The apartment never seemed right. It was always too dirty, too cold, or too small. Francis felt restless in it. It certainly wasn't the life he was used to living before the war. Before the war things were much different. He had money, and a wife, and a house where each bathroom was bigger than the size of this apartment.

He laid down on the couch and muttered, "Where'd I go wrong?"

Where did he go wrong? Absolutely nowhere. His ex-wife is the one to blame. She ran off with some rich hotel owner while Francis was away at war. She got to keep the house and half of the money in the bank account. Francis blew it on alcohol and cigarettes following the results of the divorce. That is how he ended up in the slump he is in.

Roscoe did not consider all the details though.

"I personally think happened because you didn't mail her enough letters and she got depressed. Oh well. There's plenty of fish in the sea," he said. He crouched down in front of Francis, looking him straight in the eyes. "You should try dating. I'm sure plenty of ladies would like a man who returned from war."

Francis rolled over onto his stomach and groaned, "I didn't ask for your thoughts on that."

"I'm the only person around. Of course it was me you're asking!" Roscoe chuckled. He sat down on the corner of the couch and said, "Unless you're talking to yourself, but that would be kind of weird. Would it not?"

"Yes, I was talking to myself. Now shut up and go sit somewhere else," Francis said through clenched teeth. He looked up at Roscoe. A faint pale haze was surrounding him. The bullet hole was still dead center in the middle of his forehead. Even worse, he was still wearing the dirty uniform he died in. It was a painful reminder of what was, and it was clear that Roscoe had no intentions on leaving any time soon.

Roscoe paced across the room. Each step caused another creek in the floor boards. He crossed his arms. "You used to like me. You used to like me a whole lot. Why don't you like me anymore, Duckie?"

Francis rolled over again, ignoring the question. He did not have an answer to it. When Roscoe first appeared he was terrified. It was slow and progressive. Roscoe was quiet at first. He lingered around the apartment, watching and learning. Then he slowly became social. He appeared more often. He sometimes spoke to Francis. That evolved into him always lingering around, and rarely ever stopping the conversation. No doubt Francis was annoyed by it, not because of Roscoe, but because of the way he was being changed by him.

Not a soul believed that Francis was being followed by the ghost of Roscoe. They dismissed him as a crazy poor man who saw too much at war. For a while he thought the same thing. He wanted to believe Roscoe was just a trick of the mind. He struggled to believe it though. Everything about Roscoe seemed real. Plus, he had no other delusions. He eventually settled on Roscoe being real despite what people said. It did hurt him socially, but he figured his best friend was worth it.

At least until he realized how much it hurt to keep him around. How could one miss what was in front of his face? He did not understand it, but he missed Roscoe. He missed him more than anything in the entire world. And he was right here in front of him. Reaching out and touching him would be too much to bare though. Feeling something would be too real, but not feeling him would make him seem like just an illusion. Blindness was a comfort, and one that he needed to keep.

"Duckie, I asked you a question. Are you deaf, dear boy?"

Francis said, "I heard you. I have no intention on answering that question. And I wish you'd stop calling me by that stupid nickname."

Roscoe tilted his head to the side. He pressed his hand to the side of his cheek and continued to pace around the room. "You used to like that nickname."

"I don't anymore. It's silly and childish. You know my name. Call me by it."

"You'll always be Duckie to me," Roscoe said, "But if you'd rather me call you Francis like everyone else does, I suppose that's an honorable request for a man like yourself to make. You are a full grown man now. Twenty seven is a fully matured adult. Most certainly not how we were at war. We were only eighteen. Now you've grown old and cranky. What a shame."

Francis pushed himself up. He walked over to Roscoe and shouted, "I am not cranky what so ever! You're just on my last nerve!"

"I see. You think I've been around too long. Should I just leave for good so you can live a miserable life without me?" Roscoe asked. He put his face close to Francis's, which was somewhat in his nature, but more so to make Francis uncomfortable.

