salvation sequel [rafe x barry]

devils got you, son

"I am the shape you made me.
Filth teaches filth."

It wasn't the first time Rafe pulled a gun on his father.

He'd done so before, once over a disc of gtaV.  "You're getting it back when you're 18", Ward had said and 30 minutes later, Rafe came down with the gun in his hands, demanding his game back.

Ward got up and walked over to the book shelf and pulled the disk out between two books. "Want this?", he asked and Rafe nodded, his arm getting heavy from the gun. Broke the disk into two pieces then and threw them in front of Rafes feet.

"Put the gun back in the safe", he said, walking back over to the dining table. "Don't want your sisters taking it and hurting themselves"

Playing on Rafe's pride so easily. Unlike his little sisters, he was mature enough to take the gun, or wasn't he? 

Next time Rafe tried, the safe combination was still the same his father showed him the first time he got the gun. "You're the only other man in the house, and when I'm not here, you need to protect the girls if something happens", Ward had explained and Rafe had felt his chest swell with pride at the tender age of 13, day dreaming about an intruder breaking in while his father was at work, shooting the guy, saving the day, hero Rafe Cameron.

Sometimes, the lack of consequences confused the shit out of Rafe. He could fuck up a great deal, get arrested, threaten his father with a gun or get kicked out of the Country Club and it didn't warrant more than a tired or annoyed reaction out of his father. Other times a snappy comment towards his sisters or Rose could be enough to get him grounded. Fucking up was a game of Russian roulette with his father, and 5 empty chambers just too good a chance to ever stop. 

Last time Rafe took his fathers gun, was after Topper got held at gun point, and it was merely a measure of self protection, if the enemy was carrying, so should he, protect his kind and shit. "Fucking Maybank won't catch me unarmed, alright", he had explained to Kelce, before tugging the gun into his waistband. What followed was history.

By the time Rafe set foot into his grandpa's fisher hut, he should've long been comfortable with pulling the trigger. He'd done so plenty.

Rafe just thought it would be easier, the second time around.

There was really just one small twitch of your finger, between your life, and the life of a murderer. Such a tiny, little movement for such a huge, terrible impact.
A line so thin, balancing on top of it seemed impossibly dangerous.

Rafe wouldn't know, he'd fallen off. Slipped, and fell, not quite far enough to break his neck. Or maybe he just hadn't reached the floor yet, it still felt like falling. Since the damn second Rafe had pulled the trigger, he felt like falling—some days, then, he wished for the floor, and the snap of his neck.

It was the only option he could wish for, there was no going back up, he'd crossed that line. He would never not be a murderer, ever again. Should've been easier, therefore, to pull the trigger second time around.

Sometimes, Rafe bathed in his new image. He was a killer. He was a cold blooded, dangerous fucking animal. He was danger. Made him feel all powerful, in moments where he needed it.

Then, he'd feel his hands shaking pointing a gun at Limbrey, now his own father. It made no sense. He had nothing left to loose, no good in him he could kill, he'd long freed himself of these burdens normal people carried, but for some reason, it didn't get easier.

It was out of the fucking question, that his father had suffered from at least some sort of brain damage in that coma. Rafe didn't doubt it. That man was no longer capable of making decisions, shit, even of running the family, let alone his damn company.