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Life puts you in horrific positions you never imagined you could ever be in in your entire life. Right now, in this room, sitting on the uncomfy plastic chair is the last place Simon would have ever wanted to be and never imagined he would have to be in.
The room around him was chaotic, with doctors and nurses, patients and family members coming and going constantly. It would probably have been extremely loud and annoying if Simon could hear anything, but right now, he just felt as though he couldn’t hear anything at all. Like he was underwater.
His heart jumped in his chest at being here again, his body physically wanting to escape as well as his mind. He hadn’t been here since it happened. The only thing he could feel was the sting of his cuticle as he picked at the skin, something he had weirdly picked up from Wille. The thing that broke the bubble around him was his name being called delicately from the woman by the door, inviting him in.
His legs felt like jelly beneath his body, as though they would give way at any second. They didn’t though, because he wouldn’t let himself break until he was back home. This room was smaller, he would say nicer if the situation was different. The lighting was warmer, the walls more colourful and just a less daunting appearance overall. Another bonus was that the couch in the corner he was urged to sit on was nicer than the plastic one that was so bad it made his ass numb he had to sit on. Then it stated. The words he never wanted to hear met his ears.
“So, Simon, this is a very shit question right now, I know, but how are you?” It was a normal question. It’s a question that everyone has asked, has been asked. It’s an icebreaker, a conversation starter, a phrase you use to catch up with an old friend, but now it was weighted.
Because, no. Simon was by no means okay in any way shape or form. So he doesn’t answer. He can’t make the words make their way past the lump in his throat, so he shrugs.
“I know this is hard, but I want to help you and to do that I’m going to need you to speak to me.” Simon feels bad, he can see the concern and sadness written all over her expression. But this was her job, so why would she care? Still, the only sound in the room is the wiring of the fan. Simon doesn’t talk.
“Okay. Let’s try something else,” she murmurs to herself, maybe not even for Simon’s ears (even though he’s pretty sure the words are aimed at him), then directs her sympathetic eyes back to him, “What’s your favourite colour?”
It’s so random, and almost childishly degrading. Yet, he finds himself responding with a tired, “purple”.
“And why is that?” She tilts her head sideways, analysing him like some science experiment. It will do you good his mothers words, that keep spiralling through his mind. He could do this. He would do this, if not for him but for his mama and Sara.
“I don’t know, I just think it’s pretty?” Once again he shrugs, really not seeing how this will help him in any way shape or form. Somehow, it gets the therapist to smile sadly.
“What’s your favourite season?” She asks this time.
“Winter.”
“And why’s that?”
Simon knows why. It’s because it’s the season of christmas and hot chocolate and snuggling up on the sofa with a movie on, but not really paying attention because his focus was on something way better. It was the season of early nights that turned into late ones, because Wille always wore pyjamas to bed when the nights turned even colder and he needed to feel his skin again. It was the season of shopping for christmas presents for their respective families and holding hands through the pretty lit streets and big family gatherings at his childhood home and squeezing into tiny air beds clinging to each other throughout the night as if they didn’t do that anyway. It was the season they went down to the lake to see the cystallisted trees in the surrounding forest. Simon never understood why they went to the lake the most in the winter, because the water was always cold.
And that is over now.
“Christmas,” was how he answered though. It was generic enough to pretend his heart didn’t ache - even when it was obvious it did - but still good enough to be believable. It was starting to feel like he’d fallen into a trap, despite knowing that speaking about his feelings was quite literally the point of this.
“How about your favourite song?”
And that was it. That was all it took for Simon to break. Because his favourite song would always be their wedding song, the way it was linked to his favourite person on his favourite day as they danced sloppily, Wille slightly drunk in front of all of their family. They couldn’t dance for shit, but it was the best dance of his life.
“My favourite song is our wedding song.” Wiping a tear from his cheek and chancing a glance at the woman, he felt truly exposed in a way he had never felt before. Well, he had felt this way before. But that was with Wille, so that was different.
