Chapter One

The blood splattered thickly onto the ground as the screams of those dying filled his ears. The smell of blood, smoke and burning flesh almost choked him and his stomach rolled with disgust. He couldn't take it, so much death and destruction. It was heartbreaking. One woman, she was young with dark brown hair, which fell below her shoulders. He hazel eyes were full of fear and she looked at him pleadingly. Her voice came out in rasps and she pleaded with him, begging him to help her. She pleaded in Swedish, then French, then English before they found her. They grabbed her by the shoulders and swiftly stabbed her before rushing off, looking for new victims. She looked at him and tried to talk, but couldn't. She then spluttered blood before dying. He felt her blood lying on his cheek. It sickened him to have her blood on his face, but he couldn't bring himself to remove it. This continued long into the night, and he watched it all. He saw so many people die and didn't move to save them. He let them all die.

His eyes flashed open in panic. He jumped up, wincing as his leg cramped and a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. Still, despite the darkness surrounding him, he blindly made his way to the bathroom and opened the cabinet above the sink. He fumbled through the cabinet, flinging quite a few jars and containers to the ground before he found what he was looking for. He fumbled again to open the lid, his hands shaking badly. He finally got it open and poured a few tablets into his hand, which then made it to his mouth. He swallowed them and went to the sink, splashing his face anxiously. It had happened again. He hadn't taken enough of his medication and these visions had haunted him during his sleep when he was most vulnerable. His body shook as he had a seizure from his medication. He shook violently knocking into the cabinet mirror and breaking it. He continued to shake as he fell to the ground being showered in glass. This continued for a while, then the seizures subsided and he surveyed the damage. His hands were badly cut and he had cut his head. Other than that he was just bruised. He rose and quickly washed his hands, trying with all his might to get the blood off. If he hadn't been so revolted he would have laughed at the irony of blood being on his hands. Once his hands were clean he looked after his head, then left the bathroom, closing the door on his way out. He left the glass on the ground, and the bathroom a mess, having no strength or will power to clean it at that minute.

---

She had been afraid. She had screamed and cried before they killed her. They had found this amusing, as though her pain was their source of entertainment. She had cried bitterly as they had laughed at her, and whipped her, causing her back to bleed feverishly. They had taken her clothes too, leaving her with nothing to protect the broken skin. The pain had made her weak and she cried until she had too little water to form tears. She also heard them, torturing others, killing the wives of soldiers, just to make them talk. It made her glad she hadn't married him. That their relationship had been kept secret. Because they would have killed him, had they known. She didn't even really know why they had wanted her, not really. The information they asked about, she didn't know about and the information she knew about they didn't ask about. She remembered her last day at their camp, her last day of torture, for it had been her worst. They had taken her outside, and after so many months in the dark the sun had burned her eyes. She had been confused about it. Why were they taking her outside after so long? Why were they taking all the women outside, for she was sure they had been inside that dreadful camp as long as she had been. The answer came soon enough, as more of them came, and the massacre began.

Screaming, so much screaming filled her ears, and vibrated through her body. And blood. She saw so much blood, as it splattered onto the ground, and onto her skin. She didn't know what to do, but run. She ran, trying to escape the death that awaited her. She saw a corner, hidden from view and raced towards it. She saw a boy there and pleaded to him, first in Swedish, but he didn't move, or show any sign of helping her. So she tried French, knowing he mustn't have understood Swedish. But she still got no reaction. She tried English, and saw something in his eyes that made her fear even more. Understanding. He understood what she was asking, but wasn't going to help her. She then heard the sound, which made her heard almost stop. Two soldiers came, one grabbed her by the shoulders, while the other one stabbed her in the chest. The swiftly let her hit the ground. She turned back to the boy. He was so young, even younger than her. She opened her mouth, trying to talk to tell him to run, to warn someone. Not to be afraid. But all she could do was open her mouth and cough up blood, before her heart stopped beating.

