I started writing Simon angst, it turned into everyone angst. You're welcome!! Also I wrote this entire thing on the treadmill and just edited all the spelling mistakes after, if it's shit blame my dehydration. If its wonderful, I am a living god bow before me
WARNING: DEATH, PANIC ATTACKS, DEPRESSION
Simon was only human, he could feel the sharp sting of words just as intricately as any other. He could withstand the hurricane of verbal shots that tore through him daily, he could hold put against the onslaught of jeers from others if only to help the few he could reach. He was human, with a penchant for taking the pain of others so they could discard their rags of insecurities and self hate.
He would pass in the halls, hearing the murmurs of how he was too soft to be a field agent. How Simon Glass was demoted from the ranks of importance to slave for those who didn’t carry the burden of life in their bones.
Oh how the psychologist yearned to be more than the victim to petty emotions and unfurling strings of sanity that were one gust away from snapping.
His own wills were taught as is, yet he held onto it if only to ensure others would withstand their own storms.
Simon watched as souls flocked to him as a last resort, or perhaps as a means to ensure their job security. Prove to themselves or to their bosses they were sane as a whistle, bright as a star. To prove to someone, to anyone that they were more than the sinking wreckage of a ship whose bow had already split. A mere wistful hope they were okay, before they were snuffed out in the flood.
He often counted himself amongst those that swarmed his office, between those who were convinced of their own sanity, to the ones who wanted to peel off of their skin and start anew in a different form. Simon became each of his patients as he sat with them.
If it weren’t for Lucky, he would have collapsed into himself with how often he took upon the stories of the damned.
On Mondays he stumbled through an empty apartment at night, the taste of alcohol lingering as the metal of the muzzle tasted like sweet release. Only to put it down, for a son who would never forgive himself. Amnesia hitting him harder than ever, he forgot what his eyes looked like. What did his eyes look like? Why didn't he have eyes? Why didn't he have memories? Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn't he think? He heard butterfly wings as they pushed out of his skull again.
With a start Simon woke up in a new body, staring at fluorescent lights as he was ushered out once again to another exam. Hoping desperately that the ethics committee would interfere soon. He felt the wrath towards the man that sentenced him to this fate, who sealed his soul within a pendant of quartz and silver. He hadn’t been a good agent for sure, but he didn’t deserve this surely.
He would never forgive Dr. Glass for giving him this fate.
On Tuesdays, Simon gasped awake, boiling water escaping his lungs as her eyes tore through him. Her loving terrible eyes watched from the shadows, her thousand eyes never blinking. Her claws sinking into flesh and tearing his humanity from him. Every scratch appeared on his back, his arms, he could feel the blood trail down his form. Shaking he fell out of his bed, coughing up the blood and sea water stuck in his chest. He gasped and choked on words that would never escape, that would never become separate from the idea he had become.
He would never forget her eyes, as much as he wished he could.
Ice slipped between his fingers where it never existed, a name wiped from every record. One lost to time as sand lost itself to the sea.
You do not have a file on the deceased Foundation agent code-named Iceberg.
No one has a file on the deceased Foundation agent code-named Iceberg.
On Thursdays, sitting at a desk Simon gazed upon the photograph of his daughter, a child he abandoned due to his godforsaken work. Yet he couldn’t find it within himself to leave, to return to his child. He would never forgive himself for losing her and his friend. Time ticked past as he gazed, slipping through his fingers. Oh how he yearned for rest that he would never allow himself. He stood, facing the door, for he had a friend in need of medical care.
He simply hoped Kain would forgive him for being late.
Simon would wake up, wondering what his past was. Reminded himself that it wasn't worth remembering if he had shown up in the Foundation willing to forget the past. Who he had once been. Now he pulled on the armor, staring at the mirror as he prepared for the barrages of comments within the corners of the halls. How he had to babysit a kid who had her life torn from her, and pretend it would be okay.
Foxx should be able to make up for whatever she lacked in herself, he was a father already after all, he was good at this.
On Fridays he became a young adult, a girl stuck in a cell. With a designation tattooed to the back of his neck. He would watch and listen to the murmurs of researchers continue to call him an object while his task force treated him as a human. Sometimes he wished he could end it, but he had made a promise and would push on. He couldn’t let them down.
Maybe she’d convince Meri to wear anything other than that hawaiian shirt that reminded her of her boss.
He would become an agent, without freedom. Once sent out on missions now stuck to a desk to play handler for people who didn’t even exist in a physical form. He did this for his love. The one who woke with a soft golden smile, who would sing in the car and light up the world by simply existing. His anchor, someone who would no doubt bring him misfortune. He would watch ever so lovingly at said muse, heart never wavering in its ticking. Eyes never leaving the face of his beloved, he would kill for this man. He has killed for this man.
He would forever owe Simon, he would forever be Simon’s. He found himself to be very Lucky in this manner.
As the days passed, Simon became each of the souls that he passed in the halls. Felt their burdens claw against his own. Pushed against the ones that attacked just to strike, the ones who had no idea of any better. He felt the bite of their stares, of their egos as they spat on his name. Hissed and clawed against the mere conceptual idea of taking care of one’s mind.
When they cornered him, they tried to make him cower beneath their lack of self worth. He took it, if only to help lift the weight of their anger and desperation off of their shoulders. Free their lungs and chest from the animals that clawed for their freedom.
He would listen, no matter how much it pained him to. No matter how it ripped his intestines out whenever one of his willing patients got killed in a breach. Oh how it was always the ones that were making the most progress that burned the fastest. Simon often found himself hoping some would refuse his services, if only so their luck in survival would rise by some meaningless percentage.
Simon sometimes wished that he could take their places, strip those burdens from their being completely. Allow them to start anew.
Yet as he holds another bloody corpse in his arms, he couldn’t help but feel empty.
The blood soaked into his clothing, saturating his very being. The crimson liquid near black in the lost lighting of this small corner, he could only hold them closer as the last light escaped their eyes. Desperation to live leaving with their soul in a fleeting moment.
He held them. Even as the sirens continued to sound.
He held them as their body turned cold.
He held them as he heard the cries of others slowly cease.
He held them, whilst the breach came to a stop.
He would hold them until someone pried them from his arms.
Even then, he held them in his mind, a memory he would never easily forget. One whose sinew and bones would forever rot his nightmares, ghosts blaming him for their lack of survival. He knew better than most that these were not true ghosts, but it never made the collective any more welcoming at night.
This one was one of his better patients, one who was being released from the Foundation’s clutches in a week. To be given amnestics and shoved into the cruel world of ignorance, of simplicity. Yet thanks to the red heap of flesh and voices lying dead next to him, he could only laugh at the fate of this person.
Now the poor thing would only be a number in the count of the dead, nothing more than a number.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t the same.
