Outer Banks || Imagines

Guilty Conscience || Rafe

It's late. Too late to still be awake but the muffled foot steps of Rafe's constant, on-edge pacing have managed to pry my eyes open to the darkness of his bedroom yet again. The soft tread of his bare feet makes a muffled sound against the expensive carpet, and pauses briefly every few seconds while he stands there, biting the edge of his finger nail with his other arm crossed over his chest, and then repeats the process.

He and Ward had returned mid afternoon from the Bahamas with a police escort, both looking worse for wear. I hadn't wanted him to go in the first place, but Rafe had reassured me he needed to do this for his dad, and that everything would be fine. They were supposed to get the gold and come home. Instead they came back empty handed and Rafe even more unnerved than before.

I close my eyes again, wondering how we could have possibly ended up in this situation. And whether there is a special place in hell reserved for the girlfriends of murders.

Rafe killed Sheriff Peterkins that day on the tarmac, no amount of denial is going to change that. No matter how hard I close my eyes, it isn't going to change the fact that I saw him raise the gun, his finger squeeze back on the trigger–BAM

Thunder booms outside and my eyes fly back open. Earlier's ominous looking storm clouds that have been looming threateningly since this evening have finally come through on their promise of a summer shower. Not long after the weather sets in do I realize that Rafe's footsteps have been replaced by the patter of rain against the window pane. The bed dips beneath me and the springs underneath groan in protest as he crawls back into bed. I shift positions as he wraps his arms around my waist from behind, his chin coming to settle between the crook of my neck. Rafe lets out a long, slow breath from his nose and it sounds like it carries the weight of a thousand worries. I hug one of his plush pillows tighter to my chest. The one that isn't holding the pillow twists the golden ring on his finger.

I watch the rain drops slide down one by one and leave blurry streaks along the foggy glass window while listening to the rush of air against my ear as he breathes unevenly, never quite falling into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. A while later, Rafe's head lifts from the safe crevice of my shoulder and his body partially pushes away from me. The comforter rummages as we both move again, and I roll over onto my other side to face him. The dark bedroom has turned his blue eyes a pale grey, but even so I can see the haunting ghosts of doubt and anxiety filling his gaze. There are shadows of half blue moons stamped under his eyes. Sleep has not been his friend.

"I—I need you to tell me that I'm a good person," Rafe whispers, finally breaking the silence. The mattress creaks underneath his weight as he uses his forearm to prop himself up, leaning partly over me. "It doesn't matter if you mean it or not, please—I just need to hear you say it," he says, sounding so broken and unsure of himself.

And the request is almost enough to send the sinner inside of me to my knees. I've watched him struggle with his own mind for months now, fighting an internal battle that I know he can't win and I can't fight for him, no matter how badly I want to. Ward's been in his head for so long now that most days I'm just picking up the shambles of the broken son he's neglected for years. Sarah was always his golden child, there's no denying that. I know it, Rafe knows it, Sarah knows it.

"You let everyone convince you that you're some kind of heartless murder and you're not," I tell him.

This I believed. Sure, Rafe was a jerk, I'd known that when I met him, but he was a jerk who could press his lips to my neck, teeth grazing my skin and whisper that he loved me; even when he wasn't sure if he was capable of anything else. My hand finds his cheek and brushes some of the blonde hair away from his eyes. There's a bruise there that I don't remember him having and a part of me wonders what really happened in the Bahamas.

A painful, miserable looking smile finds its way onto his face, and just once, he laughs into the darkness of his bedroom. "No, I'm just the regular kind of murder."

The soft, hopeful expression falters from my own face and I sigh, letting my forehead fall against his with my eyes closed. It was hard, sometimes too hard, to admit that he wasn't wrong. Which of course always lead to a reinvestigation of my own conscience and why I was doing this. Why would I lie by omission, never think to say any different when Ward and Rafe gave their statements to the police, faking his innocence. My answer to this question, I find is always the same; because I loved him and I was afraid of what Ward would put him through if I left. He's told Rafe that he would never pick between his children, but I've seen him lie to Rafe enough times to know it was just something he said to cover his tracks.

Ward had done this to him, forced Rafe into lying and thinking that what he was doing was being loyal and helping his family, because he knew that all Rafe ever wanted was for his dad to look at him the same way he looked at Sarah. It was never about trying to protect himself or getting revenge. 

Rafe clings to me, falling into a more relaxed position as he settles himself on top of me. His body is warm and comfortingly heavy a top my chest. My finger tips gently scratch his scalp, something that's seemed to calm him in the past. After a while I wonder if he's fallen asleep, but then the soft tone of his voice speaks.

"When this is all over, I'm going to be better," he promises, speaking into the blue fabric of the borrowed cotton shirt that I'm wearing. His lips press to my collarbone in a subdued kiss and Rafe looks up at me. There's a firmness in his voice, like he's trying to be strong. "I'm gonna man up and get right."

My palm cups his chin, my thumb caressing the bruise on his jaw. I don't say anything, just smile sadly at him and he returns the same type of half-hearted expression. My throat clenches. We both know that it's a weak promise.

"You're in too deep this time, you know that?" I'm fighting my own voice at this point. Incredibly, it doesn't break.

"I know, I know."