Chapter Text
A drag of metal, the brief sting silencing the screams in your brain to a mocking hush; this day wasn't supposed to end this way.
You watch the bead of blood enlarging on the inflicted line. The ghost of its ancestors pale in the background.
No, you were doing so well.
To your left, a smashed cupcake, icing smeared on the linen of your bed.
One year.
You had been clean of your bad coping mechanisms for almost one year today, and it was supposed to be a day for you and Ghost to celebrate.
He'd been so patient with you, because he'd been through the same self-loathing you were in back when you'd just met. Helped you as you pulled yourself out of it. Provided the rope and taught you the best way to climb up and out.
Maybe these past few weeks, you weren't at your best. A mission not going to plan tends to lead to that.
Lives lost, haunting screams; the face of a woman clawing at your arms, begging you to save her from the fatal gunshots all over her frail body.
It was too much too fast, and you might have spiraled a bit too hard.
Just drinking. Not the cutting.
Today, you were determined to shed all of the harmful coping mechanisms you'd learned to lean on since you were a teenager.
No more drinking. No more smoking. No more cutting.
For him.
Simon.
Because you wanted to have a long enough life—barring mission fatalities—to spend with him.
The cupcake in hand, you took light steps towards the mess hall so you could tell him of the news—that you were one year clean.
He was talking to Soap. So you paused, not wanting to bother them.
Eavesdropping. Or not. They were talking in a communal space.
"How's she?" Soap asked him as he shoveled food into his mouth.
The area was busy, but not noisy enough that you couldn't make out what they were talking about.
You.
"She's okay. Surviving."
You smile. It's all thanks to him. This cupcake, it's for him, a little symbol of victory; both in your lives and relationship.
"Good lad," you heard Soap gave Simon a good hard pat on his back. Decided to give them time to talk as you sat at the bench just outside the mess hall.
Then, a sigh.
"It's too hard sometimes, Johnny. Feels like I'm pulling them out with an oil-slicked rope. Tried and tried only to-"
The cupcake cradled in your hands tilted. Almost falling off your thighs. What Simon said next, you couldn't hear, the ringing in your ears overtaking your senses.
Were you that hard to deal with? Too needy? Too much?
You loved Simon, and of course, you would always need him in your life. It just never crossed your mind that you might be needing him more than he does you, that you're a parasitic vine choking him off the nutrients he needed to flourish.
"It's how it always is, L.T., you love them, you gotta try."
"Wish it weren't so damn fucking hard," Simon answered, "sometimes I think to myself if it's all worth it."
A painful sob threatened to tear its way out of you.
You ran, swift, away from foot traffic, away from the mess hall, from the realisation that you were a burden to the last person you want to be one to.
"Lean on me, darling," he'd told you. Said that he'll take care of all your problems while you just focus on living, on finding yourself again. Your reluctance was swayed off bit by bit because of his words and actions—their unwavering persistence a testament to his care.
He said he loved you. Three months ago.
Is he going to take it back?
Was that even true, or just a pacifier, your carrot on a stick to help you crawl out of your hole?
0 days since your last incident.
One line, two. Was trying to get better even worth it when the ruby liquid sang lullabies with every drop you granted freedom to? You could focus on the way they beaded, the gentle flow, the fall in slow motion before the floor below you was dirtied by red.
It was either of the two that your body had always resorted to, tears or blood. When you cry, your insides feel like they're shredded to millions of different pieces, but that was normally the healthier of the two. But you're not going to cry while your fellow soldiers were still awake and could hear you at any moment.
This, this silenced not only your thoughts, but the way you released it too. Hurting yourself never fails to make you numb, hazy. It's a feeling you seek a lot, thus your habit. Simon told you it's better to cry. To do it on his shoulder.
A burden.
Three, four. New ones welcomed by the old, a ritual of pain dancing around the fire of emptiness. If you truly wanted to get better, you'd already have your razors thrown away, and perhaps this was what Simon meant by too much.
And then there were tears, anyway.
You will never get better, will you?
"Love?"