08-28-2016, 10:00 AM
2027
For five whole days his mama had not spoken to him, and for five whole days he had been alone, crouched in the corner of the small room staring wide-eyed at her on the bed. Waiting for her to roll over. To remember he was <em>there. Her pale hair spilled out from the blanket he'd pulled over her to keep her warm, her face pressed against the wall, body curled up tight.
As she had been for days.
She hadn't moved, not even when he called out to her, pleading that he was sorry for hiding. Until he finally gave up, sobbing into his hands, sobbing sobbing sobbing until the tears dried his eyes red. Then he waited some more, legs drawn up to his chest and arms hugged around himself. By now he was starving. But his mama would not stir and the cupboards were empty. He could not even let himself sleep, afraid that if he did he would miss the moment when she roused.
But when his vigil was finally disturbed, it was not by her finally turning to forgive him.</em>
*
The memories have faded. He barely remembers a time before the orphanage, his home from five years of age. A state run facility in the heart of dark Moscow, it was no place for such a gentle soul as Raffe, and he quickly understood that he would need to learn to protect himself. He hid from the other boys at first, shy and afraid of their vicious hierarchy. He didn't want to fight or argue, and the way of life here was tough and raw. He didn't fit in.
Violence he avoided when he could. Discovered that a quick smile and a poke of humour helped smooth his path. Raffe didn't mind being made fun of; those were the sort of punches he could roll with, and be glad to spare himself the physical pain. The others found him strange and girlish, but if he was both those things, he was not weak. He woke one morning with his blonde curls all chopped off on his pillow. He didn't react to the prank. Then he just looked like one of the other boys. They began to leave him alone.
Raffe was ten when he learned his father had killed his mother, a discovery made when rumour of the man's acquittal became the talk of the orphanage. The revelation brought nightmares with it, of ice cold flesh and the stench of rotting meat. And hope. But his father never came to claim him.
Raffe hardened after that. Realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was truly alone in this world. It darkened the edge of his usual affability, so that when one of the older kids picked some fun - something Raffe usually brushed off with a laugh - something in him snapped instead. He felt it spring loose and all the hate spill out as he smashed the boy in the face. As he continued kicking him in the ribs long after he'd curled into a ball on the grass of the small yard. The violence disgusted him. So too did the thrill in the madness of it. The boy was three years older; taller, broader, meaner. And still he had won.
He vowed himself: never again.
His place in the group shifted subtly. A cautious edge of respect emerged, and a wariness that made Raffe feel deflated.
He didn't want to be feared.
He was a bright kid, but struggled with schooling as he grew into adolescence. With a sort of inevitability he ended up mixing with the wrong crowd, skipping classes to hang out, shoot the shit and smoke pot. The sense of something missing ached a hole in his gut, and he chased the feeling into oblivion. He was a misfit among his friends; the one who did not quite fit, despite his popularity. His pretty face earned him enmity among some of the boys, but his glib tongue smoothed most cracks. And when Raffe was around, so too were the girls.
It was probably that alone that paved his way to acceptance among his peers.
Once older, he was often the one the younger kids came to when hurt or sad or scared. He told them stories before lights out. Stoked camaraderie instead of competition. He had a gift for making people forget themselves, for encouraging others to feel comfortable in their own skins. The instinct to nurture was something intrinsic. Something deep. Something that gave him peace. It was nature.
From a small child Raffe loved the outdoors and green things, not that there was much of that in the blocky grey concrete grove that sheltered the orphanage and other bastions of no hope in the Guardian. But the first distinct moment of understanding he was somehow different coalesced in the attic of an apartment in Zamoskvoreche. He was fifteen. The cannabis plants were wilted, the edges of the leaves yellowing. The hum of the electric heaters drilled through his skull as he knelt by the boxes. The light burned his eyes. While the others argued about how to best remedy the situation, Raffe poked one of the leaves, and felt a shiver of recognition.
"Rootbound, huh?"
He fixed up the crop. Shrugged when they asked him how he knew what he was doing. He had a gift for it.
Finally, at eighteen, the state washed their hands of him. Walking out the door with a rucksack of his worldly possessions was the first time he ever met his dad. The resemblance was startling, really, else somewhere in the back of his mind he recognised the face. Raffe paused. Blinked.
"You're a bit late."
