Rosiel Radomil's Story

Rosiel sat on his bed, rocking back and forth, hands tearing through his hair. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat, and he could hear every rush of blood in his ears.

They were here.

He could feel them walking through the house, coming closer and closer to his room. Their footsteps seemed to echo through the rooms of his far-too-empty house. But that wasn't possible. They didn't have footsteps. 'They aren't real, they aren't real, they aren't real,' he repeated in his head, a mantra to keep him from completely losing his mind. Who was he trying to kid, though? Of course they were real? How on earth would they be able to send waves of terror rushing through them, how else would they be able to scratch him with their long claws? How would they put them in this hospital, if they weren't real?

Who were they?

Most people thought of them as children's stories, little myths to keep you awake a little longer at night, things to make you feel the exhilaration of easily-cured fear. Tales, stories of the things that go 'bump' in the night, of the things living under the bed, the things hiding in the closet.

They were ghosts.

And they were real as real could be. Rosiel was terrified of them, almost completely petrified with fear whenever he saw one. But he had to stop them. Otherwise, people would get hurt. He would get hurt. People would die. He would die.

It was coming closer, the one in this house.

Rosiel toyed with the knife in his hands, a small pocket knife that was barely large enough to have a blade, much less actually cause any harm. But it did its job. It was enough to leave the hundreds of small scars on Rosiel's fingers, as well as the larger ones on his hands. It was enough to be able to bite into his skin, to release the metallic tang of blood into the air, to let the deep crimson liquid bubble to the surface.

It was enough to chase off the ghosts.

"Has someone been a bad boy today?" There is was, that haunting voice that had terrorized Rosiel for sixteen years of his life; it was the voice that had left him trembling in fear, too scared to do anything. He had thought his fear would have finally ended on that fateful day just before his seventeenth birthday. He had thought that he had finally been free.

Oh how wrong he had been.

The thin male stood up, using his impeccable posture to rise to his full height of almost five feet, ten inches. He turned to look at the door, and immediately began to tremble in fear. However, he managed to keep his gaze straight and level as he watched the ghost enter the room.

Taking the form of a heavy set man with short hair that appeared to be a very pale colour, the ghost appeared to be a good deal taller and heavier than Rosiel. However, the way it flickered in and out of view gave it an insubstantial, delicate appearance, as if it was made of a sheet of glass. Rosiel knew otherwise. No matter how shaky their appearance was, all of the ghosts were easily just as strong, and possibly stronger, than any normal human adult male.

"I am not afraid of you, Father." Rosiel somehow managed to say those words with complete determination, despite his trembling body. He repeated them with a practised ease, as if he had to say them many times before.

"Of course you aren't, not strong little Rosiel," the ghost said, its voice a mocking tone. "You always said that you weren't scared. If you aren't, why do you tremble so rapidly, like a frightened little mouse? Why did you always hide under your bed the minute I came home? Tell me, Rosiel. If you aren't scared, why do you still wield that knife? Why don't you face me with your bare hands?"

He could feel himself being drawn by the ghost's entrancing voice. 'No, Rosiel! Don't fall under its spell,' he commanded himself, clenching his grip on the knife. It was always this conversation he had to go through, every time this ghost came. It never changed. It was almost as if the conversation was scripted, as if Rosiel was living in some sort of cruel movie. But the ending was always the same.

Rosiel flicked open the knife, holding the blade up to show the ghost. "I. Am. Not. Scared." A statement, each word separated by a fresh cut of the knife, four red scratches appearing on the tip of his left index finger. "All those years, I was frightened out of my mind. A year ago, I was jumping at shadows, fearing who was walking behind me. I couldn't go anywhere by myself. But I am not scared of you, nor of anyone now, Father." He spat out the last word in such a sarcastic, mocking way that the original meaning of the word was torn to shreds, completely removed from the word itself. 'Father' no longer meant its definition. In Rosiel's dictionary, it was now word to describe someone who he loathed.

"You are dead, and you shall stay that way. You will never come back to life, no matter what you try. Forget it, Father. You no longer have a physical body to torment me with, you are no longer able to inflict pain on me." Rosiel slowly stepped forward, bleeding hand outstretched.