"No! Don't go!" Francis cried, "Not forever at least! I don't know what I'd do without you completely gone!"

"I see. So you do like having me around."

"We've had this conversation before," Francis said. He retook his spot on the couch. "We're not having it again," he sighed as he sat down. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned against his hand. His focus shifted away from Roscoe and to what is was happening outside the small apartment window.

"What's going on?" Roscoe asked. He looked out the window too.

"I'm sure it's nothing" Francis sighed, "Someone probably with alcohol. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Roscoe sighed, "I wish I knew what it was like to have a drink. You rather do like your alcohol. It must be good if you like it so much."

Francis looked back at Roscoe. "It was best that you never got to. It just ruins everything. And it's not that good, but it is addicting. It almost seems like the worst things in life are the things you want to indulge in most."

Roscoe raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms and asked, "What do you mean? There's plenty of good things in life. Are you unable to see them?"

Francis propped his legs up on the coffee table. It was unbalanced so it wobbled back and forth each time he twitched. "They're not addicting though. Alcohol, sex and money. The three of them make you feel on top of the world but they're absolutely horrible."

"I must be lucky to have had none of it when I was alive."

Francis nodded once and said, "It kept you good. I suppose we all either die young, or go bad."

Roscoe sat down beside Francis. He said, "I still believe people can be good again if they try."

"You're still young and full of dumb hope. People like you don't change," Francis sighed with a sarcastic chuckle in his voice. He stood up and walked to the other side of the room. Roscoe was getting too close for comfort. He couldn't risk touching him.

Roscoe said, "I think people can change, but there's no point in arguing. We should go outside. You like being outside. Perhaps you need some fresh air. Let's go on a walk. Plus, I want to see what's going on outside."

Francis shook his head. "I don't want to go outside. I want to stay right here."

"Well, I'm going outside. See you later, Francis," Roscoe hummed as he stood up and walked to the door. He passed through the door and started to walk down the sketchy hallway.

Francis flung the door open and cried, "Wait! Don't go anywhere!"

Roscoe turned around. "I thought so," he said. He walked back into the apartment and faced Francis. "You panic when I'm not around. I'm glad to know that you at least care about me."

Francis rolled his eyes at him. "I don't care about you. That would be stupid. You're dead."

"Do you not think that I'm aware I'm dead?"

"I'll knock you back in your grave if you do not shut up."

Roscoe sat back down on the couch and sighed, "No, no, that's where you're wrong. You'd panic if I stopped talking. Come on buddy, I know you best."

"I think I'd take a nap if you stopped talking."

"If that's what you'd like, I'm sure that's possible," Roscoe said as he stood up. He patted the couch and said, "Lay down. I'll sing to you."

Francis plopped down on the couch. He groaned, "I don't need you to sing. I need you to just let me sleep."

Roscoe pulled the curtains closed. He then sat down and said, "I'd get you a blanket, but that's all my energy. I need to rest too."

"Give your lips a rest," Francis growled as he rolled over. He buried his face into the dirty arm rest and closed his eyes. 

"Goodnight, Duckie."

Francis just groaned. He didn't have the energy to further yell at Roscoe. 

It was hard for him to sleep. Most of his nightmares were filled with nightmares from war. Besides from that the couch was seeming more uncomfortable than usual. He tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. In reality it was only around thirty minutes, but Francis had an awful sense of time.

"Can you not sleep either?" Roscoe asked. 

"I'm trying to."

Roscoe chuckled, "Have you tried counting sheep?"

"No. I'm not a child," Francis said as he stood up. He pushed the curtains open enough just to see. He walked to the area of his apartment he called the kitchen and grabbed a warm bottle of beer. He then grabbed a knife and wedged it underneath the cap. He then slammed his fist down. The cap flew off. It his Roscoe on his forehead.

"Ow," he groaned, "Your cap hit the bullseye."

