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Simmons thought it was a good day, as well. It can never be a completely good day, can it? No; no of course not, because that’s not how this works. Happiness cannot be without sadness – or without intense self-loathing and misery, more like, Simmons added.
His bedding was muddled, and his form was hunched over his knees, whilst the (essentially translucent) blinds did nothing to hinder the determined moonlight from gracing Simmons’ back.
He was sure this wasn’t going to be the last time this happened, it certainly wasn’t the first, so that just encouraged his distress. It’s always like this, always, and it just showed how pathetic he was.
No, wait, how pathetic the situation was. (He’s getting better, but he still believed the first one more. He’s learned being bitter has no positive outcomes, but it doesn’t stop his skewed mind from not diverting itself completely from this well-trodden path.)
He stared at his legs, awkward and bony, bent over the edge of his bed. He marvelled at the fact that despite his best efforts to combat his figure, muscles never came easily; his form staying lanky and long even with his excessive exercise programs. The mechanical additions didn’t help, either. Simmons did have to concede, the metal plating seemed somewhat bulky, almost padding out his clothes to make up his lack of physical “manliness”… But without focusing totally on his cyborg enhancements, when scanning over his body, comparatively his arms were agonisingly disproportionate, the plating creating hills and still sore scars where they met his body.
Simmons has never liked his chest. Never. Initially, the dysphoria was bad enough: the disassociation, of staring at lumps that were not his, that were not supposed to be there; the immediate feeling of repulsion when uncovered, the compulsive need to cover up, change clothes, anything to stop the rising feeling of unease and distress. The conflictions of body and mind were never easy, and something he never liked to address.
Surgery helped. It did, it honestly did; the removal of the additional weight, the subconscious awareness of movement was deleted permanently, and when the scars faded, Simmons was happier. Everyone said so, and he knew it, himself.
But, with the swap of limbs and organs for machinery and wires, old scars became irritated, re-bloomed, if you will. Plating and scars became a new norm for Simmons, and it took him a while to be able to look at himself in the mirror again; his once accepted frame once again disregarded as his own.
Simmons’ fingers were drawn to the edge of his shirt. He smoothed his thumb over the bottom edge, his fingers slipping under the fabric. His mind was strangely calm as he slowly trailed his hand upwards, the shirt still hooked by his fingers, and consequently was lifted too. There were no sounds, no thoughts to distract Simmons from his daze, lost in past emotions and memories. His sense of numbness was… comforting.
He had lifted his shirt enough for his torso to be completely visible, and he bunched the shirt under his chin to keep the material in place. With his face forced down to keep capture of the fabric, his eyes were forced to skim over the familiar view; plating and irritated skin grotesquely decorated his chest, stretch marks and scars were a blotchy red contrast to his watercolour complexion.
His eyes raked over the imperfections, each vile dip and rise of skin, the curving, crossing patterns that his numerous scars created, everything highlighted by the unrelenting moonlight. His sights finally landed on his first prominent scars – or now, scar, one entirely visible, the other now non-existent, destroyed by mechanisms and metallic skin.
Simmons drew his hand towards his upper chest, his fingers lightly grazing the memories… But then he snapped back into his thoughts, remembering what he was doing. Disgust grew within Simmons’ stomach, and as he placed his hand back upon his bed, his face scrunched into a scowl.
He was like an impractical canvas: ripped and torn, sewn and shittily repaired to create a dysfunctional masterpiece. God, it’s no wonder he has a sense of distance from people – how could you take someone who looks like a scrap heap of conjoined metal and skin seriously? Simmons also thought it was ironic that his outward appearance reflected his emotional state: fractured, patched, rough, disgusting…
Simmons was about to compare himself to a modern-day Frankenstein, but a more accurate representation flashed across his mind: Grif.
Guilt blossomed, overtaking disgust, but it soon lead to self-directed anger. Simmons wasn’t the only one with problems, he wasn’t the only one affected by drastic physical changes, so why was he acting like he’s deserving of special attention?
What a fucking piece of shit human – but how could Simmons even be considered ‘human’? Well, religion insists that to be human, a sort of soul is involved, but Simmons was sure that it was removed along with all his human innards; or it can state that humans have a conscience, or a sense of morality – Simmons audibly scoffed. Morals? Are you fucking kidding? He’s always so selfish, so immature; he has an inability to completely take other’s feelings into consideration, as demonstrated by his lack of empathy for Grif, who was in a much worse situation than him, probably.
At least Simmons didn’t have to adopt someone else’s flesh to be presentable, that there wasn’t any chance of his body completely rejecting those organs required for survival. At least he wasn’t mauled by a massive-ass tank. At least he could look in the mirror and not see stolen, mismatched skin.
Simmons should be so thankful for his situation, be thankful that he survived an operation that should not have let him live, never mind be a practical cyborg. Be thankful that he had a team, that he wasn’t alone, no matter how much that exact feeling overwhelmed him.
Just like it was right now. The sadness rolled over Simmons, bumping his self-worth lower and lower, and with that the need for others resonated within him with an empty strength, as he knew it would be just another solitary night.
He felt so fake, so plastic. He had always analysed people, absorbed the dos and don’ts of social activity from afar, (thanks social anxiety) and moulded this mess of a person with the foundations of insecurity. He’d try to be a good soldier, a good person, but he’d always fuck up, his shouting and frustration causing his head to hurt. He was a mixture of everyone else, of what other people would want; sucking up to authority, being a goddamn kiss-ass - how artificial do you have to be to skip personalities depending on the other person?
A sudden sense of anguish bubbled through Simmons, and he was (not) shocked to find his eyes (eye) stinging with the promise of unwanted tears.
