ʀᴀғᴇ ᴀúʟʟᴀ ᴀ ʟᴀ sᴏᴍʙʀᴀ ᴅᴇ (maginus) wrote in repose,
[Reaction.]
Rafe's father had not been a bad man. Was not a bad man. He was exactly the opposite, hard-working and honest and loyal to a fault. Those were qualities he had instilled in his four sons, just as his own father had in him, and he had raised them expecting them all to be good men as well. When they eventually had children, sons of their own, he expected them to raise them in the same way.
But the memory made him question, made him doubt what he knew right down to the core of his being. That doubt was a heavy weight in the pit of his suddenly growling stomach as the memory of that gnawing hunger lingered stubbornly. He remembered sprinting past the diner despite the promise of food, lukewarm or even outright cold as it might have been. He remembered the slam of the register drawer, so clearly that he could still hear the sound of it echoing through his skull even now, after so long.
With his pants pulled up to his hips but still hanging open at the front Rafe scrubbed his hands over his face. "No. No es real. Tú lo sabes." It was said roughly, with frustration and defiance, but even as he dropped his hands he could feel those emotions of dread and disappointment swirling and swelling inside of him as freshly as if he had just made the disheartening discovery. He felt those things as if they were his, as if they truly belonged to him instead of being forced upon him.
Rafe's father was a good man. He had been a wonderful father, supportive and present when it mattered. He had never missed one of Rafe's birthdays, as simple as they might have been, what a lot of kids today would call underwhelming. They hadn't had the money for anything extravagant but his mother had always made their favourite meals on their birthdays, and she had ensured she had the ingredients to make a cake, or some other kind of sweet treat. They had played games and been together as a family, happy and healthy and grateful for it. Not one of Rafe's birthdays had been like the one he remembered.
Because it wasn't his. It never had been.
His stomach growled. Loudly. The wolf joined in.
On bare feet and with his pants still unfastened Rafe marched out of his room and down the stairs and into the kitchen. The door to the basement was still open, the mess down there not yet cleaned up, including the shredded clothing he had been wearing upon his return. The wolf had made short work of them, just as it would make short work of whatever he happened to have in the refrigerator, which probably wouldn't be much considering he had been out of town. Whatever he had, it would have to do. He'd raid the rest of the kitchen as well. It would be a hell of a lot safer than trying to go anywhere, on foot or by car, while this shit was going on.
Rafe wasn't going anywhere until whatever was happening stopped, until the memories that didn't belong to him stopped forcing their way into his brain and throwing everything into complete and utter chaos.