Francis felt horrible. He bit his lip and looked down at the bottle. He picked it up and walked back to the couch. He sat down and took a big swig. It felt heavy in his chest. 

"I wish you wouldn't poison yourself," Roscoe sighed, "You know you're like this because of that stuff. Do you know how much money you spend on it?"

"No clue. Too much, probably. It's expensive now. It'll put me to sleep though. Like a baby drinking milk."

Francis paced over and sat next to him. He tilted his head and asked, "Why don't you try drinking milk. Maybe that would help you sleep just as well, and it would be much better for you."

"Milk upsets my stomach."

"What about water than?"

"I don't have money to pay the water bill. Can't you tell? I smell awful."

Roscoe blinked twice. He sighed, "I want to go see your mother. I think she'd like to see you too."

Francis laughed out loud. He shook his head back and forth. "She doesn't want to see me. I'm a shame to her," he sighed before pushing his free hand to his forehead. He missed his mother, but had no doubt that she wouldn't want to see him. It had been years since they spoke to each other. She was vaguely aware of the condition her son was in, but didn't know all the details. He didn't want her to know. He already felt awful about himself, and his mother nitpicking at him wouldn't make him feel any better.

"Why?"

Francis looked up at him. "Because I'm a disappointment. Look at me. I'm addicted to the giggle water. She wouldn't approve of it, and I can't handle another speech on what the Lord approves of and doesn't approve of. I'm hardly even religious."

"Hardly?"

"I'm agnostic. In a world like this I'm not sure what to believe anymore."

"I thought you're Jewish."

Francis shrugged, "Just by blood, not by faith. Is that weird?"

"No, I figured it was something like that. You used to be religious though."

"Yeah, maybe when I was a schoolboy. The war changed me I guess."

Roscoe said, "It changed me too. It kind of rattled my head."

He smiled at Francis and chuckled, "You can laugh at that."

Francis took another swig of beer. He peeked out the window and said, "It wasn't funny."

"I can joke about my own death. You need to loosen up. C'mon now, Duckie," Roscoe urged to him. 

Francis raised his bottle and cheered, "I have my medicine! I'll loosen up soon!"

He then took another sip. He smiled at the bottle and said, "Don't worry about it, Ross. I'll loosen up."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh well, it's what you get."

Roscoe shook his head at him. It was evident that he was disappointed. The look in his eyes said it all. It was painful for Francis to look at -not that it didn't usually hurt. That look struck different though.

"Don't look at me like that," he sighed, "Please, Roscoe. You can't do this to me. I'm not the one to blame. I-"

Roscoe shouted, "Shut your mouth! You need to stop being so negative!" then shifted around a bit. His eyes began to water. He wiped them free of tears and asked, "Who is the one to blame if not yourself? Me?"

"No! Of course not you! It... was whoever killed you."

Roscoe shook his head and asked, "What if I died another way? You wouldn't have peace. It's me."

"No, Ross, you can't say that about yourself, buddy. This isn't you. It's more like me."

Roscoe looked into his eyes. He stayed quiet for a moment. Francis was going to pull away, but right before he did Roscoe said, "Well now you know how it feels to be me. I struggle like this with you every damn day. I do blame myself for you being like this. Maybe you should consider that being the reason I stick around, and I'm not leaving until you're better."

"Well maybe you should leave, because I don't care about myself! I don't care about you either!"

Roscoe rolled his eyes and said, "You did at one time, and I can't let that go. Listen to me, Francis. For once. I have something to tell you."

Francis shouted, "No! I don't want to hear it! Leave me alone! I mean it Roscoe. I wouldn't care if you never came back."

Roscoe stood up and said, "Maybe I won't then. Enjoy your alcohol. It seems like a better friend than me. Goodbye."

He then stepped forward and disappeared. Francis realized he was truly alone. He finished his bottle of beer and curled up on the couch. He curled up on the couch and soon passed out drunk, alone and cold. It was an awful way to fall asleep.