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“Jon? Jon, are you there?”
Jon looks up at the stranger, the woman seated in front of him, arms resting on her knees as she holds her wooden clipboard. He cringes at the screech of lead dragged across paper.
“Jon? Are you ready to talk?”
No, He wants to scream. No, I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
But he only nods.
The stranger nods back.
“Good! Let’s begin,” She smiles and flips to a new page on her clipboard. “My name is Hope. And you are Jonathan Sims, correct? Is it Jonathan? Jon?”
“Jon.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Jon.”
“....”
“Now, let’s get to chatting about what has been up lately, hm?”
“.....”
“A few of your coworkers mentioned to me that you have been performing poorly at work after the death of…a close coworker? What was his name again? Marty?”
“Martin,” Jon snaps. “His name is Martin.”
“Ah,” She nods, writing quickly. “Martin! That’s right. And you two were close, no?”
Close didn’t even begin to describe it. Close was a pathetic filler word used to describe sports matches and test scores, not Martin.
“Yes.”
Hope nods, scribbles on her page again, and looks back up at him.
“How exactly did Martin pass?” She asks, crossing one leg over the other. “I am terribly sorry about that, by the way. Losing a mate is always difficult, especially one you’ve been through a lot with.”
Jon rolls his eyes as he ponders the question. How did Martin Blackwood die? Was it sickness? No. Time? Partially… Was it-
“The Lonely.” He says at last.
Hope’s brows knit. “The…lonely?”
“Yes.”
The pace of her writing heightens.
“What exactly is the Lonely, Jon?”
Jon sits forward, leaning in as if telling Hope a secret.
“What isn’t the Lonely?” He begins, speaking softly. “It’s what keeps you up at night, questioning if you’re worth anything. It’s what drags you away from those you love, isolating you from your mothers and your fathers. It’s what leaves a gaping, invisible wound in your heart not even time itself can heal.”
His voice rises as he speaks, unfound fury flashing in his eyes.
“It’s what took Martin. It’s what will take all of us one day, when we die quietly and alone, no hand to hold, nobody to tell us it’ll all be over soon.”
Hope backs up in her seat, her eyes filled with concern.
She's scared, Jon notes, just like Martin was before It took him.
“In your line of work, you’re more susceptible to the Lonely,” He continues, a smile growing on his face. “You’re alone, listening to other people’s problems. You don’t have anyone, anyone to talk to. The burden grows on you. And if something happens, it’s traced back to you.”
“Jon- '' Hope begins, but he cuts her off. He can’t stop it now, now that the Eye has him under It’s control.
“You’ll die alone, you’ll die alone just like we're all destined to. You’ll die alone and you’ll die alone in agony. You’ll watch as the light drains from your own eyes and you’ll do nothing but weep.”
“Jon-”
“And you’ll spend your last seconds doing nothing but regretting every single thing you did in your pathetic life. You’ll-”
“Jon!” Hope shouts, standing up abruptly. Her clipboard crashes to the floor, sending a flurry of papers everywhere.
Jon looks up at her to notice tears. Tears pooling down her cheeks.
The Lonely really got to her. He thinks to himself.
“I’m sorry-” Jon begins, but Hope silences him with a shake of her head.
“It’s- it’s quite alright, Jon,” She picks up her clipboard, taking a deep inhale, and sits back down on the sofa. “Let’s- let’s take five and we’ll recoup afterwards, ok?”
She exits the room before Jon has a chance to protest.
And then he’s alone.
Just like Martin.
“Jon.”
Martin?
He turns, locking eyes with him from across the room.
There he is.
Martin.
Martin stands in a grey jumper, perfectly alive, just standing there.
“Martin-?” Jon steps towards him. “You’re alright?”
“Of course I’m-” Martin smiles, and Jon can’t quite explain it, but his face begins to melt. Flesh pools from Martin’s face, leaving a flesh colored lake beneath his feet. His eyes land soggily in the mush, and Jon screams.
He screams until his throat is ripped raw. He backs away from Martin, ramming into the sofa and the bookcase and-
“Jon!? Jon, are you alright?!” A gentle hand takes hold of his arm.
Hope.
“Hope- help him- help Martin- the Flesh has got him!” Jon struggles to get the words out. His breathing is heavy, sweat soaks his shirt, he’s shaking
He turns back to Martin, but he finds the space empty, no sign of the melting flesh, no sign of Martin.
Martin.
“The Flesh- Oh god. Martin.” He sobs, reaching out into the empty corner.
“Jon, Jon look at me. Look at me.”
He turns around and stares at Hope, who places her hands on his shoulders. The tears come down faster and harder, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision.
“You’re okay Jon,” She speaks softly and Jon feels his breathing slow. “Take deep breaths with me, ok? The Flesh can’t hurt you.”
But it can.
It hurt Martin.
It’s not long before Jon is back on the sofa, seated with his knees hugged to his chest, a week later.
