Raphael Di Castillo | Wanderer | Hunger Games: The RPG

Raphael Di Castillo | Wanderer Jan 22, 2012 3:07:10 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Jan 22, 2012 3:07:10 GMT -5

the forever condemned.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Raphael Di Castillo

o n e t w o t h r e e // seventeen

m a n v e r s u s w i l d // male

d i s t r i c t t o d i s t r i c t // wanderer

t h e m e s o n g // Spare Ohs by Andrew Bird

f a c e c l a i m // Drew Roy

a p p e a r a n c e

What a lonely old man you’ve grown into.

Look at yourself. Sitting on that ridiculous chair of yours, as if it was a throne. Tell me, do you still go about the place acting like a king?

How silly you look, shoulders hunched over in a scared fashion. You’re cold, aren’t you? That’s why you lean closer to the fire, your skin absorbing it’s energy. The snow batters at the window next to you, it’s a dark and wintry day. Or do you huddle in this odd manner because you hear me? Nonsense. Your head is thick. What I say goes through one ear and out the other. Here, let me touch your graying head. Let me caress it ever so sweetly. Why do you shrink from my touch? Why do your eyes widen? Do you see a ghost?

Calm yourself. All I ask for is a conversation with an old friend.

Do you remember him, at all? More importantly, do you even care?

His ruffled black hair? His tall and strong structure? His bronze skin? His eyes?

Maybe you don’t remember him. No, of course you wouldn’t. You couldn’t if you tried. Did you ever even look at him beyond five seconds? Maybe then, you’d discover a man of 6’2”, towering over your own short frame. Maybe then, you’d see that his skin is tanned bronze from spending too much time outside, and that he has an athletic build because he’s always involved in physical activity. Maybe then, you’d notice the way he always runs his hand through his black hair, trying to keep the dark locks out of his eyes. Maybe then, you’d catch yourself staring at his wide and curious eyes.

He had your eyes, you know. Rich brown, and deep in color. But, they’re much different than yours. Catching sight of yours, I wouldn’t know what to expect. You stare at me now in utter fear and bewilderment. What happened to your past expressions? Has your looks of lust, passion, and hatred long since retired? But, a mere glance at Raphael’s, I’m comforted with thoughts of peace and tranquility - even when I remained captive in your dark jails.

You can’t stand the sight of him, can you? No, of course not. Of course, you could never bare it. No, you could never handle looking at your own child and realizing that you are the boy, and he is the man.

p e r s o n a l i t y

I won’t even bother to ask if you remember how he’s like, because you wouldn’t have a clue. If you couldn’t even memorize his appearance, how would you memorize his personality?

He isn’t like you.

He’s smart. Maybe he doesn’t have your brilliant brain, but he has a clever mind. That boy thinks. He takes the time to figure out a solution, then execute it. He doesn’t learn from the books - Raphael learns from experience. He teaches himself, he is his own master. Not that it’d be impossible to blame him for doing so. With a father like you, he probably got tired of waiting around for someone to look up to.

He’s also impatient, which must play a key part in why he left. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. According to his standards, waiting is not an option. But, after all, who likes waiting? Answers must come quick, and procedures must be efficient and swift. Otherwise, he’ll just frustrate himself to his deathbed.

Maybe you would’ve known your boy more if he wasn’t so shy. But, he is. Beyond my understanding. Although a handsome fellow, I can’t recall a single friend he possessed. In the presence of a stranger, he says nothing, and if he does say anything, his tongue would twist and his words would betray him. And, let’s face it, if anyone was a stranger - you would be it.

A pity you never got to know him. As much as I’d hate to say it, you and him do share some characteristics. Strong headed being one of them. The child is stubborn beyond belief, it’d take a miracle to change any opinion of his. Another being both of your passions for sports. Though differing in height, you both equal in strength. Although, maybe he gives his muscles a different use than how you used yours to smite others.

One thing that I know you don’t possess is the size of his heart. I still question if you even have one. The boy might not be a saint, but he’s capable of the love you never seemed to provide. Being sympathetic and nurturing are a sixth and seventh sense to him, you know, if he ever had the chance to show it.

h i s t o r y

Raphael.

