(no subject)
It's early for him to be out, but after last night, he wants to sneak away before Cartman wakes up. Ray doesn't trust the little fucker not to follow him, steal this box, and scar him for life all over again once he lets his guard down. Which will be never, now that he's actually seen an overweight nine year old stuffed into his missing girlfriend's old bikini, dancing all over Ray's hut while singing pop songs in his shrill little voice.
Scarred for life, Ray thinks again, staring down into the box of Marissa's things--her clothes, her bag, a couple of textbooks. Those yellow boots folded carefully on top of the mess, garish next to all that pink.
Christ, she'd been cute. He shifts his attention out along the beach as he walks, watching the tide go out. It probably would have helped to figure out what he wanted to do with everything before he started carting it around, but it's been one of those days. When he'd tried to shush Rudy on his way out, he hadn't been able to make a sound, and dealing with that kind of bullshit is always a neat distraction from his angst.
At this point, wandering on the beach just after sunrise with a box of pink halter tops and underwear, Ray's kind of glad he can't speak. He doesn't really want to talk about it--didn't talk abut it when it happened, doesn't know how to start now. Doesn't know what there even is to say: she was gone that day and every one after, and eventually he just started to get up and fill his days anyway.
Maybe he could just toss it all into the water and that'd be the end of it, Cartman would never get his hands on that bikini again (and when he gets his voice back, Jesus fucking Christ are they going to have a talk). Except all he can picture is that scene in The Big Lebowski, ashes blowing back into everyone's face. He doesn't want panties flying back at him on the wind, or all of this shit washing back up a day later. This is Tabula Fucking Rasa, he thinks--the current is probably designed to drag that kind of thing back.
There's a path up ahead, cutting through the driftwood and living trees, so he turns away from the water and takes it. He doubts the clothes box does refunds, but what's the worst that could happen if he just puts her clothes back? He can just tell Cartman--when (maybe even if, but he's carrying around enough literal baggage right now that he doesn't want to think about that) he gets his voice back--that if he catches him in a bikini top again, he's training Rudy to tell people about it at the snap of a finger.
Jesus, he thinks at the box, like she can hear him through its contents: you disappear for a few months and I wind up with a hellspawn I have to keep in line with a parrot.
Hell, if this silence thing keeps up, he's going to have to start using Rudy as some kind of seeing-eye parrot for the mute.
[Find him anywhere on or between the beach and the compound. He's contemplative but it's still a great time to meet him, because he is carrying a box of frilly teenage girl clothes and CAN'T TELL YOU WHY. I'm off to work in an hour, so tags will be returned later tonight or tomorrow; ST is expected and LT are welcome through Saturday.]
Scarred for life, Ray thinks again, staring down into the box of Marissa's things--her clothes, her bag, a couple of textbooks. Those yellow boots folded carefully on top of the mess, garish next to all that pink.
Christ, she'd been cute. He shifts his attention out along the beach as he walks, watching the tide go out. It probably would have helped to figure out what he wanted to do with everything before he started carting it around, but it's been one of those days. When he'd tried to shush Rudy on his way out, he hadn't been able to make a sound, and dealing with that kind of bullshit is always a neat distraction from his angst.
At this point, wandering on the beach just after sunrise with a box of pink halter tops and underwear, Ray's kind of glad he can't speak. He doesn't really want to talk about it--didn't talk abut it when it happened, doesn't know how to start now. Doesn't know what there even is to say: she was gone that day and every one after, and eventually he just started to get up and fill his days anyway.
Maybe he could just toss it all into the water and that'd be the end of it, Cartman would never get his hands on that bikini again (and when he gets his voice back, Jesus fucking Christ are they going to have a talk). Except all he can picture is that scene in The Big Lebowski, ashes blowing back into everyone's face. He doesn't want panties flying back at him on the wind, or all of this shit washing back up a day later. This is Tabula Fucking Rasa, he thinks--the current is probably designed to drag that kind of thing back.
There's a path up ahead, cutting through the driftwood and living trees, so he turns away from the water and takes it. He doubts the clothes box does refunds, but what's the worst that could happen if he just puts her clothes back? He can just tell Cartman--when (maybe even if, but he's carrying around enough literal baggage right now that he doesn't want to think about that) he gets his voice back--that if he catches him in a bikini top again, he's training Rudy to tell people about it at the snap of a finger.
Jesus, he thinks at the box, like she can hear him through its contents: you disappear for a few months and I wind up with a hellspawn I have to keep in line with a parrot.
Hell, if this silence thing keeps up, he's going to have to start using Rudy as some kind of seeing-eye parrot for the mute.
[Find him anywhere on or between the beach and the compound. He's contemplative but it's still a great time to meet him, because he is carrying a box of frilly teenage girl clothes and CAN'T TELL YOU WHY. I'm off to work in an hour, so tags will be returned later tonight or tomorrow; ST is expected and LT are welcome through Saturday.]