Marcus Caravahlo (caravahlo) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-08-03 12:45:00 |
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Marcus appreciated artistry. The painting that Noa had done on his trailer was one of his favorites, and he'd been meaning to discuss a more permanent addition to his art collection with her for a while, but hadn't been able to find time. It was easy to get distracted. Since he had a few days to kill before the officer's meeting, it seemed as good a time as any. Since digging up some of his past when Teagan came to his trailer, he'd decided that he should probably do something about the baggage. He couldn't excise any of the emotional wounds, but physical scar tissue could be dealt with... or at the very least obscured.
Since his arrival in Texas, Marcus had been doing everything he could to prove to himself that he was still alive, celebrate life. Very little could subdue the high he felt when he woke up in the midst of a fucking community. Surrounded by people who breathed and laughed and fought and fucked. In terms of healing, the camp was a goddamn miracle cure. All of the noise and smell and energy acted like an astringent for doubt, a disinfecting agent against loneliness.
For a brief amount of time, he hadn't been certain he'd find people again. Good people. After the shit that had gone down with Dugger, it'd been easy to believe that monsters were all that was left. Now that he knew otherwise, he couldn't help feeling joyous.
The stages of joy didn't quite mirror all the stages of grief, but like grief it tended to progress in waves, rather than a steady line. There were bouts of disbelief, doubt... underlying fears that would occasionally make themselves known during the rare quiet moment, often fueled by bitter memories of the last time he'd allowed himself optimism. All the follies of hope. The roller-coaster to acceptance wasn't an easy ride, as it turned out, and Marcus didn't particularly like to engage in deep self-analysis. He wanted a quick fix, so he'd embraced distraction, welcoming anything that came within arm's reach so long as it promised he wouldn't have to think for a while.
The trailer had been a logical step, and letting people paint it had probably been symbolic in a lot of ways. Seeking out the tattoo artist was more of the same, as was asking to patch. He wanted to be marked, branded, kept. He needed to belong to something that wasn't going to turn to shit.
And he needed to exorcise some of the shit that had happened. Slay the ghost of hope that had turned its back on him ("No puedo verte morir, Marcus...") and lend permanence to the new ones taking root. A bastion of determined optimism arrived at Noa's door in the morning, as promised. He knocked before finding something steady to lean against, far too content these days to succumb to impatience, particularly when asking for a service.