MULTI_MEDIA_MAN — Roleplayer Guild

Oswald Connoly- Infirmary

Alarms went up inside Oswald's head as Sapphire started talking about how far he was taking his training. Memories of a blurry, indistinct time of suffering and training that put his recent exhibition to shame. Memories of pushing away everybody left in his life, burning six names, six faces, enough memories for six lives into the forefront of his mind as guilt and self-hatred racked his soul. 

Even as weakened as he was, Oswald's Aura could recognize danger- or at least, what Oswald had been convinced was dangerous. Ever so faintly, a dark glow emanated from his body before quickly being subdued. Closing his eyes, Oswald pushed back the dark thoughts and tried to focus on responding to Sapphire. "It's not a coastal city, actually...it's closer to a forest. Near a river, as well. It's my home, though. I only came to Beacon because...well, because there wasn't much left for me there." 

Stop. It's not worth remembering. Oswald found himself unable to continue, physically unable to keep speaking for a moment as he fought back against his own self-destructive coping mechanisms. 

It wasn't meant to be, though. Time alone could not heal all wounds, at least not for Oswald. "It's...not important right now." Why do you keep lying? It can't get any wor-She could see me cry! Oswald's conflicting thoughts and instincts broke his concentration for a moment. How pathetic he must have looked, eyes hardening and posture becoming more defensive at a simple conversation. Sapphire was right. He wasn't in the middle of nowhere. He could take his time to grow, perhaps even relax for a few days. He didn't need to vent his rage by bleeding all over Beacon's nice floors. 

But god, did it feel good when he did. "I....I know my habits aren't exactly healthy. It's been...it's been a hard battle getting back to a point where I can feel anything but rage, though. Sometimes it all just boils over. Seeing..." Death. Destruction. Blaine! He couldn't say another word. Too many memories hit him all at once. Brimstone, gunpowder, the acrid smell of charred corpses, the sights-god, remembering their broken bodies hurt the most. 

It hurt Oswald so badly to cry, his lung crying out as the recently-patched hole stretched and strained to accommodate the gasping breaths he was forced to take when he felt his body screaming for oxygen. 

And it just made him hate himself even more.
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