Grandeur Defector

XLVII

"Are... Are you sure it said...?"

"I am."

There was no doubt in his mind. Truffles' fur remained frazzled with worry of the unknown and yet familiar foe that now haunted him from beyond his arms' reach. How could one possibly kill off a ghost? How can a haunting be reversed without spiritual sacrifice of some kind? How— and more importantly why— did this become possible in the first place?
It wasn't.
At least, it shouldn't have been.

A ghost of my uncle, my abuser. He won't stop, won't rest in death until I've suffered enough to end it all and join his side in Hell. He's watching and has been this entire time, ever since his death. Why, then? Why watch me live my life, when you despise me so much? Do you simply want to watch my demise unfold-?

Flippy went still, thinking. His eyes darted back and forth, silent and unmoving in his tensed posture. After a moment of internal completion, he shook his head.
"...No, no. There's no way that's possible. Even Fliqpy says that's not possible. A ghost from Hell haunting a living person? Wouldn't a damned spirit be serving punishment instead of walking among the living?"

That's a very good question.
Truffles searched for possible answers, wondering the same solution for himself.

"Perhaps... this is his punishment?"

He shivered at the thought.
Flippy reached forward and brushed his cheek, fingers caressing the light blue fur in comfort. Although their fur colors were opposite to each other, each touch blended the difference easily, a pretty turquoise emerging. Truffles almost flinched from the sudden touch, nervous energy beneath his skin that only wanted to bubble to the surface more and more; he leaned his head against his partner's hand, nuzzling it. The small touch between them warmed his heart.

"Well, how about we focus on what we do know how to fight against?"

You bring me back into reality, even when I doubt reality itself. The problem, beloved, is that I'll keep worrying about this. This isn't a simple puzzle that can be solved by moving pieces, nor is it a chess game that has a few moves from a queen's gambit. This is a dark, unnatural presence following me, watching me, waiting... and I have no way of fighting back.
Truffles nodded, adverting his gaze.
"...Right."

"We'll get through this, ok? How about we go get breakfast to take your mind off of it?"

There was a knock on Truffles' tent entrance, brief and rushed. In stepped none other than Sergeant Warren, the wolf looking down at the two as he stood stiff. Flippy immediately sprung to his feet, angry calamity in his once calm expression. He saluted towards his Sergeant, but nothing in his face expressed friendly devotion. Warren put his hands in his uniform pockets, staring.

"...Corporal, you know you're not supposed to be in relations with soldiers under your nose."

"...Sergeant Warren."
Flippy looked away bitterly.
He still blames Warren for Mouse and Sneaky's deaths, because Warren pushed him to do the operation in the first place. Now they're both grieving— I can't imagine how awkward that must be.
I should say something to help release the stress in the room.
Truffles spoke up first, looking for a believable lie.
"He was... he was asking if I—"

"No he wasn't, tiger," Warren gingerly brushed off, "I know what you two have been doin'. Sneak in' out at night, whispering in your tents, pretendin'."

He... He knows. The giraffe guard must've went to him and described what happened last night.
The corporal in the room huffed loudly, glaring at his superior. Shoulders rising with annoyance and his body noticeably tense, the bear moved forward and put himself in between Truffles and Warren, mumbling mocking words not meant to be said out loud.
"And? So what? Going to send him off to die too?"