Today, he’s got a cat.
The Admiral purrs and rolls around in his lap. Hope suggested he bring something comforting for the next session, something to keep him from spiraling again.
Hope watches the cat with a soft smile, jotting down notes mindlessly as they sit in comforting silence.
“Are you ready to talk?” She asks after a while.
“No.”
“Okay.”
They continue to sit in silence until she asks again.
“Can we talk now?”
“No- yeah.”
“Alright.”
Hope shifts in her seat and draws the clipboard up once more.
“Let’s circle back to last week. You mentioned,” She squints at her notes. “...the Flesh?”
Jon shudders, drawing in a shaky breath.
“The Flesh,” He begins slowly, wringing his hands together, The Admiral happily batting at them like a playtoy. “The Flesh can warp you like dough, like clay. It rips and molds and fluctuates until it’s happy you’re not. It’s cruel and unforgiving.”
Hope peers at him with great interest. “What exactly is the Flesh, Jon? A friend? A feeling?”
“An entity.”
“Jon…” She sighs. “I’m not following.”
“You don’t have to follow,” He stares hollowly at her. “It doesn’t need your understanding to feed, to thrive. It does what it wants, when it wants.”
“I don’t understand, Jon. I can’t understand if you don't help me understand.”
“..I'm trying.” He whispers, surprised to hear his voice trembling.
“I know, Jon,” She smiles sadly at him, her eyes crinkling softly as she does so, a familiar and comforting detail he’s come to love. “I know.”
And that is that.
He comes back again the next week, ready.
“I brought something,” He says, pulling out a large binder, stuffed to the brim with papers and little trinkets. “Something to help you understand.”
“What’s this?”
“A collection of all the information I know about the entities. It’ll help you understand them better.”
“Jon-”
“Please, Hope. Just…just try.”
It’s an half an hour before she finishes reading through the binder, a pile of the loose papers growing around her as she sifts through all the newspaper, notecards, and other junk he’s stuffed in there.
When she finishes, Hope looks up at Jon with a look he can't quite discern.
“Jon?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I understand.”
. . .
“Jon?”
“Yes?”
“Tell me about the…Magnus Institute.”
He clears his throat and leans forward, arms resting on knees, chin on hands.
“It’s an organization dedicated to the study of the paranormal.”
‘What does that have to do with Martin?”
“He works- worked, for the Magnus Institute with me, my archival assistant.”
“You were an archivist there?”
“I am.”
“Well, Jon, I'm a bit confused.” She slides him a paper. “It says here you’ve been working for the Magnus Institute, yes, as an archivist. But there’s no record of this place ever having to do with the paranormal. It’s just a regular, old archival dedicated to the history of London.”
“You don’t understand,” Jon begins, his unease growing. “Of course they can’t flat out say, “We’re the Magnus Institute, home of whatever bloody hell keeps you up at night!’ That’s a death wish, Hope.”
“So you’re saying they have to hide?”
“They have to hide.” He confirms.
“And these…monsters-”
“Entities. These entities are based upon fears?”
“No, not based upon,” He sighs, stroking The Admiral under the chin. “They are fear.”
Hope nods, but her lack of understanding is clear. Jon winces as she writes rapidly, probably taking note of everything he does, says, and thinks. It’s scary having her in his brain, but he has to admit, the last few weeks with Hope have brought him closer to what can only be called…well…peace.
Except for the Lonely. It lurks in the back of his mind, waiting, scouting, hunting him.
Hunt. The Hunt. The Hunt which waits and waits to strike, then chases you until you can’t run any longer, until you are but flesh and bone.
Flesh. The Flesh. Bodily mutations, horror beyond what is fathomable to the human brain, blood and guts and skin.
Jon bites his lip, the sharp pain bringing him back to the present.
“Alright, Jon?”
He nods. “I think I should go now.”
“Alright, Jon. I’ll see you next week.”
. . .
Next week comes.
Jon knocks on Hope’s door, disheveled as ever. His long salt and pepper hair tossed carelessly over one shoulder, a matted and tangled mess. His head is fuzzy and his hands sweat profusely. He feels helpless, lost…
The Spiral must’ve visited me last night. He thinks.
The door opens. But Hope isn’t alone.
“Hello, Jon,” Elias greets him with a smile. “Apologies, I was just speaking to Hope about something.”
Jon blinks and scrambles back, his heartbeat sounding in his ears.
Elias.
He turns to Hope, and lunges, taking hold of her shoulders.
“What the hell did you tell him!?!” He yells, slamming her against the wall.
“Jon-!”
“What did you tell him?! I thought I could trust you, but you’re working for him, you’re working for the Eye!” He trembles as he grips her shoulders tighter, Hope letting out a noise of pain.
Jon feels someone grab him and he’s tugged backwards. He yells out, swinging at Elias, who takes the blows harmless.