"Oh, but I can." The ghost also took a step forward, but now he was carrying a knife. Rosiel had never quite figured out where the ghosts in the spirit worlds got their weapons, and never really wanted to find out. The ghost lunged forward, slashing at Rosiel's arm. He attempted to dodge, but the knife caught on the skin, drawing a long crimson line down his upper right arm, blood dripping down the pale skin. However, as he stepped back from that blow, Rosiel snatched the opportunity. The thin male reached out, taking a step forward, and ran his finger down the ghost's forehead. A long red line followed after his finger, and, by the time his finger had left the ghost's face, the specter had vanished with a chilling scream.

Panting heavily, Rosiel stumbled backwards and collapsed into a heap onto the floor, barely managing to avoid stabbing himself with his pocket knife. No matter how many times he went through this situation, it still had him almost wetting his pants with fear. 'Whoever said ghosts aren't real should be executed,' he thought weakly to himself, curling up into a sitting position and putting his head between his knees. Rosiel was feeling faint, as he always did after exorcising a ghost. 'Exorcising'. That was the best word he had found for such a situation, and that was the word he continued to use.

Slowly, the male closed the pocket knife, putting it back into his pocket. He shakily rose to his feet, hanging on to the foot board of his bed in order to avoid having his trembling knees collapse on him. Carefully, Rosiel stumbled across the room towards his desk. He flopped down in his desk chair, opening a drawer and pulling out a small white box. From it, he pulled some band-aids and a longer white bandage, as well as a small glass jar of foul smelling cream. Rosiel had learned the hard way that wounds given by ghosts often got infected very, very easily, and only a mixture of assorted herbs and drug-store ointment managed to keep the infection at bay. He wrapped the band-aids around his bleeding finger tips, and then grabbed a small brush. Grimacing, the thin male began to apply the ointment to the wound on his arm. Not only did the ointment smell like a rotting corpse, it also happened to sting. But, that was a small price to pay for being able to keep the ghost-sickness at bay. Finishing applying the ointment, Rosiel began to wrap the bandages around his arm.

Sticking a piece of medical tape on the end of the bandage so that it wouldn't come loose, Rosiel stood up. He deftly packed away all of the supplies back in their box, and then placed the box in a drawer once again. Sliding the drawer shut, the skinny male turned around, walking to the door of his room. With each step, he trembled like a tree in a storm. A clear sign that he needed to eat. Rosiel tried to remember when he last had something to eat. He couldn't.

The wooden stairs of his house creaked as he stumbled down them, clutching the railing to keep from falling. His long, pale fingers looked almost like they belonged to a ghost, greatly contrasting to the dark mahogany railing. Shuddering at that thought, Rosiel quickly withdrew his hand, clenching it at his side. When would this hideous fear finally stop tormenting him?

Walking into the kitchen, he headed over to the fridge. He opened the silver stainless-steel box, blankly staring at it. 'Why am I here?' he wondered for a moment, feeling the momentary amnesia that tends to come from opening a fridge door. 'Oh, right. Food. Do I have anything good?'

He opened a small box, quite positive that it contained left-over Chinese food from a couple nights ago when he had ordered take-out. 'Maybe not that... he decided, seeing the green layer of mold that had begun to form over the rice. Rosiel set the box on the counter, making a mental note to throw that out. He opened a Tupperware container, looking at the contents. Pasta, with some white and brown flecks. Maybe not the best idea to eat that. Yet another container that was set on the counter.

A sudden thirst setting in, Rosiel grabbed the milk container, opening it and drinking from it without bothering to check the expiration date. He dashed over to the sink, spitting out the rather clumpy white liquid, washing his mouth out. Dumping the milk out, he tried to avoid gagging at the horrid stench that rose from it. 'Note to self: Go grocery shopping later.'

Closing the fridge door in the realisation that probably none of his food would be good, Rosiel walked over to a small cabinet, opening it and taking out a plastic wrapped package about the size of his fist. Instant udon. The one type of food that never went bad and could be prepared very easily. Not to mention, it tasted good. He took out a small pot, filling it with water and setting it on the gas stove. Turning it on, Rosiel found himself entranced by the small flame. Memories that he had tried to suppress began to flood back to him at the sight.

Sirens. Crackling heat.

Rosiel groaned, putting his hands to his head, pressing his forehead to try and erase the thoughts.

"Someone, help!" Screams rose above the ravenous flames. A gunshot was heard. Or was it an explosion? The honk of horns created a heavy haze.

"No, no, no..." Rosiel groaned, sinking to a seated position on the floor at the base of the stove, curling together.