The man turned, shifted on uncomfortable feet. How long had he been loitering in the street, waiting? His hands were in the pockets of a rumpled suit. Raffe could smell the stale stink of old booze beneath the spray of cologne.
"I'm sorry about your mother, boy. I was drunk. We were both drunk. I panicked when she... I shouldn't have left. And I didn't even know you were there."
He'd been five years old. Where else would he have been? None of this was news though; he'd seen the newspaper clippings by now, knew the charge of manslaughter and all the sordid details. Knew too, though he didn't remember it, that he'd been locked up with the dead body for nearly a week before anyone thought to look for him.
Raffe didn't remember her, not hardly at all. Just the whisper of things. The cadence of her accent. The brush of her hand on his forehead. But he missed her with an ache that was bone deep.
The man who called himself his father said that his wife had been mad when she found out about the affair; that she'd drawn the line at taking the child into their home. He said he was sorry, handed Raffe a packet of money.
Raffe nodded, not sure how to process this information. And the two parted.
In the six years following, Raffe has struggled to orient himself. With no education his options are limited, and Moscow - jewel of the known world - is a dark and hungry city. These days he works in various bars and clubs to make ends meet. Knows all the local hotspots, knows its light and darkest sides like the back of his hand.
Desc:
A cap of burnished curls tops an angelic face sporting an errant grin. Bright blue eyes sit in a boyish face. Clean-shaven. A little over average tall (5'11''), broad at the shoulder and of lean build.
Raffe is quick to humour and has an affable if irreverent manner. His nature is personable and easy-going, but sometimes displays a jaded edge that can make him prone to brooding behaviour. He thinks nothing of helping others, and can be generous with his time and possessions. In particular he has a soft spot for the underdog and those without a place in conventional society. He enjoys a good-natured tease, and is a generous flirt. A temper lurks beneath the surface, but he is more likely to swallow back harsh words than spit them out.
Raffe has a keen eye for the beautiful; art that steals the soul, music one can get lost in. He enjoys sensory experience and is partial to a drink and a night out, but is tempered by the legacy of his parents. Still smokes recreationally on occasion, but avoids synthetic drugs.
RP History
Edited by Raffe, Aug 29 2016, 10:34 AM.
For five whole days his mama had not spoken to him, and for five whole days he had been alone, crouched in the corner of the small room staring wide-eyed at her on the bed. Waiting for her to roll over. To remember he was <em>there. Her pale hair spilled out from the blanket he'd pulled over her to keep her warm, her face pressed against the wall, body curled up tight.
As she had been for days.
She hadn't moved, not even when he called out to her, pleading that he was sorry for hiding. Until he finally gave up, sobbing into his hands, sobbing sobbing sobbing until the tears dried his eyes red. Then he waited some more, legs drawn up to his chest and arms hugged around himself. By now he was starving. But his mama would not stir and the cupboards were empty. He could not even let himself sleep, afraid that if he did he would miss the moment when she roused.
But when his vigil was finally disturbed, it was not by her finally turning to forgive him.</em>
*
The memories have faded. He barely remembers a time before the orphanage, his home from five years of age. A state run facility in the heart of dark Moscow, it was no place for such a gentle soul as Raffe, and he quickly understood that he would need to learn to protect himself. He hid from the other boys at first, shy and afraid of their vicious hierarchy. He didn't want to fight or argue, and the way of life here was tough and raw. He didn't fit in.
Violence he avoided when he could. Discovered that a quick smile and a poke of humour helped smooth his path. Raffe didn't mind being made fun of; those were the sort of punches he could roll with, and be glad to spare himself the physical pain. The others found him strange and girlish, but if he was both those things, he was not weak. He woke one morning with his blonde curls all chopped off on his pillow. He didn't react to the prank. Then he just looked like one of the other boys. They began to leave him alone.
Raffe was ten when he learned his father had killed his mother, a discovery made when rumour of the man's acquittal became the talk of the orphanage. The revelation brought nightmares with it, of ice cold flesh and the stench of rotting meat. And hope. But his father never came to claim him.
Raffe hardened after that. Realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was truly alone in this world. It darkened the edge of his usual affability, so that when one of the older kids picked some fun - something Raffe usually brushed off with a laugh - something in him snapped instead. He felt it spring loose and all the hate spill out as he smashed the boy in the face. As he continued kicking him in the ribs long after he'd curled into a ball on the grass of the small yard. The violence disgusted him. So too did the thrill in the madness of it. The boy was three years older; taller, broader, meaner. And still he had won.