She opened her eyes, scanning the room for something, anything to give her condolence, to give her comfort. She found nothing, but the glow of her alarm clock, which had a hypnotic effect on her, calming her down. She was surprised she hadn't had a heart attack with all the nightmares she'd had. The nightmares she couldn't rid herself of. She had even resorted to using medication; but that just made things worse. She knew it was because she had been lucky. She had lived, and now she had to pay for it. 'But why?' She asked herself in anguish as she sat up again, the alarm clock light having lost its effect. 'I suffered didn't I? I died. I actually died.' She shuddered as she remembered, they had stabbed her, and she had wanted to…to talk to the boy who had refused to help her. She had no idea what she wanted to say, but she couldn't anyway. She coughed up blood and died. Putting it so simply was painful, and, to her, wrong. She hated hearing it being put that way, not that she'd ever discussed it with anyone; but she'd had enough conversations in her head to make up for a hundred real ones. But she was really scared of people finding out, not that anyone had, but still she feared it all the same. In fact, the only other people who knew about her death were the scientists who had used her body as an experiment, one, which could restart broken organs, ie. Her heart. She didn't understand how they did it, or why they chose her. All she knew was she had to suffer being alive for a very long time.

---

He sighed as he opened the door to go to work. The bathroom was still a mess, and he knew he'd have to fix it sometime, but just couldn't do it now. He would have to do it when he got home from work. Whenever that may be. To everyone he appeared to be eagerly in love with his job, staying back after hours and always being there early, but in fact; he hated his job, and only stayed back on his boss's request and for the pay check he'd receive for doing so. That's why he did anything now, for money. He didn't have anything else to live for. He'd given up on love a long time ago, as he couldn't love anyone after what he'd done, and he had no friends, no hobbies, no life. But that didn't matter; he didn't deserve any of this. He deserved to be haunted by the memories of his crimes, the memories he hated so much. He sighed, and ran the last few steps to the bus stop, as he saw the bus approaching. He handed the man his money, and took a seat near the back of the bus. He looked around and saw the usual people that caught this bus. A harassed mother, with three noisy kids, an old woman who was reading a magazine, two old men who were talking to each other from opposing seats, and a teenage boy and girl who would have noticed nothing happening on the bus. That was one reason he caught the bus, to watch people. And he would watch them; his eyes would travel between the people, finding himself to be eaten by utter jealously towards them. He was envious of them for having normal lives, for not having the burden he had to deal with.

---

"Hey Spencer, be careful." A colleague greeted him, as he walked in through the double glass doors. "Boss is in a mood."

"Great." Spencer muttered sarcastically to himself. "Just what I need." He continued his way to his desk as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid the boss in doing so. However, as luck would have it, his boss was completely blocking the path to his office, as he stood there yelling at about five different workers.

"Hey, you." The boss snapped at him, as he came into sight. "Get me a cup of coffee."

"But I'm not an assistant." He replied.

"Now!"

Steaming he went to make the boss a cup of coffee, knowing that he couldn't refuse because he couldn't afford to lose his job. As he was lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the girl walking towards him, until it was too late. They crashed, sending all the papers she was carrying to snow around them, floating to the ground.

"Oh crap." She cursed as she looked at the mess. She bent down to pick them up, and he looked at her. She had dark, chocolate brown hair, which curled up around her face. She had large hazel eyes, and her face showed that she hadn't been able to sleep. She looked strangely familiar, though he couldn't place where he had seen her. He then stopped looking at her, and bent down to help her. As he picked up papers he saw the container of medication, strong medication he keeps in his pocket on the ground. He bent down to pick it up, but she saw him.

"Oh, that's mine." She said, quickly taking it off him.

"What?" He said, and placed his hand in his pocket, and felt that his was still there. That was bizarre, as it was strong medication used to block out memories, though it didn't have a strong effect on him. It told him she had a past better forgotten.

"Yeah, well, thanks." She smiled at him as she stood up with her papers. "You didn't have to help me."

That was it! He thought as those words triggered a memory. It was her; she was the girl who had pleaded at him, begging him to save her. She was the girl he'd watched die.

"Who are you?" He asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Uh…My name is Karly Kretchen." She replied, not understanding what he'd meant. “I work on the fifth floor.”

"Are you a ghost?" He asked, not realizing how weird that would sound.

"A ghost? Why would I be a ghost?" She asked confused, but laughing a little.

"Because, I saw you die."