ramsey robichaux | one

R A M S E Y

Some may argue that Wayne Robichaux and Muriel Higgins were, believe it or not, crafted by the environment they were raised in. Abuse begets abuse, and so the cycle carries on. And a high school bully gets a girl with no self worth pregnant when they are sixteen and, despite not really knowing each other or really even enjoying each other's company, they agree to get married and make it work. For the kid's sake, they say. And so this is what they end up with: a rundown trailer- the 9th in a park full of them- a new baby, a minimum-wage job, and a bed to share with an abject stranger. Muriel told herself that she knew Wayne's heart, even if she didn't know every single detail about his past. She knew him. Except when Ramsey was nine, his Dad was arrested for murder. Most people have forgotten the truth of it- that he was doing it for fun, that they found a shed full of parts and pieces. He'd called it his trophy room on camera.

People who didn't hear about it when it first happened like to assume he probably died in the war, which Muriel was perfectly okay with. She'd just offer a sad smile and a shrug talking to Shirley Maddsy next to an isle full of fresh veggies neither of them could afford. But Ramsey told them the truth when they asked. He liked it: came to love, even, the feeling of discomfort he inspired within others. That action was not the first, but it was the last in ensuring the cycle would repeat itself. And so the innocent kid grew cold and hard and began to lose himself until Ramsey Fuckin' Robichaux was all that was left.

He burned Clyde DeVille's hayfield down on his fifteenth birthday using a bunch of fireworks he'd stolen from Millicent Carrow's garage after she'd blown him and he'd promised to call. It wasn't even accidental. Ramsey just wanted revenge because Clyde had told his mom he had been smoking again. Old fucker ended up sick and dying that winter, too. Didn't make it past Christmas.

He was also the sole party responsible for his entire senior prom getting completely shit-faced, when he dumped five jars of his homemade moonshine into the punch. He almost hadn't done it- five jars was worth a pretty penny and that shit didn't grow on trees. But in the end, he knew no one would be able to pin it on him even though they'd all know he did it and he thought that was funny.

Point is, he harbored a lot of hate and resentment. For his mom. For his dad. For the endless string of less-than-admirable father figures he'd had since his father's execution. For the hole in the wall next to the air conditioner. For the stray cat that had birthed fucking kittens in the insolation under his room. For the teacher who moved Ramsey's desk right next to her own so he couldn't throw pencils at Arthur Pevick until he cried again. For the little rich little bastards whose parents dumped them at the pool during his shifts as a lifeguard. For Felix DeLaurentis using teeth behind the greenhouse after he'd already told him to fucking knock it off. Pretty much everything and anything, he could find a way to hate. But he was a charmer nonetheless. Alluring. Popular in his social circles, though perhaps more inspired from fear than companionship. He developed a bravado before his age was even in the double digits, and he used his natural sense of charm to get whatever he wanted and from whoever he wanted it from.

He'd always been so quick to fly off the handle, too. Laughing until he was so mad the only thought he could muster was hurt. Playful banter so often, and too quickly, became a serious fight, Ramsey's thumbs pressed to some kid's eye sockets as hard as he could because of a joke Ramsey would have laughed at later if he ever got around to thinking about it again. Which wasn't common- he didn't like to dwell. Actually, he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to dwell. As long as a person or a place or a thing- nouns, mostly- kept his attention, he was game to use it up. But the second it outgrew its usefulness or stopped being fun, he was done with it.

Cordelia Blake called him a pig once in the eighth grade, so he caught her ponytail on fire, so she glued him to his desk and shot him with a paintball gun, so he told the principal about her make-out sessions with Petal Vanburen under the bleachers, so she busted him for cheating on his English final. There's no one he hates more in this world, but also no one closer to being considered a genuine friend of his. Of course, he'd sooner drink acid than admit that out loud, but it still stands true regardless of if he wants it to or not.

She came to see him when he was reaped, toothy grin as she slipped a cigarette out of her boot and flicked it at him.

"Last one you'll ever get, I reckon," she said, "Fuckin' bum. You know you're gonna rot when you die, right?" She hadn't ever been one to shy from him, so even when he advanced, their faces hovering mere inches from one another, she did not blink. She did not move a muscle.

"Beats burning," he said puffing air and smoke into her face.

"Fuck you." she said back. And then she laughed. And then she left.

He flicked the still-lit cigarette at the door the instant it was closed, watched the shower of sparks as it collided with the thick wood of it.

"Anyone else coming?" a peacekeeper asked, shoving his bald head through a crack an instant later.

"Nah. It's Saturday. Mom's probably at the casino or passed out next to the toilet."

A wave of different feelings warred for superiority over the man's face. And though guilt was a strong contender, it ultimately lost out to confusion because Ramsey hadn't sounded upset at all by this fact. It was spoken so plainly, like it was normal.

"Gotcha," he'd remarked, closing the door, only this time Ramsey heard the click of a lock behind it. He checked his teeth in the mirror. Then he smiled. Then he smashed the grinning reflection of himself with his bare knuckles. Then he tucked a particularly big shard into his boot just to see if he'd get away with it, just like Cordelia had told him to do without saying the words. He'd known her his entire life, after all, and not once had either of them shared something with the other.