He couldn't breathe. Something was pressing on his chest. What was it?!

Rosiel clutched his throat, a panic attack beginning to set in. Why couldn't he breathe? What was happening? Was this panic?

Burning. That was the word. He clawed at his chest, trying to move whatever was pressing down on him. Why couldn't he get it off of him? The fire was sitting next to him now, beginning to eat up the side of his car. What was this rope pressing down on him.

Oh, wait. It was a seatbelt. How ironic. The thing meant to keep him safe was slowly killing him. His hands scrabbled around on the side of the seat, searching for the button that would finally release him. He managed to find it, and the pressure on his chest eased, releasing him to tumble out of the door.

Hyperventilating, Rosiel put his head in between his knees, trying to get his rushing heart to calm down. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears dripping down his face. Why did he have to be plagued by so many horrid memories?

Blue... Red... Colours painted in the air by the flashing lights. Voices hit his ears, but there were muffled, as if he was underwater.

"Somebody, get a stretcher! We found a survivor. Third degree burns, and possible lung injury due to smoke inhalation." Who were they talking about? Was it him?

Hands grabbed his shoulders, and he felt someone pushing him down onto a hard board. What was happening? Why were they doing this?

Fear flooding his senses, Rosiel finally managed to snag a scrap of common sense. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, and turned off the stove. The moment the fire flickered away, he felt his senses begin to return to him. Rosiel sank to the floor once again, curling up and rocking back and forth, arms curled around his head. Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn't it have happened to anyone else? Had he really angered the gods so much as to be given this hideous paranoia, this horrid fear of just about everything?

After the accident, he had woken up in a white room in the hospital. He was alone, with bandages covering his arms and chest, multiple tubes sticking out of him like spines. That was where he had seen the first ghost. He had tried to protect himself, but could barely lift his arms. The ghost slashed his hands, his face. Eventually, purely in defence, Rosiel managed to draw the bloody line down the ghost's face, making it vanish. The nurses came in the moment afterwards, and gave him a shot. He couldn't remember what happened next.

The next time he awoke, the bandages had vanished, but his arms still bore signs of the accident. There were heavy burn marks covering his arms, and part of his chest as well. Those were obviously from the fire. But there were also other scars, as if they were knife wounds. Rosiel could have assumed he scraped himself getting out of his car, but, deep down inside, he knew what caused those scars. The ghost.

Obviously, the police came to ask him about the accident one day when he was in the hospital. Other than small glimpses, though, Rosiel could not, and still cannot, remember anything about it. The police left, knowing little more than they did when they came.

Rosiel raked his nails down his face in agony and self-loathing. Why didn't he know more? He had been there, why couldn't he remember a single moment of the accident?

The thin male stood up, finally able to calm his breathing. He poured the water out of the pot, into the sink. Rosiel had completely lost his appetite. Even the mere thought of food made him feel like he was about to vomit. Grabbing his wallet and putting it into his pocket, Rosiel decided that, if he wasn't going to eat, he could at least go buy some food. Patting his pocket to make sure his knife was still there, Rosiel quickly put on his knee-high black Converse sneakers, and took a key off the hook by the door.

Walking outside, Rosiel cringed slightly. The weather was sunny. How could it be sunny? That was so... cheerful. The weather should have been stormy and gray, to mirror his mood. Why on earth did the weather never pay attention?

Fidgeting with the white choker around his neck, Rosiel walked down the street, giving paranoid glances over his shoulder every couple of minutes. The ghosts could show up at any time, even on such a bright day. He had to be on guard. His stomach rumbled as he walked, and he shot a glare down at it, as if glaring would make him less hungry. Rosiel slowly felt his energy draining away. Oh, how hungry he was.

The thin male promptly proceeded to black out and collapse on the sidewalk in front of one of the many houses lining it.

[OoC: He collapses in front of Valora's house]

It felt as though he was in a limbo; half-awake, half-unconscious. Rosiel tried to figure out what was going on. Faint snatches of conversation reached his ears; a phrase here, a couple words there. He heard someone say something about a girlfriend, another person responding with something of a similar topic. Who were they talking about? Was it himself? No, that wouldn't make any sense. He was a guy, after all. How could he be a 'girlfriend' if he was a guy? And, it still wouldn't make sense if they were talking about his girlfriend. He didn't have one, and never would. Females weren't his main interests in the dating world. In fact, they rarely ever crossed his mind, especially not when looking for a romantic partner.

