Disclaimer: FMA is not mine


This was never supposed to happen

It was raining. He knew it was. Hell he always knew when it was raining and it was damn well time it did. How dare the sky stay clear and bright when he was dead? Was the world really that messed up? He didn't need an answer.

He lifted the glass once again to his lips and found it empty. He lifted the bottle and poured again. Whisky. Neat. He slugged it down hard and fast, enjoying the burning sensation and the fuzziness that followed. He couldn't remember how many glasses he'd had now. He didn't really care. The more he drank the less clear the world was, which was perfectly alright with him.

"I'll kill those bastards" he muttered to the picture frame before him, as if he could hear him. He laughed at himself then, a hollow sound that echoed throughout the room. He was talking to a picture frame. Worse than that he was talking to the dead. Him, an atheist, the first to scoff at those had had the slightest inkling towards anything supernatural was talking to a dead man as if he could hear. As if he was watching. Is he watching?

He slammed the frame back on the table. It was the alcohol. It had to be. Hughes was gone, and once you're gone that's it. Done. Or are you?

His mind wandered back to the funeral. He could probably still remember his old theories. He was sure they were written down somewhere. Human transmutation could not be impossible. Nothing was, you just had to get the balance correct. If he could find something, anything that could amount to a soul then he was there.

With a force that almost sent him flying he fell out of the chair. How drunk am I? He thought grudgingly, sitting back down and pouring himself another drink. He raised it to his lips. Then he stopped. Placing the drink down carefully at the table, he raised a hand to his face. It was the same place. The same thoughts. The same reaction.

"This is ridiculous!" He cried in frustration, picking up the glass and raising it to his mouth once more. Again he paused. He sighed softly setting it down upon the table. Instead he reached over to the photo frame and propped the picture up. He stood up, wobbling slightly and dragged himself into bed.

The next day he would get up and return to work. He would find out who had killed his friend and make them pay. He would continue to live. Not because he wanted to. Not because he deserved to. But because of those who needed him to.

And who would haunt him if he ever tried not to.

A/N: please review