The name rolls so sweet off my tongue. I miss calling his name, whispering it into his ear during his darkest hours, singing it to him as his own personal lullaby.

So long ago have I last seen him, but, at least my last memory was spent with you.

Would you mind repeating the story of how I came to leave?

…

Why, this is shocking. Very shocking indeed. You remain silent? And your bottom lip quivers. Are you still cold, my love? Here, allow me to sit in your lap. Now, don’t recoil from my embrace - you never did so before.

Still, you don’t speak? Has the tale slip your mind already? It was only two years ago, love, how have you already forgotten?

Living under your roof was a blessing, to say the least. A blessing to be surrounded by riches while so many others were stranded with nothing. You gained all this by working close with The Capitol, building weapons and designing grand buildings. In the beginning, I was attracted to your fortune. And, in return, you were attracted to my looks. You proposed, I accepted, and I suddenly became the envy of all of District Six. Yes, quite a blessing. A blessing to have a luxurious home, wear Capitol clothing, and to own priceless jewels. A blessing to have you abuse me in bed, face your bloody beatings every night, and to suffocate under your oppressive wing.

A blessing indeed.

Why do you jump up from your throne, your majesty? Why do you pace the room in a hasty fashion? Have you a place to be? A person to meet? The story isn’t over, yet, my love.

Our child was conceived, and we named him Raphael, after the angel. I hoped he’d bring recover hope in this family when hope had been lost long ago. While I cared for our son and gave him enough love for both a mother and father, you went about your days without even touching him. Didn’t even look at him.

Oh, but he looked at you. Quite often. Who was the stranger who lived in this house? Who was the monster that bloodied his mommy everyday?

After giving birth to Raphael, you neglected me as a partner, a mate, a wife. Did I suddenly become dirty, was I no longer pure? I was aware of your many affairs, many of them occurring in our own bedroom. Not that I minded, I preferred it this way. The less contact with you, the better.

Time passed. Beatings continued. Affairs ensued. I was your slave. No longer a queen. Was I still the envy of District Six?

Then, I met another man. He gave me a reason to live, other than Raphael. I had a spring in my step, a twinkle in my eye. All without your knowing.

Your eyes look like wild dogs, now, how strange. Master, I beg of you to come sit and warm yourself by this dying fire. Let me finish the story.

I was pregnant by this man. You hadn’t touched me in years, and it was clear that I had committed adultery. So, you beat me during my fifth month of pregnancy - when the bump in my stomach was more than obvious. Remember that day? How blood spewed from my mouth, and how my ears went deaf from your boxing? My neck purple and blue from your strangles, my baby dead inside my womb. And, when I lay almost lifeless on the floor of our bedroom, you finished me off with the silver blade of a knife.

Have you gone mad? Why are you so frantic? Who are you looking for? Is it my daughter whom you’ve also killed? Here, she sits by your feet, staring up at you in wonder. She’s two, now. Two years since the day you murdered us.

Raphael was only fifteen at the time. He heard my screams, my muffled cries. Two years since I’ve last seen him. Two years since he ran away upon hearing my cries. Two years since he lost his mother.

Where is my Raphael now?

Where are you going, dear one? Would you not rather join my daughter and I, here? Why do you leave your throne room?

Oh, but you’ve come back to your throne room. With something black glistening in your left hand. Darling, you have tears swelled in your brown eyes. Why are you crying? Let me wipe away your tears. Please, do stop walking to and fro about the room. It does no good to your poor nerves. You scream when I reach to wipe away your tears. I’m only trying to comfort you.

Why do you lift the black gun to your head? Why do you close your eyes and whisper inaudible words as if in silent prayer? Could any repentance save you from your sins? Now, you flutter open your brown eyes - they’re slightly calmer. Your index finger seems frozen on the trigger. You can’t seem to pull it. Do you need my assistance, my love?

Here. Let me help you with that.

…

My love, tell me why you lay on the floor of your throne room - wide eyed, blood gushing out from the gape on your forehead?

Hm, my love?