Work Text:
There were no more doubts left to be had. This was the right address.
The local gents at the gas station gave him the directions he’d been searching high and low for, which came at the simple cost of disrupting their conversation with an inquiry for help and just a little humble gratitude thrown in. All he had to do was mention the name and the people responded fast to his curiosity. Aside from this, David made effort to keep his own profile as low as possible given that he too played a part in the story of the kid from their city who took a psychological snap after having his legs smashed and murdered two people.
The gun related deaths were chilling enough. The one who got away with attempted murder though was David.
There was a trial shortly after Simon spread the blood of two officers across his apartment entrance. The whole damn building was blocked off by caution tape, so the men at the station claimed, and the administration upheld their promise to close off Simon’s old rooms for good. Some devil stormed up the idea to allow viewers pay a small fee in exchange for ‘the freedom to stand in the location which the famous psychotic episode took place.’ Not many looked upon the liberty too well, expect criminal investigators, journalists, and sickos who wanted to know what it was like to occupy the same air where innocent lives were lost. For whatever reason. Vulgarisms in all likelihood.
David stuck around long enough at the convenient station to discover that the posted newspaper stories were almost all completely true; Simon was carted away post-trial to a facility where he would no longer interact with society. David feared the worst. If not a jail cell, then an electric chair.
Boy was he wrong.
David also learned that Simon was a person of psychological illness even prior to a tragic event that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Suffering from severe mania, destructive self-harm and hysterical hallucinations, the kid became a man, and, fresh into adulthood, faced publication so utterly humiliating it forced surges of disgust inside David’s organs for hours.
He took what he knew, thanked the people who took their time to educate him on ‘one of their city’s nasties cases’ – despite that it was a clear topic of discontentment – and embarked on foot to where it all began: to Simon’s old home in Kirkville.
These days, it was told that the only ones who ever lived in the cop-killer’s childhood house was Simon and his mother. The woman was said to remain there after her son was taken away. It would be a bold-faced lie to say he didn’t remember her. At least vaguely he did. Years ago after what felt forever behind him, David was nothing more than a bum slipping in through window sills and committing desperate acts based on inescapable addiction. Back then, Simon was as close to being nobody as a ghost.
David went by a different name since those days. Daniel Leatherhaven. That younger and doped up version of himself, he considered dead. It was for the best. Especially since an actual ghost had no rights walking these familiar streets hunting phantoms of the past… Simon used to mean something to him. Simon was someone he cared about. The details were blurry and anything but whole. But they were vital. Of that much, he bore no second guesses.
David’s feet led him through the neighborhood parts he’d not visited in three years, give or take. There were birds singing as mist evolved to rainfall and gentle flashes of light pelted the sky. It was fairly peaceful when small rumbles echoed in the clouds. While making his journey to the start of this tragedy, David chewed holes into his lips and cheeks. It didn’t help him. The only thing it did do was turn his teeth sore, blisters stinging on internal flesh each time he anxiously swallowed.
It took flatlining in an emergency room beneath the horrified gazes of a group of doctors to change the path he was treading. David was pronounced clinically deceased, but his fate wasn’t over. He needed to face the things he’d done. He had to finish this – the right way. And thus, at the porch of the little red house on the end of the street, David nodded to himself before tapping his knuckles against the Henriksson house door. It was the first time he ever knocked.
Raindrops continued to dribble off the back of David’s waistcoat while he stood glancing around the property. He waited patiently for some kind of response. His hands couldn’t cram any further into his pockets… yet the urge to knock again came over and over as though he were a helpless runaway seeking shelter from demons trying to rip at his ankles, crush his insides and enveloping his senses with relentless anxiousness. He thought he might grow faint from the anticipation of facing anyone on the other side of these walls and windows. His nerves refused to let up, much like the symphony of unified croaks coming from amphibians lounging throughout patches of grass in the yard. There was a rusty bike leant against the crimson siding which David kept eyeing. The chipped cycle stunk of rot, overrun by vines tied in knots, bound to the earth.
Then—
The door suddenly cracked open. Creaking inward, the doorway parted ajar and from the depths of the home’s shrouded interior, a face crept into view. It was a woman of her later years. Judging by her shadowed features, David gathered she was, first and foremost, not expecting company. Second, that she must have been aged by intense strain. Despite this, he did his best to show this person who may as well have been a complete stranger as much respect as he could. There was tension sprouting between them already.
