artemidorus ember [d4] [fin]

[lyss]

Artemidorus Ember
17
Male
District 4
Appearance:




Personality:




History:




odair

[lyss]

 A R T Y E M B E R 

G E T I N T H E S H O W E R I F I T A L L G O E S W R O N G

"SO, Artemidorus, what brought you here today?"

"Are you fucking kidding me," a boy in his late teens spits, twisting uncomfortably in his chair. "Do you not see the bone sticking out of my wrist?"

The doctor glares at him before scribbling down something on her notepad. "Tell me what happened, Artemidorus."

The boy sighs and runs a hand through his unkempt hair. "First of all, call me Arty, please. It's easier for both of us. I want this patched up right now, so I'll give you the brief version. I was surfing, got knocked over by a pretty big wave, smacked my wrist at a bad angle on my board."

The doctor nods faux-sympathetically and shorthands the brief story. "Alright, Arty, we'll see if we can get you patched up real quick and send you packing."

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, shaking his hair out from his fingers. He glances around the room after the doctor leaves, trying to lower his heart rate. As tough as he seems to be, things like this have always made him nervous. He's not sure if they'll have to cut him open, or if they'll painfully pop the bone in place. It's not the first time he's come in for a serious injury like this, and he's surprised the hospital hadn't taken notice of how many times he'd visited in the past three months.

"Five times in three months, and not even a bloody "Is everything alright?" he mutters, sticking a nail between his yellowed front teeth. The nervousness might have been produced from the gruesome event that had occurred a few hours earlier. He had been surfing that day, that part was true, but the incident followed an hour later.

To fully understand why the incident had happened, you had to know that Arty's father had passed away in an accident Arty was never allowed to hear of. His mother remarried a sleaze from one of the wealthiest families in the district when Arty turned seven. The man never grew to like the boy, even at such an innocent age. His step-father was unable to have children of his own and came to despise his step-son because of the fact; he had at least hoped to train the boy to be a strong, stealthy career, but he rebelled every chance he got. Arty’s mother passed away from a heart attack when he was fourteen, and his step-father took up the opportunity to abuse Arty, hoping he could beat the boy into training.

Arty was a fighter, though. He wasn’t afraid to hit the man who made his life a living hell. Long before the absence of his mother, he had picked up fighting techniques and even participated in several brawls. His step-father was a vicious man, and Arty often couldn’t stop the man’s fatal blows, such as the harsh kick to his ribs two months ago, or the shoulder that had rotated out of it’s socket three weeks ago, and now, the disfigurement of his left wrist.

Arty had often thought of just giving in to his step-father’s demands. His father would bribe him to pick up bags os tesserae and Arty would comply, glad to have extra cash to stuff into his drug fund. It wasn’t completely unlikely for him to be reaped, and he supposed he’d like to have the chance to put up a good fight if it ever happened. He just didn’t want to become some self-centered asshole like most of the careers the training center produced. He also assumed that his dealer wouldn’t give him the fair prices he currently did if he was spotted walking out of the center.

Arty didn’t believe in having to have some sort of sad life story to purchase the morphling that tempted teens all across the wealthier parts of Panem. He wanted to try it, and so he did. He didn’t expect to gain anything from wasting his step-father’s bribes on something that would inevitably rot his brain, but he had. Surprisingly, Arty had made more friends in the two years his supply had been running than any other point in his life. Arty was a good, shy boy until he came to be reaping age. He was teased for his introvert qualities from a very young age, and as a result it was hard for him to make friends. When he picked up fighting techniques, he had gained a friend or two, but he had more enemies than friends. After his mother passed, he isolated himself for a year before he bought his first bundle of morphling.

It turned out more teenagers bought the stuff than he had thought. A lot of the wealthy careers he so despised paid good money to keep the addiction afloat. Arty had made an effort to try to stray from those kids, and in doing so he made friends with a plethora of outcasts like himself.

Arty chewed away at the already short nail as he waited for his doctor or nurse to return with a diagnoses. His eyes darted nervously around the room, taking in all the fake serenity the hospital tried to spit at patients. A painting on the wall adjacent to him caught his interest. It was a small still life of a blue ceramic vase holding a dozen orange tulips; orange tulips were his mother’s favorite flower. The thought brought a sad smile to his face. He rubbed his eyes furiously, hoping, and failing, to keep the memories of his mother at bay. He saw his mother gently tending to the small garden they kept; he could smell the lilac perfume that clung to her clothes; he heard his mother’s shy laugh as he attempted to do a somersault. His fingers tangled themselves in his hair as the pain of his injury mixed with the absence in his heart. His mother was the only person he’d ever cared about, and it was safe to say she was the only person that cared about him.

He tried to smile through the pain by imagining what his mother would say if she was crouched beside him in the red plastic seat. She’d stroke his hair and tell him it was a god awful haircut, and that she’d be fixing it when they got home. She’d tell him lame jokes to distract them from the pain and her sweet personality would have definitely sped up the receival of his remedy. He knew his bones would have to be aligned and there would be some painful process he’d subdued into. His forearm would wrapped in a bland shade of plaster and he’d be given a bottle of narcotics and shipped out.

The door creaked open, forcing Arty out of his moment of reminisce. The doctor forced a smile at him and pretended to flip through her clipboard, knowing that Arty probably already had an idea of what his treatment would be.

“Alright Arty,” she sighed, “Let’s get you out of here. I think you know the deal. We’ll align everything and send you packing in a shiny new cast. Be more careful next time, kid.”

I’ll try, he thought woefully. I’ll try.

template by chelsey

[lyss]

done!

[Baby Wessex d9 [earthling]]

Arty, yes, so much easier to say <3

ACCEPTED!