[Center]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/25b9f4eb-a8b1-46ca-8ab3-88c168ed18b3.png[/img]

Joel Beck 
[b]Location[/b]: Mental breakdown town
[b]Tags[/b]: Grim, Kitsune, Bouncer[/center]


"It's a little late for Easter," Wraith said dryly at the reappearance of the rabbit girl. She seemed to be upset, and accusatory. He didn't pay her much mind, however; searching this mess would take hours and he didn't feel like spending it engaged in petty arguments. 

"Maybe we did," He said noncommittally, knowing damn well that Devon had likely been gone before they'd even gotten there. He had time to round up his pitiful protection detail, two of whom were still bleeding out in the street. The others? Who cared. The only one still at large that posed any kind of significant threat was that weird mind guy. Wraith paused his rummaging as the feeling of the cold hand reaching into his head replayed. What a creep. 

He mostly ignored the other two while he went about pawing through drawers and cabinets for something,[i] anything[/i], relevant to the case. As he flipped through an old CD holder (mostly filled with shitty mix tapes), a soft whisper drew his attention. Wraith turned to look at the other two. No, that hadn't been them. His eyes drifted to the spare bedroom, which looked as though it had been set up as an office.

Wraith walked in. The room was dark, save for the dull light streaming in through the doorway. He caught sight of a small desk lamp and turned it on, then glanced around. 

"Yeah?" He said into the empty room, "You got something to tell me? Go ahead, I'm all ears." 

He would soon regret those words. 

They came at him like a tidal wave, crashing into him and pulling him down. Pain, fear, sorrow, loathing. He was drowning in their final thoughts and emotions. He was trapped. He was burning up. He was freezing cold. He was being cut over and over. Being stabbed, ripped, dismembered. A bright light was blinding him, a small, dark room held him hostage. Hundreds and hundreds of unrested souls, all in agony, all wanting to be saved. 

Wraith didn't feel the floor coming up to meet him, but at some point, he managed to crawl until he found a wall and hunkered against it: something solid to keep him grounded. "STOP!" He pleaded. He could feel their deaths, he was reliving each and every last second before their bodies gave up and parted with them. "STOP! LEAVE ME ALONE! I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU!" 

Instantly, the room was silent again. Or rather, was silent [i]still[/i]. The only sound had been Wraith, pleading an invisible antagonist for mercy. 

His breath tore out of his chest in heaves. He was covered in a cold sweat. Wraith reached up and tore his mask off of his face. It was too much. All of it was too much. His eyes were wide with unadulterated panic. The urge to give in and let that panic control him was almost too strong, but he couldn't do it; not when all those lost souls were counting on him. There was something in this room that they had attached themselves to, and he needed to find it. 

Joel pushed himself into a sitting position with his legs pulled into his chest. He pressed his forehead into his knees and closed his eyes, then took several deep breaths. His therapist had taught him this technique to counter these panic attacks. 

[I]"Geez kid, you look like shit."[/i]

"Not now, Doug," Joel spoke softly, exhausted.

He knew the ghost was right, though. He'd been putting himself through the wringer recently between the near nightly fights and constant patrols. The perpetual bags under his eyes were a deep purple, and he sported a collection of old bruises and scars. He hadn't shaved in several days. His dark hair was a sweaty mess, sparsely flecked with white that hadn't been there only a few years ago. If the insomnia didn't kill him, this job surely would.