The woman gaped at the man. She was skeptical right away. “…Can I help you?” she queried from behind the chain lock connecting a thread of security to her home. Her chapped lips frowned under squinting eyelids.
This was it. David straightened himself out. “Ah… Are you… Mrs. Henriksson?”
“Ms.” She hasted to correct him. The woman moved her neck in a fashion of observance to get a better view. She asked again, “What can I do for you?”
David took his shaking hands out of his pockets and offered one to her. He was wary but he wasn’t backing out now. His voice quivered. “I’m… Ah. D-David. Um. David Leatherhoff. It’s nice to meet you.”
Ms. Henriksson had no clue what to do next. Her pupils darted towards his hand and back up.
“…I, uh. I know your son. Simon Henriksson?”
Her tone abruptly snapped and her brows furrowed in anger. “Why are you here?”
Humid air vacuumed inward through his mouth and expanded David’s ribcage. He did his best not to retreat though he at least put his hands back to his sides. It was important he stayed and kept trying to communicate. “Uh. He and I were friends once… I was, really hoping I could see you… and maybe I could… learn more about Simon. It’s …a bit hard for me to say and I’m very sorry if this does nothing more than upset you. I…”
“…Get in. Before you catch a cold.”
Ms. Henriksson surprised him by stepping aside. She was making room for him to enter… and just like that, David acknowledged that this was granted access to where Simon had come from. He was going to occupy the same space Simon grew up in. Where he came after school let out. Where he slept, ate and studied, probably hiding away in that grey hood of his. In the moment David’s shoes crossed the wooden floor beams onto carpet, he knew he was there. Overlapping blueprints of the former where a lonely soul used to dwindle.
Simon wasn’t here. Even so, this was still his home.
Inside stood organized, colour-matched furniture built to accommodate for any occasion. Bland, perhaps, if one were searching for touches of personality. Even the space between the halls and simple design arches capsulated this environment in a zone of timelessness. It felt cool inside the Henriksson household. The hands of the hanging clock might have been ticking, but once the door closed behind David, the passage of time seemed to cut them away from reality. Very few lights were on, adding to the chill and loneliness.
David abruptly jolted. “Oh, I’m getting your floor wet. I’m sorry, I can leave my jacket outside.”
The woman gestured sluggishly at him. “That’s no trouble. Rainy season. It’s bound to happen. There are pots and pans catching some leaks in here, actually…”
“That sort of hassle, huh?” David lowered his voice significantly to compensate the quiet. Beyond the dirtied glass windows came a stray rumble or two and David found his heartbeat to match the timid thunder. Here and there was a splash from the ripples made by intruding water droplets falling from the ceiling and into metal containers. He attempted not to jump at their sound. Frequent jitters would paint him a shamefaced houseguest.
“Is there something I could offer you, David? A drink maybe?”
Simon’s mother guided David into the living area where she offered him a seat and consoled his body temperature with a dry blanket, fretting not over dampened furniture. She explained to him after discarding his soaked coat that the décor was new. Replaced rather, around three years ago. David got the gist without asking more about that. He bobbed his head politely and swept through the moistened strands of his dark hair until Ms. Henriksson returned from the kitchen across the hall with some sweetened black tea.
He’d been loath to impose on her, but the hospitality was surprising and nice.
Then came some ugliness.
“I was worried you were another one of those interviewers or crime chasers…” Ms. Henriksson sat her folded arms over her torso and gazed blankly somewhere between David’s figure and the bookshelves. Her stray stare allowed David a casual chance to observe her characteristics. The tangle of her mid-length brunette hair strung in messy locks over her shoulder. She was overall slender and comfortably dressed. Untidy and dull. Her body language suggested borderline irritation. She was collected. However, disconnect structured her entire demeanor. “Plenty of people search for the origin of everything that happened at Högbergsgatan. They come with cameras crews. Microphones. They wanna hear whether a single mother contributed to the making of a killer.” She exhaled through her nostrils.
“…They must come up with answers of their own and try to pin them on you with tricks, huh?” David presumed a likely outcome while turning the cup around between his palms. He wasn’t wrong judging by her responding expression.
“Hm. I’m assuming if you were really friends with Simon, you wouldn’t be here to catch up. My son isn’t here.”
“I understand your reserve, Miss. It can’t be easy opening your door for people… Let me be clear that I don’t mean to burden you. I can tell you’ve been through enough.”