He vowed himself: never again.
His place in the group shifted subtly. A cautious edge of respect emerged, and a wariness that made Raffe feel deflated.
He didn't want to be feared.
He was a bright kid, but struggled with schooling as he grew into adolescence. With a sort of inevitability he ended up mixing with the wrong crowd, skipping classes to hang out, shoot the shit and smoke pot. The sense of something missing ached a hole in his gut, and he chased the feeling into oblivion. He was a misfit among his friends; the one who did not quite fit, despite his popularity. His pretty face earned him enmity among some of the boys, but his glib tongue smoothed most cracks. And when Raffe was around, so too were the girls.
It was probably that alone that paved his way to acceptance among his peers.
Once older, he was often the one the younger kids came to when hurt or sad or scared. He told them stories before lights out. Stoked camaraderie instead of competition. He had a gift for making people forget themselves, for encouraging others to feel comfortable in their own skins. The instinct to nurture was something intrinsic. Something deep. Something that gave him peace. It was nature.
From a small child Raffe loved the outdoors and green things, not that there was much of that in the blocky grey concrete grove that sheltered the orphanage and other bastions of no hope in the Guardian. But the first distinct moment of understanding he was somehow different coalesced in the attic of an apartment in Zamoskvoreche. He was fifteen. The cannabis plants were wilted, the edges of the leaves yellowing. The hum of the electric heaters drilled through his skull as he knelt by the boxes. The light burned his eyes. While the others argued about how to best remedy the situation, Raffe poked one of the leaves, and felt a shiver of recognition.
"Rootbound, huh?"
He fixed up the crop. Shrugged when they asked him how he knew what he was doing. He had a gift for it.
Finally, at eighteen, the state washed their hands of him. Walking out the door with a rucksack of his worldly possessions was the first time he ever met his dad. The resemblance was startling, really, else somewhere in the back of his mind he recognised the face. Raffe paused. Blinked.
"You're a bit late."
The man turned, shifted on uncomfortable feet. How long had he been loitering in the street, waiting? His hands were in the pockets of a rumpled suit. Raffe could smell the stale stink of old booze beneath the spray of cologne.
"I'm sorry about your mother, boy. I was drunk. We were both drunk. I panicked when she... I shouldn't have left. And I didn't even know you were there."
He'd been five years old. Where else would he have been? None of this was news though; he'd seen the newspaper clippings by now, knew the charge of manslaughter and all the sordid details. Knew too, though he didn't remember it, that he'd been locked up with the dead body for nearly a week before anyone thought to look for him.
Raffe didn't remember her, not hardly at all. Just the whisper of things. The cadence of her accent. The brush of her hand on his forehead. But he missed her with an ache that was bone deep.
The man who called himself his father said that his wife had been mad when she found out about the affair; that she'd drawn the line at taking the child into their home. He said he was sorry, handed Raffe a packet of money.
Raffe nodded, not sure how to process this information. And the two parted.
In the six years following, Raffe has struggled to orient himself. With no education his options are limited, and Moscow - jewel of the known world - is a dark and hungry city. These days he works in various bars and clubs to make ends meet. Knows all the local hotspots, knows its light and darkest sides like the back of his hand.
Desc:
A cap of burnished curls tops an angelic face sporting an errant grin. Bright blue eyes sit in a boyish face. Clean-shaven. A little over average tall (5'11''), broad at the shoulder and of lean build.
Raffe is quick to humour and has an affable if irreverent manner. His nature is personable and easy-going, but sometimes displays a jaded edge that can make him prone to brooding behaviour. He thinks nothing of helping others, and can be generous with his time and possessions. In particular he has a soft spot for the underdog and those without a place in conventional society. He enjoys a good-natured tease, and is a generous flirt. A temper lurks beneath the surface, but he is more likely to swallow back harsh words than spit them out.
Raffe has a keen eye for the beautiful; art that steals the soul, music one can get lost in. He enjoys sensory experience and is partial to a drink and a night out, but is tempered by the legacy of his parents. Still smokes recreationally on occasion, but avoids synthetic drugs.
RP History
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- Glass Houses
Edited by Raffe, Aug 29 2016, 10:34 AM.
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