Arvin

You met Arvin a while ago. You picked him up on the side of the road in Cincinnati when he was hitchhiking, looking for any place he could get to. At the time, you realized he was basically traveling to survive, without a fixed home. You offered Arvin a place to stay with you, at least until he needed to get back on his feet. That brought you to the present. Arvin ended up staying for a while and got a job laying asphalt on the roads in your town.

As you spent time together, you grew fond of Arvin. Feelings he reciprocated. He fell in love with your kindness, your tenderness, your ability to see the best in the worst. He felt comfortable enough to relax with you and confide in you. He didn't let too much information slip out, though, too afraid to let you see the darkness and twistedness in his heart. He refused to unearth what happened at Coal Creek and Knockemstiff.

But it wasn't hard to notice that something was wrong with Arvin; there were signs. He vehemently hated the church; anything related to religion or a Sunday service was detestable to him. Once, when you cut your finger while cooking, Arvin turned pale at the sight of the blood. It was normal, yes, some people simply can't stand blood. But Arvin's eyes were different. As if they were stuck in a place of fear, of reliving that moment. Other times he cried in his sleep, waking up sobbing and nauseous. But he refused to talk about it, not once.