The woman scowled. “What exactly is it that you can tell? What brings you around now, David?”
What did he know? Well. That part was a bit complicated. From this point, David stuck to a script. He could let on with some things, but for the sake of keeping his word to refrain from antagonizing this poor lady, David erased the details about his crimes. He left the violence, the persuasion and arrogance far from the explanation. David admitted his shallow knowledge to himself, but his desire to rekindle their connection ran deeper.
“Our paths crossed a lot throughout town,” he said. “I saw him most nights walking tracks and sidewalks after curfew. We hung out and talked with each other… To be honest, Simon was one of the only people I really enjoyed being with.”
A believable spiel, and technically exempt of fiction. It let on that Simon was a bit of a loner. Someone daring enough to be caught by other ‘nightwalkers’ and realistically, his story didn’t demand elaboration on his personal hobbies. David wasn’t the focus here.
His interests didn’t lie inside a plastic bag of substance anymore, so he hoped she wouldn’t ask.
The man went on instead. “He convinced me somehow that my life mattered. I hoped… even though it’s been a while, I could somehow remind him what he gave to me and… give some of that faith back to him.”
Ms. Henriksson decided she was intrigued with David’s alleged affiliation with her only child.
“I’ve never heard anything about you, David Leatherhoff. Simon…” she paused. Speaking his name held a powerful effect on her. “…He kept a lot of secrets from me. From the world. I’m sorry you turned out to be one of them.”
If she’d been told about any wild facts regarding her son (by whatever odds the press had access to), she certainly wasn’t letting on or directing any immediate transgression. The woman was pretty good at hiding her anguish, actually. David had only just met her and already he knew; she must be brave.
Funnily, he was relieved to hear Simon never mentioned him. Sly comfort soothed his skull and he pressed a hand briefly over his chest.
“It isn’t easy for me to say, but… I’ve not been able to think about anything else but him. I didn’t quite… grow up right as a kid. But your boy, well… He made it easier for me to think maybe, I could change. I thought one day maybe I could get help. I realized I left some important things unsaid to him, but when I tried locating a number in the books, I …found out he’s not really around anymore.”
She was right. Simon wasn’t here – yet that came as no shock to him. David wanted to apologize. She’s bound to have heard mixed talk from plenty other strangers, from ‘that boy was a psycho’ to ‘if only he could have been saved.’ David himself probably wouldn’t become unfamiliar to that variation. He’d fit somewhere inbetween with his humble, ‘we were friends once and I want to see him again.’
Maybe that was a lousy excuse. He’d made it this far…
David shared another confession drenched in truth. David cut corners on which parts of the story to shine light. This was plenty. Best to simplify the heartache anyhow as this was the woman who gave birth to that boy and witnessed his downward spiral before he was imprisoned.
“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face the last time I saw him…”
The vision was indeed clear. Of all the other memories the man retained, these were of the sharpest, most deadly… the ones that kept him up at night when there were no substances getting him high or clouding his consciousness. That disturbed teenager. Lying limp, half turned beneath soiled sheets, wrinkled clothes and red from puffiness in his cheeks. The colours of his eyes appeared more brilliant that day than any other. David never predicted that to be the final glimpse of Simon’s features he’d steal…
‘Don’t waste your life,’ he stressed to him. The man who slipped in like a predator, made use of Simon’s hospitality, took what he needed then left full of food and clammy palmed. David could only reflect on the foul behaviour now, but he was trying to make a change. It was something – opposed to doing nothing and letting it go. David wanted to make up for those unmerited encounters.
Simon didn’t have a lot of options for himself. He was in a fucking wheelchair and his victims were tucked beneath six feet of dirt, leaving behind family members in perpetual grief. What else was he supposed to do?
Did he remember him… Did Simon still lie face up until the dawn crept through his blinds, staring at the ceiling with an empty space in the bed beside him wondering, why why why did the people he meet always take advantage? Part of David prayed Simon had forgotten. He’d be much better off that way, or so he imagined. The other part of David simply prayed that somehow Simon was okay. By the sound of it, there was little prospect for that, but the better part of him wished for it anyway.
He wanted Simon to finally find happiness.
“I need to find him,” David eventually professed. He met his honest eyes with hers. “Please. Can you tell me where they took him after the trial?”
