve kids, twelve districts, 12 hours from noon to midnight, 12 years of safety before the reaping, twelve times six for the 72nd year of the Hunger Games, good a time as any to call it quits.
She pulls a cigarette out of the pack on her thigh, half empty and rattling where it’d been full just…well, however long she’s been sitting here. Takes a drink straight from the bottle, there’s a glass on the floor next to the leg of the chair but the floor is down there and the bottle neck feels good in her hand, neatly rounded and warm where she’s been holding it.
It’s smooth going down, which is because this is the Capitol and this is Games time and it was easier to steal the bottle from the dressing room after her last interview than to go out in public for what she really wants, which is something that tastes as bad as she feels.
It’s dark out, and cold, and her fingers are icy against her face as she draws on the cigarette, but she doesn’t go inside. It’s better out here, she doesn’t feel the cold, the room behind her is full of shit, hers but not really, Capitol shit that doesn’t belong anywhere near her.
Except, dammit, she has to piss, and if she was a dude she would piss off the goddamn balcony because she does not give a fuck if some Capitol asshole’s wig gets ruined, it would in fact be funny as hell, but un fucking fortunately she can’t do that, so she has to go inside.
And as she’s going back out, trying not to see anything in here because it all makes her want to vomit, there’s a knock on the door. She stops, but doesn’t turn around.
“What.” Her voice sounds rough.
“Lemme in, Jo.” Blight.
“What do you want,” she snarls.
He’s standing outside the door with his arms crossed. Glares at her, pushes past, through the dark room, out to the balcony.
She follows him, sits down, lights another cigarette for something to do. He takes the bottle, fills the glass, sits next to her.
“So,” he says, settling in. Just leaves it there, hanging.
“You’re the one who came here,” Johanna says, lining up the syllables carefully so she doesn’t trip over them.
“Well,” Blight says, sipping at his drink and letting the glass dangle from his fingers. “Seeing as you disappeared, I thought I’d check in.”
“Thanks Dad,” Johanna snarls, snatching the bottle from where he’s set it and taking a long gulp. She almost chokes, spills a little when she comes up for air.
Finnick would be giving her sad eyes right about now, and that’s why her phone is inside, turned off, under a pile of dirty laundry.
Blight just raises an eyebrow. “Classy,” he says, turns back to watching whatever is so fucking fascinating out there in the City.
“I don’t wanna talk,” Johanna spits out, and this time it comes out slurred despite her best efforts. Just proving her point really.
Blight shrugs, drinks. “Me neither,” he says.
So why did you come? Johanna thinks, but she doesn’t want to contradict herself because she was right the first time, so she shuts up.
With Blight helping, the bottle disappears before too much longer, and Johanna’s eyelids are drooping and she just about drops her cigarette, half falling asleep outside in an uncomfortable metal chair.
Blight laughs at her. Asshole.
“Go the fuck to bed, Jo,” he says, standing up and draining the last of the booze. He holds out a hand and she takes it.
He hauls her up, and she stumbles into him, overbalanced and unsteady. He just laughs again, but he does stumble back, just a little, because he’s drunk too, ha ha. Johanna stumbles to the bed and falls flat across it, half acting and half not really at all, and doesn’t move.
She hears the tap running, a clunk. “There’s water,” Blight says, “you should drink some.
“Fuck you,” Johanna mumbles into the bedspread.
“Nah,” Blight drawls. A pause. “G’night Johanna,” he says, from over by the door.
Johanna makes a noise that might be friendly and might be annoyed and even she’s not entirely sure which, and then the door clicks shut and Blight’s gone.
When she wakes up, head spinning and stomach churning and sore from sleeping just exactly how she passed out, she notices the glass of water and next to it a smiley face made of hangover pills. She groans, scoops a handful into her mouth and swallows them with the water. When she wakes up again the sun is in her eyes and she feels almost, maybe, something like human.
Tags:crosspost, thg, johanna mason, scribbles
Tumblr post (this is likely a reblog, and may have more pictures over there)