Rafe Cameron was born and shortly thereafter, became overshadowed.
There had once been a time that he had been the apple of his father's eye, having been coddled and swaddled with any and all things—a literal silver spoon, even. Things had changed, however, when his mother had birthed Sarah into the world, the blonde effortlessly taking over his position in the eyes of everyone, but especially his doting father. Even when Wheezie had been born, she hadn't received the copious amounts of meticulous love and affection that the blonde had received, though she had always been the more independent of the two girls.
Not that he completely detested his sister, no, just hated the thought that she lacked awareness of how well she had it. He wonders absently if she knew that Ward would do anything for her, would go to the ends of the Earth, even, if it meant to secure her the stars and the moon above. He would do that and so much more and would exhaust his funds to supply whatever she so desired.
But she doesn't get that, she doesn't. Or maybe she did, not that Rafe would know, he had never bothered to ask nor confront her about the stark contrasts. Rafe ponders the thought longer as he grimaces at his reflection in the mirror; his undereye area was settling into a purple bruise and the skin of his lip is split down the middle, still idly dripping crimson into the sink.
Even his nose is addled with blood, though it mostly clots and crusts in his nostrils. He finds the droplets of blood morbidly fascinating as it rushes beneath the stream of water. He sucks at his bottom lip and spits the bitter tang of metallic into the sink, then reaches to turn the faucet off altogether.
Maybe if had stayed a shadow lurking around the home like he usually did, he wouldn't be here in this predicament and attempting to feebly ignore the pain that throbs, well—everywhere, really, his whole face a battered mess. Sometimes it was better to stay quiet, to find acceptance in the reality that he would never be Ward's favorite, or even the second, that there was no point in trying to improve his situation or even speak up:
"I just—I don't understand, dad, I don't understand how or why or when Sarah became so untouchable. Sarah doesn't—..." Rafe had been anxiously bouncing his leg up and down, his chin cupped in his hand, forefinger going to swipe over his mouth: "Sarah wouldn't do the things I do for you, dad, she never gets her hands dirty, doesn't even—"
Ward silences him with the raise of a hand, expression stern and hardened. He sits at the edge of his desk and regards the boy with reproach. "You're not your sister, Rafe. If you were more focused on what you do or don't do, for that matter, perhaps things would be different."
"And what does Sarah do for you, dad, huh?" Rafe doesn't hesitate in the slightest as he sits in his chair, straightening his spine and leaning toward the man: "Sarah doesn't do half the shit I do and—and it's not even about that, dad, it's about you and how you—you make me feel like some pariah, like I don't—..." His fingers are gesturing as he formulates his words, his fingers twining: "like I don't belong."
Ward scoffs at that and washes a hand over his face. "Sarah doesn't get into half the shit you get into, son. I don't have to make certain the alarm is on at night to protect our home because your little drug-induced delinquents are running around trying to make a score." He pauses to lean forward, settling a hand on his shoulder. "Sarah isn't a disappointment. She doesn't sabotage the family name."
Rafe finds his sense of calm weakening, his fury flooding his veins as he challenges his father. "So what? What am I to you, then, exactly?" There was a knot forming in his throat as he speaks, his resolve fading as he maintains eye contact. "You just—you just use me to ease your guilty fuckin' conscious, to not feel like such a monster?" He swipes a hand beneath his nose, a humorless laugh emanating from between his lips: "You're the real monster, dad."
