The smile he paints on his face day after day is simply disguise. He's a coward. He whispers it in the quiet, unheard by anyone except himself. He stifles this self-deprecating urge underneath kindness and a forced smile, believing that he shouldn't trouble anyone else with his own problems. He seeks to help others instead, to sympathize with their plight. He knows it has ties to his past, but it's an issue he'd rather run away from than confront.
Haruka runs from his problems like a prey might from its predators. He pretends they don't exist, hoping they'll eventually resolve themselves or lay forgotten by everyone. With a friendly joke and a smooth change of subject, he deflects inquiries, cursing how naturally the lies came to him. Yet the courage to take the plunge, to admit the truth, to say how he feels, has never been something he wanted. He knows it's pathetic, and hates himself for it. But anything to run away from the demons of his former life.
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exorcism
[roman catholic]
(1) haruka primarily uses holy water when exorcising and liberally sprays the ghost with the liquid
(2) depending on how strong the ghost is and the amount of water used, it can stun them temporarily to outright cleanse them
soul weapon
[porcelain doll]
(1) a pretty porcelain doll he affectionately calls his sunshine
(2) haruka positions the doll beside the dying human; once their death comes, he gently closes its eyes and the soul separates from the corporeal body
(3) the doll is ill-suited for combat; the most it does is temporarily stun enemies when they stare into its eyes
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Haruka has few memories of his former life, and for that he's thankful. He's made sure to keep it minimal. The few that have seeped through the cracks, however, have made him fearful of what's to come. They came in no particular order, although he has a rough idea of how they are in the timeline of his life.
He remembers a city skyline, and the endlessly orange backdrop that was the sky. An autumn bite blows against his face. He can feel a grief that cuts through him like a knife, his legs locked stiff and his hands shaking uncontrollably, but not from the cold. Fear and guilt make the bile rise in his throat, but he can't do anything but breathe. No tears, no words, no sound.
His next memory is one that feels happy, if a bit melancholic. The light pain of pricking his finger on a needle, simply spraying disinfectant and slapping a bandaid on with practiced ease. A quick perusal shows many of his fingers sporting several different colors of first aid. The material in his hand is bunched as he tries to manipulate it into ruffles. There's a simple pleasure as he worked, the voice in his headphones making him laugh on several occasions. He knows it's a rather early memory, as the ID on the bed is from a junior high.
And finally, several short intermittent memories of being at home alone, his fingers on the keyboard and the lights off. He resents his parents, some featuring shouting wherein he simply accepted it as he attempted to tune them out as he browsed. Haruka finds peace on the screen, although his memories failed to tell him exactly what was on the monitor. Some were games, he was certain. There were moments of bitter pain, and then episodes where he felt satisfied.