Feeling hands grab him, Rosiel tried to struggle away. Who was this? Why were they doing this? He tried to struggle away, but it felt as though he was swimming through molasses. His arms and legs refused to move, and he didn't manage to do much more than squirm slightly. His heartbeat began to rush as he felt himself practically floating through the air, with rather painful amounts of pressure wherever the hands were touching him. Only when he felt the soft surface of something, a couch or a bed possibly, touching his back, did he begin to relax slightly.

Rosiel slowly sat up, wearily opening his eyes. "Where am I?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache. Well, he did have a headache, from lack of food. But he made it seem like it was a whole lot worse than it actually was.

Hearing a voice, the thin male glanced up towards the direction of where it came from. "Hi, Valora..." he said quietly, staring down at the ground. Rosiel was always incredibly shy, even around people who he had known his entire life. Talking to someone like Valora, who he had only talked to once or twice before, made him feel like he needed to go hide under a rock. Conversations were not his strong point.

The thin male didn't bother commenting on Valora's mention of 'demons on the roof'. He had his ghosts following after him, after all. Rosiel certainly couldn't be one to judge. That would just be the pot calling the kettle black. Saying that her demons were any less real than his ghosts would be outright cruel, and stupid as well. But, he couldn't say that he completely believed her. He had never seen any of her 'demons', so he couldn't fully have belief in them. Rosiel often had to see things with his own eyes before he actually believed in them. This was one of his less-useful traits, considering how always having to see things with his own eyes often got him into some trouble, especially if it was something completely crazy or dangerous.

"Why am I here?" he asked quietly. Upon seeing that Valora had basically moved into the world of her ipod, though, he realised that it was a useless attempt to try to engage her in conversation. Rosiel was in a way similar. The minute he turned on his ipod, it was absolutely useless for anybody to try and talk to him, unless they happened to enjoy getting snapped at and ignored.

"Um... Thanks..?" he said hesitantly, wondering what else there was to say, and why on earth he was thanking her. Well, there could never be enough gratitude in the world, he decided. Rosiel walked to the front door, before deciding he should leave a note before Valora was wondering what on earth he happened to him.

Thanks, Valora, for not leaving me lying on the street, he wrote, before scratching that out. That just sounded far too pathetic. After a few moments of pondering, Rosiel eventually settled for just writing 'Thanks', and signing his scratchy little signature at the bottom.

Pushing open the front door, he walked outside once again. "Let's try this again," he murmured to himself, rubbing his eyes. Thankfully, he had forgotten to put on any make-up today, with the rather startling events of the morning. By now, anything he put around his eyes would have ended up smeared all over his face and hands, and everything he touched. Yeah, it was definitely good that he had forgotten to put any make-up on.

The warmth of the sun pounding on his back, Rosiel tried to erase and chills he felt inside of himself. The thin male tried to force himself to keep breathing calmly and avoid checking behind him. 'There are no ghosts, there are no ghosts, there are no ghosts,' he repeated to himself, a mantra that he was using to keep his sanity. The thin male tried to focus on the warmth of the sunlight beating down upon him, but he couldn't stop the underlying chills from running down his spine. It didn't matter if something was there or not, he still felt a presence behind himself.

Turning into the small grocery store, Rosiel grabbed a basket, letting the handle rest on his arm. He shuffled through the store, staring at the ground and trying to avoid crashing into anybody. A woman talking on a cell-phone shot him a dirty glare, before beginning to loudly talk about how guys should always wear their hair cut in short, 'appropriate' styles. Rosiel ignored her. If she had a problem with his hair, she could have that problem. After all, her opinion wasn't going to make him hack it all off or anything.

He walked through the aisles, trying to look for something that was easy to prepare and actually tasted good. Spotting a stand selling sushi, he walked over, and bought a box of vegetable sushi. He walked over to a table and sat down, beginning to eat them with delicate manners. Rosiel absolutely adored sushi of any type, although vegetable were by far his favourite. If he could, he would live on sushi. Of course, it was fairly expensive and difficult to prepare, so he sadly couldn't live on it. But he would, if he could.

Once he finished his small meal, the thin male stood up and threw out his trash. After making sure he had completely cleaned up, he began to once again browse all of the aisles there, searching for some sort of food he could buy to fill his fridge with.