Ms. Henriksson was apprehensive at first. She reflected on herself, confirming that this man was genuine according to her judgement, and she found David pleading for her help. Convinced to lend her aid, the woman surrendered. She lifted herself up from the chair, took a few steps backward to a shelf pressed up against the nearest wall and went straight for a particular book which she then sifted through to find a sheet of paper. Lined between the pages of a novel, Ms. Henriksson produced a pamphlet decorated with glossy colours and bold print across its frontside. She passed it over.
“…This is where you’ll find him.”
For a moment, his umbral gape lingered on the woman. She appeared none too proud to be showing him this flyer, yet it was all he had as a lead on Simon’s current whereabouts. So he took it. Upon sending his eyes downward to the object in his hand, he understood. The title ‘Beckomberga Upptagningspaviljongen’ was printed along the top. A mouthful phrase depicting an institute situated more out toward the west in Stockholm. Sjukhus, they called it. In other words: a mental hospital.
“Jesus Christ.” David gripped the paper tight in his grasp. He realized he’d sworn aloud. “I’m… I’m so sorry, I-”
The mother was prompt to cut off his apology. “Most people have that reaction, too. Though it’s usually out of spite. Some townsfolk I used to be close with and even old neighbors of mine were appalled he got to live. There were protests claiming Simon should have been executed for what he did and everything he planned to do. I can’t say I blame them for their outlook…”
David whipped his head at Ms. Henriksson’s statements.
“…but they would never see him like I did,” she added. “He wasn’t their son. They didn’t love and understand him like I did.”
“O-Of course not.” David stammered a reply. He couldn’t fathom raising a baby on his own just to see them hate life and get hauled away as a deranged convict, let alone being sentenced to an institute himself. He began to tremble in resentment at the very thought. “But… it was an accident.”
“‘No one can accidentally pull a trigger and kill two cops.’ Though… There are others who empathized his case. The whole thing was outrageous. Even Sophie has stopped coming by for visits. She’s probably too afraid.”
David watched the dust particles in the air scatter with a heavy sigh from his lips. On the grey lighting, his views scattered, and the horrific truth sank through into mind. Simon was a murderer. Labeled a dangerous cop-killer for the rest of his life and bound without the use of his legs. Asylum resident.
Anyone with a heart should empathize that. David already believed Ms. Henriksson. Simon wouldn’t have intentionally taken away the lives of those people. David reimagined the teen who hardly stood up for himself… Someone who harbored a switchblade in his pocket but rarely used it for much else besides shaving the flesh off his own body. The worst part was the trigger which certainly guided him to hostile psychosis: a pair of headlights beaming over the road that fateful night. The night of David’s worst mistake.
The true source of all this torture was sitting in this very living room, daring to occupy the space he once did when he might have had a chance to become a better person.
David rapidly felt sick to his stomach.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I’ll… make good use of what you’ve told me. With any luck, something good’ll come outta this.”
“…Are you going to try to visit him?” Ms. Henriksson returned to her seat with the book still in her hands. Her complexion ran pale as she delicately scattered a group of other pages across her thighs.
David placed a hand over the side of his face and strummed at his scar. “Yeah. I can only try. I’m not sure how I’ll do it, but… I can’t run from it anymore. After learning what’s become of him… I have to see him again. I won’t be able to live with myself if I just ignore him. He… deserves better.”
The woman lowered her chin. Shade pulled the outline of her face even further down.
“I haven’t seen Simon since he was committed. On my own, I wouldn’t even know what to tell him. I’m not sure I could… look at him. Not after having let him down so many times.” Her form devolved from downtrodden to miserable and David found himself brazenly gawking at her. “God, he must hate me. Seeing him now would only hinder whatever help they’re actually trying to give him…”
In fast time, David’s vision fogged with beads of water. Hearing the woman whimper in an effort to stifle sobs that threatened coming up copied his own insecurity. He could tell she was trying her best to be strong. Afterall, it was chastening to show one’s indignity. David knew that. At last, he got to his feet and silently crossed the gap between himself and Ms. Henriksson, then knelt down to speak softly to her.
“It’s okay,” he fibbed. While he presumed Simon wouldn’t hate anyone more than himself – except for maybe David – there was healing in giving this lie of security to the mother. “Please don’t cry. It’ll all be alright.”
