Kyle was surprisingly level-headed considering all the shit he'd seen, but even the sanest man couldn't keep his head on straight after witnessing, and often feeling responsible for, the deaths of hundreds. Whether it was a coping mechanism or a learned mental defect, the line between life and death started to blur for him. If he didn't see them die, were they truly dead?

His flat was in an old part of town. He could afford a new one, of course, but he hadn't left his first for a reason. There was something special about this place, in its peeling walls and aged floorboards. He felt the need to keep everything perfectly unchanged, to keep anything in his apartment from moving. Not for his own benefit, but for the benefit of someone that shouldn't even be real.

It got to the point where he wouldn't let anyone in his apartment besides himself. Most friends and family didn't even know where he lived; even his landlord had to put up a fight just for the annual inspections. He wanted to protect them at all costs. To keep them healthy, even if he wasn't sure they were alive. He'd cook two meals at night, the second sitting on the table until it molded, and he was forced to throw it away.

He'd started wandering his apartment at night recently; something he never used to do. He'd drink black coffee just before it got dark, just sit and wait, walk around and try to find them, until finally, on one of many painfully restless nights, he did.

They were standing by the table, translucent body just hovering there, their toes barely grazing the floor. He took the opportunity, storming over as if his life depended on it and wrapping his arms firmly, painfully tight around their ghostly figure. He knew they were real, he knew it! "Stay with me," he murmured, his voice rough and deep, tainted by the unmistakable sickness he'd drug himself into. "Fuckin' stay. I only think of you, please. Don't ignore me."