“Jon, stop it.” Elias hisses, pulling him away from Hope, who stares back at him horrified. “You’re not in your right mind right now. Stop it and sit down.”
Jon snarls a protest, tugging against Elias’ iron grip. But he’s useless, defenseless, and tired. Oh so tired.
He sags against the wall, burying his head in his hands, hissing quietly to himself.
“The Eye. The Eye. It’s never going to leave you alone. It didn’t leave Martin alone. It spares no one. It works with the Lonely. It’s here to kill you.”
Hope kneels down in front of him, tilting her head. “Jon, why don’t you come to my office?”
He looks up at her.
She’s not even scared of you.
He nods and follows her back into the familiar floral scented office. He sits on the sofa wearily, resting his head on his hand.
He wants to close his eyes. To sleep.
Sleep. Sleep sounds foreign. Sleep doesn’t exist when you’re battling entities that could rip your mind to shreds.
“Jon?” He blinks up at her, exhausted. “Are you ready to talk?”
“No.”
“Jon-”
“Five minutes. Five minutes, please.”
“Alright, Jon. Five minutes.”
He closes his eyes, and five minutes pass quickly.
“Alright, Jon, let’s start from the beginning. Do you know Elias?”
“No…yes.”
“How so?”
“I work with him. Or, worked.”
“Alright, and what’s your relationship to Elias?”
“He works for the Eye.”
Hope pauses. “I'm sorry?”
“The Eye,” Jon repeats. “He works with it. He’s the Eye’s informant. Spy, even.”
“Jon, I don’t understand.”
That’s come to be her favorite phrase, throwing it out like confetti. Jon isn’t surprised, however. He doesn’t sound like he’s making sense, does he? He’s confused, lost, and terrified.
And then he laughs.
“I don’t either!” He exclaims, wiping tears from his face. “I’m scared, Hope. I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. I need help.”
He’s not used to being this transparent. The words feel foreign on his tongue. Help? Him? Jonathan Sims? It’s ridiculous, laughable, even.
“Jon, do you blame yourself?”
“What?”
The question comes so suddenly, so abruptly.
“Do you blame yourself?”
“Hope, I-”
Hope gazes at him over the clipboard. “It’s not uncommon for a patient in this situation to feel this sort of…guilt.”
“What situation?” Jon’s voice shakes, he hates how it shakes, how his palms sweat and, how the world spins below him.
The Spiral’s got me.
That’s all he can think.
Hope’s voice brings him back to the world, a gentle lull pulling him from the grasps of the cruel, unforgiving Spiral.
“Martin.” He inhales sharply, the name a knife to his gut. The tears come before he can stop them, and Hope watches him. Her eyes betray nothing of what she is thinking. “
“It’s not unnatural for you to blame yourself, for you to feel responsible.”
“I don't-”
“It was completely out of your control, Jon.”
“I know-”
“Jon. Listen to me.”
He looks up at Hope.
“It’s not your fault.”
“What?”
“It’s not your fault.”
He is silent.
“You’re not the reason Martin is dead, nor is The Stranger, or the Magnus Institute.”
“Brains work strangely. They don’t care about the body like the body cares about them. The human brain will work to destroy itself, to destroy its host. Jon, you did all you could. You supported him, gave him a person to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. You were the perfect supportive friend….though I think that word is too soft.”
She smiles sadly. “You loved him, Jon. And he loved you. But in the end, the pain became too much. And it was not the Magnus Insitute’s fault. Not the Spiral. Not the Flesh. Nor the Eye. And most definitely not you.”
“I could’ve stopped him.” Jon chokes out.
“Maybe,” Hope nods. “But who is to say. His fate was sealed the moment he stepped onto that roof, and there was nothing you could’ve done.”
“You were the best thing that happened to him, Jon. Elias, Tim, Sasha, they’ve all told me how much you cared for him, for how he cared for you,”
Hope reaches out and places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He slowly tips his head up to look her in the eyes.
“It’s not your fault.”
And he breaks.
The sobs overtake him and he loses track of how long he cries. His eyes burn and his chest is heavy, but something about the experience feels…relieving.
For once, his mind is quiet. He allows himself to think of nothing. No Archives. No Eye. Just silence.
When he finally does collect himself, he leaves Hope’s room silently.
The hallway is empty, but he doesn’t feel scared. The Lonely can’t get to him anymore.
At the exit, Elias stands, a hand in his pocket and the other typing away on his cell.
He looks up, and Jon expects a violent response. Instead, his coworker smiles softly at him and waves.
Jon waves back.
At home, Martin’s picture sits on the fireplace mantle, an everlasting reminder of the empty spot in Jon’s bed.
But he will not allow this to break him.
Martin loved him, Jon knows that. And he loves Martin.
He thinks of Martins body, growing old beneath the poppies and carnations, and he does not feel sad.
He reaches out and picks up the photo, carrying it with him outside.
He sets Martin beneath the stars.