Though he surmised she might not appreciate hearing that load of crap from him, he dread the sight of her wounds being ripped open because he made it so. Maybe this woman brought Simon into the world and grieved that the life she gave him was one he never wanted, yet David persisted to share and to understand a common pain with her. She was hurting too and it was such an ugly thing to live with alone.
“By now, I don’t think he would feel that way about you.”
He wrapped that pleasant dream around her despite its obvious deceit. She took it, desperate for the numbness it placed over the ache, just as David clamored for authentic courage to set things right with the remnants of a tormented prisoner. Her rising tears subsided into a slow but steadier emotion. David straightened himself upright again. Part of his intention succeeded.
“Here’s this back for you,” he said and slipped the flyer toward her. He wouldn’t forget the name of the hospital. There on her lap, he noticed photographs of Simon on display. It wrenched his core, mellowing David’s temperament significantly. Simon. From childhood to young adult. Captured in stills. Forever preserved.
Ms. Henriksson took a moment to talk about them. “Simon never did like taking his own picture. But that camera of his… ah. It sure saw a lot of use.”
David nibbled discreetly at his lower lip when she presented a photo for him to examine.
“You should keep this one. It’s the original. But don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got copies.”
David pinched his fingers at the bottom edge of the slick photograph sheet. It depicted Simon captured looking into the lensed. He looked closer than ever right there in the palm of his hand. Within sweet reach. That was the face he had to fight for.
He decided with positivity not to give up his determination.
“I’ll talk to him. But, for you… do you maybe want me to…”
Ms. Henriksson hesitated. It was clear to her he was leaving something hanging in suggestion. “I’m not sure.”
David nodded. “That’s fine, but if you change your mind, I can let him know how much he still matters to you. It’s never too late to tell.”
Wherever he got the notion it was fair for him to say that, David didn’t care anymore. At the very least, he could do this. And after some consideration, the lady actually nodded her head. Slothfully albeit, but with certitude.
“You don’t have to though. It isn’t your place. My poor relationship with him is my wrongdoing, David.”
“I get that. To lighten your load, how about I just mention you to him? Maybe Simon could use that awareness for himself, you know? That you wish him the best. I think he’d be glad to hear it anyway.”
Some silence passed. “…Would you say that for my son, and for me? Would you do that?”
“Yeah. I’d like to. It’s not a problem at all. I’m not a stranger to guilt. I’d give anything to get minutes back in my life. I’m past that part now… What’s next is making the most of whatever’s left and I have no idea how much that is.”
“Hah,” Ms. Henriksson breathed out in sorrow. “That’s an awfully grim way of seeing it.”
“Maybe. It’s the truth, Miss. That’s why I’m seeking him out to begin with.”
“…To make the most, before it’s over?”
David bounced his head. “I don’t wanna lose my chance. Not again.”
That seemed to be the final piece proving his purpose. In wake of the greater picture, it was visible in her worry lines and the sag of her spirits. But this conversation still managed to make all the difference.
“Okay then. Please… if it won’t weigh either of you down too much. I only want him to know… I still… love him with all my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.”
David braced as he let those words sink in. It reassured him. Love. It was fleeting. Time was never a given but the effort to prevail reigned high. David believed they could try again to connect. Healing was real. This story was not over yet.
Ms. Henriksson took David to look at what was once Simon’s bedroom afterwards. The space was vacant of all belongings except a single, lonely wooden chair. The fist-sized hole Simon once punched near the door frame still scourged the drywall with cracks. Ms. Henriksson made certain to wash and dry her visitor’s clothes, offering him a cleansing shower as well as warm food before seeing him back to the door again by late evening. David was refreshed… restored of his conviction that home was where the heart was, and he left a little piece of his own behind that day.
“I’ll remember to tell him,” he whispered kindly before departing from the Henriksson home. He wouldn’t overlook how this woman helped him and placed her trust in his mission. “I’ll make sure he knows. I won’t forget.”
David bid the woman well, waved off with gratitude, and was gone like a drip of mist in the maelstrom of rain.
Oh yes. He would tell Simon everything. Nothing would get left out. David would find a way to make the most of whatever time they had to speak, so long as he could truly find him without causing more mayhem. David would lay it all in the open like his hourglass was due to run out of sand.
Death laid claim to David’s mortality once. It would come again, but not before this photo led him to closure could his next steps forward lead him into heaven.
“Beckomberga… Simon. Just hold on. I’m on my way.”