Now Wille is gone. So he supposes everything is different.
Somewhere, almost distantly he can hear her talking, reassuringly he would have to guess. He sits there in tears until he comes to his senses, and she lets him. Just sits there and watches him cry. And it’s so embarrassing. Exposing. But she lets him feel.
They sit there in silence for a while when she looks down at her watch before announcing that it was the end of their time. And it’s strange, because all he has wanted was to run away from this room, but now he has to, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s unsure if he can go out there and face the world again.
“It’s okay to be upset Simon, what you’ve been through is unthinkable. You are safe to feel here” she is quiet for a moment, licking her lips and clearly considering whether she should say what’s on her mind, but does, “I want you to try something for me, I want you to try and write a letter for Wilhem. No pressure, but some people in your position have found it really beneficial? To write what they are feeling to their partner, and then I know how to help you? Does that sound okay?” And bless her, she’s trying really hard and trying hard to not tread on eggshells, maybe sensing the fact Simon could flee at any second.
Still Simon nods, collecting himself and standing to leave. And that was that. It was over. Done.
“Thank you, um….?” Simon felt bad he couldn’t remember her name, but in his defence there were more important things on his mind.
“Dr. Harlow,” she smiled kindly around the words.
“Thank you Dr. Harlow,” he repeated before letting the door close behind him and he left. And that was that. Except not really.
The walk home felt endless, his legs just carrying him where he needed to go but his brain not registering where he’s been. The sun shone brightly on the world around him, lighting up the world around him. Why was the world not mourning with him? It’s strange how life around him carries on when it feels like the world has stopped spinning.
Once he reaches the flat he’s hit with the feeling again. A feeling of emptiness. The apartment was quiet in a way that was eerie and disgusting. He wanted to flee, to move out. But he couldn’t, because that would mean leaving him behind.
He toed off his shoes, lining them up nicely next to Wilhem’s pair that feet would never fill again. He hung Wille’s jacket he had worn up next to his own. For a second, if he thought hard enough, he could imagine that Wille was home, cooking dinner for them both and waiting for him with open arms. For a moment he believes that Wille’s just late home because of traffic or he missed his train. For just a second, he swears he could feel Wille’s arms wrap around his waist and his lips against his neck.
It’s crazy what your brain can trick you into thinking.
Around him as he stepped into the kitchen was last night's unwashed cutlery: one plate, one cup, one knife and one fork. She should probably clean it, but he would get to that later. He just stood there for a while, in the silence of an apartment one filled with music and laughter and love. Now, it was silent.
Silent until his phone rang on the counter.
Sighing, he picked it up and answered slowly, a small hello.
“Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?” His mothers voice, slightly tinny on the other end.
He can’t take it anymore. That stupid fucking question everyone seemed to ask. What did they expect?
“Yes mama, I’m fucking brilliant, never been better!” He spat sarcastically, violence and tears covering his words.
“I know, I know. Is there anything I can do or get you? Have you been shopping? I’m going tomorrow so I can bring you some bits you need round?” His mama is literally an angel, the way she stays so calm when he’s being such a horrible person.
“Yes, I have everything, I can take care of myself. I’m not a child, Wille was my husband not my caretaker, you know?” his voice was still laced with sarcastic depression, he wishes he wasn’t but he can’t stop himself.
“I know.” she took a long pause, both of them just breathing on the line, “Do you want to come back home for a while, Simme?”
“Don’t call me Simme, please,” he finds himself saying, Wille always called him Simme, “and no. I can take care of myself how many times. Besides this is my house, mine and Wille’s and I love it here.” He wasn’t even very convincing to his own ears.
“Yes, but Simon, I think it would be good for you to have some company, don't you?”
“Because Wille’s dead right? So I should come home and forget my life here and forget him!” He was red hot with anger now, tears spilling over his waterline.
