Who: Rictor & Shatterstar What: Memory lane can be a dangerous thing When: Saturday evening Where: Rick and Shatty's room Warnings: Language is likely Ric frowned as he studied the photos spread out across his bed. Fingers folded under his chin, his brown eyes showed more emotion than he would have liked them to. Home had been on his mind, just why he was not sure. Memories of the times that were so close to happy tempted him, trying to convince him that the grass was greener on the other side. Not that Ric had any desire to go home, he knew just what special brand of hell awaited him there, if he went that way. No, he did not want to go back, but that yearning was there. That kind of nameless pain, longing to belong in a very basic way. He had that here at the Haven in many ways, and yet....
And yet he was still wanting? Why was that? He uttered a frustrated his as he started gathering up photos, ready to rid his mind of these depressing thoughts. Each photo attempted to pull him deeper into that depression, that feeling that the only ones who would welcome him would also want to use him. Was it true of the Haven? Yes, it very much was. He was an Acolyte by choice, and he would not change that, but they were all too happy to take him in, to train him, to put him to good use. He was being cynical and grasping at straws, even to his own mind, yet he could not let go of the feeling. Ric really did have some deep-seated issues.
A photo of a very young version of himself attempting to hold a chicken nearly as large as his small body pulled a half chuckle and a hint of a smile from Rictor as he added it to the pile. It was a happy memory, but only a week later his father had landed them both in prison. That part of the memory pulled another hint of a wince from the Mexican, he having to restrain himself not to toss all the photos violently away. Every silver lining had a hell of a rain cloud in that life, he reminded himself. That was why he was here... to get away, to get a fresh start, to find a real life. Or at least a life that did not involve blood money.
"How far have I really come?" He asked himself in a low, almost bitter murmur. He was still in danger every day of his life. Granted, that was largely because of his mutation, which he had no real choice in. "Stop being an idiot, Rictor," he scolded himself as he dropped the photos into a box, rubbing at his face as if to rid himself of the emotions. He needed to get out of this funk.