“No, sweetheart, that’s not-”
“I get it okay! I don’t need everyone reminding me! He’s dead! Dead, dead, dead! Is that what you want to hear!” He was screaming now, choking on tears and words and getting so overwhelmed he hung up.
The range in his body builds to a point where it overflows and he just…screams. His knees give way as he crashes down on the wooden floor, probably bruising his legs but he cant feel anything. Nothing at all.
Everything is so fucked up. How did life end up like this? His sweet, beautiful boy. The boy he fell in love with before love was something he considered, before he knew what love was. Wille was his everything, so what was the point in life now?
He wishes to have his husband's arms around him, carrying him to the couch and wrapping them in a blanket, wiping his steadily falling tears and kissing his lips until everything feels okay again. He wishes to sit together, laughing and talking until 3am about their beautiful memories. There's nothing else that would make this better, nothing but having his loving, beautiful boy back in his space and hushing his cries, telling him everything will be okay. But it won’t.
Somehow he ends up in the bedroom, one of Wille’s hoodies from the floor being pulled over his head. He breathes in deeply through his nose with the expectation that Wille’s scent would hit his nose; but it doesn’t. He quickly hurries to get it off of him, to inhale the jumper. Tears rush to the surface once again at the realisation that the scent is gone. How is it gone? It couldn’t be gone. It just couldn’t.
But it was. And with it, a part of Wille.
He hurried across the room and into the ensuite, rummaging aggressively through the cupboards and drawers and searching shelves. Finally, he found the little orange bottle, instantly stripping out of his clothes and spraying the liquid all over his body. If he couldn’t smell Wille on his clothes, he’d smell him on his skin.
Stripping the bed from the sheets he had contaminated with his own scent, he laid there, inhaling and letting the cold take over him. Like a blanket, comforting.
He could smell the scent, calming him as it circulated around the room. Simon refused to let the room, nej, the house, forget him. Forget his scent, his favourite songs, his laugh, his cooking (that was burnt on more than one occasion) and his voice. Because if the house forgot it, then Simon would too.
The sun was setting slowly over the calming city around him, the glow of the sky lighting up his skin, the same way it would when they would wake up together, painting Wille’s face and making his hair glow.
Slowly, he made his way over to the window. Simon doesn’t think the sky had ever looked so good. Something in him tells him it's Wille, it’s wille saying he’s okay. Selfishly, that didn’t help, because Simon was still so alone.
The sky was painted orange, the colour of his perfume bottle, and his hair against the sun that summer they spent in Spain. Pink, the colour of his lips he wishes would be against his again, even just for one last time. Lastly, blue, the colour Wille loves so incredibly much. It was the colour of practically all of his clothes. The sky was so distinctly Wille. Wille was okay, and maybe, just maybe, Simon could live with that.
“I miss you,” he whispered up into the sky, hoping that wherever he was, Wille would hear and feel the same.
Something about it reminded Simon of what Dr. Harlow had asked him to do, and suddenly he felt inspired to write, to talk to Wille again.
Wille,
My baby, my love, my light, my husband if every lifetime, my everything; I miss you so much. Why did you have to leave me? I hate you for leaving me. No, I don’t. I’m joking, I could never hate you. I love you. I think I will forever.
People keep telling me that ‘things will get better’, they act like one day you’ll be a distant memory. I don’t think anyone has loved the way that I love you if that’s how you feel. I love you more than anyone has loved another person, and it hurts too much to live in the world without you. I thought it would be better because I knew it was coming, but nope. Nothing could have prepared me for losing you.
You look beautiful right now, as always. You’ve always been beautiful to me, and you always will be. This might be weird but I wanted to let you know I hug your pillow and pretend it’s you. I thought maybe it would help the insomnia I have now but, nope.
I wanted to tell you I love you. I wish I could show you again, because I missed my chance before. My biggest regret is letting you die like that. I fucked everything up i know. I made every wrong choice. But I hope you know I love you more than life itself.
I miss you and I love you forever,
Your Simme x