Great. Simmons tilted his head up to look at the ceiling, running a clunky, metal hand through his stupid, tangled hair, in an attempted to blink back the unnecessary water, and stop potentially rusting something.
Just fantastic. I build up this persona, something I hold on to, but it’s so goddamn jaded that tears can easily ruin this fucking façade. Why am I so shit?
Exasperated, Simmons reached over to his roughed-up notepad and his bitten pencil, and flicked over to a clear page (it was near the back, though, and Simmons hated the fact it was so close to being completely filled). Scooting nearer the window for better lighting, he scribbled:
I feel out of place.
I really feel like I want to cry.
I feel so dissa disassociated from everyone else; a loner; a loser.
Simmons’ relief was short-lived, he enjoyed the fact that all his messed up thoughts could be documented in one place, mistakes included, but once he stopped focusing on writing, the feelings were just as apparent.
Simmons started to go through some of his writing, to try and focus on something else rather than the awkward sense of numbness. He glazed over some of his favourites:
I just feel like shit.
I have a horrible empty feeling in my stomach, but simultaneously there’s a full heat there, residing, too.
Fuck.
And there’s this horrible dragging down feeling; it’s dragging me down ever so slowly. My shoulders feel heavy, my arms limp, I hate it.
I cling to the emotion, the sadness, try to fan its cold, cold flames and allow myself to feel.
I’m numb.
Void of true emotion, so I trigger the pain and cling, cling to what I deem real.
Simmons smiled a pained smile; he was really proud of that one, mainly because the words were so incredibly personal and caused such an emotional response within him, so he felt a sort of empty accomplishment to be able to articulate his feelings in such a poetic way.
And whilst weird abstract poems of feelings were helpful, computers and numbers were a pretty good tactic to avoid unwanted thoughts, too. The digital world could be very one-dimensional – and by that, what was meant was the computers and code could never lie, could only follow specific, set rules that Simmons knew better than himself. It was such a wide world with endless possibilities, always having new additions brought to light, always having a new job or idea to complete, something that Simmons would never lose.
And Simmons felt himself slowly being lost again; his sense of numbness overtaking his chest, his brain. He flicked over to a random page:
I feel like I can’t do simple tasks. Getting ready, armour/supply checks, doing menial jobs without double checking with Sarge… I feel like I just disappoint people in these circumstances. But it’s also like the people don’t notice, they don’t notice the important things about me.
I know I’m fucking up, but others just ignore it or deem it trivial, and that just makes me feel even smaller.
Do people not realise?
He flicked again:
I’m probably just ostracising myself, no one else.
Fuck, these people deserve better.
And again:
I hate looking at the back of someone’s head when they don’t know you’re there.
And again:
Everything is tainted;
Save for one,
Sole,
Person.
Simmons saw the wet blotch on the paper before he realised he had let the tear fall. He rubbed at his face furiously, cursing at himself at his low sense of control over his ridiculous emotions.
Simmons’ head snapped up when he heard light knocking on his door. Panic quickly overwhelmed him – he hadn’t heard anyone moving around the base.
He desperately didn’t want anyone to see him like this: his face red, blotchy, and tear-stained, his hands shaking, clutching a roughed-up notepad. This was the army; a place of strength and independence, not for breakdowns and emotional instability. Simmons couldn’t stand it if Sarge saw him like this – despite his dreams of Sarge being a loving father figure, reality was too harsh to grant him any comfort. Lopez wouldn’t care, and Donut would care too much, so they wouldn’t understand. And Grif –
Grif opened the door, just slightly, and the hinges creaked obnoxiously. With his head poking around the opening, he winced, and looked sort of apologetically at Simmons.
This was worse. This was so much worse. Why did it have to be Grif? Why? If it was bad that anyone else saw him like this, Grif seeing him was like literal hell. Simmons started glancing around the room frantically, hoping there was some way he could remove himself or Grif from the situation. His eyes just landed back on Grif.
This wasn’t like punching a mirror, he was sure he wasn’t making any noise… Was he? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter now. Panic and frustration grew into a solid ball in his stomach, but wisps would spread throughout Simmons, linking to his other insecurities, stressing him out more and more as Grif slowly made his way over to him.
Grif’s cautious steps were filled with silence, but also something unfamiliar to Simmons, or something now forgotten. Frozen in place, Simmons could do nothing except stare at the advancing intruder with wide, scared eyes.
Grif arrived at the bed, just a step or two away, and stood there awkwardly; a lopsided smile carefully gracing his face.
Simmons was so fucked.
Holding his gaze, Grif went to open his mouth and speak, but then decided against it. Grif’s eyes flicked to the floor, his expression flipping to perplexed, and he shifted his weight onto each foot carefully; his fingers twisting and entwining continuously.
Simmons couldn’t stand the fidgeting. Grif knew he didn’t like it; the habit explicitly showed him more nervous tension than he could bear. Was Grif trying to coax him into talking first? If he was, Simmons was too exhausted to do this now; he didn’t need to be heard, he didn’t deserve it. Grif should be resting (yes, he slept a lot, but this a designated sleeping time, it was different); he shouldn’t be letting Simmons expose the true mess of his own personality.
Simmons started shifting back onto his bed, his lanky legs bending as he retreated backwards from Grif and towards his pillow.
The movement caused Grif to realise Simmons was going to be stubborn, and not voice any reason for his slight shaking of shoulders and reddened face, so he sat down in the newly created space, next to Simmons.
Simmons cursed at himself – he hadn’t meant that as an invitation, but trust Grif to misread obvious and practised social cues in favour of sitting down. Simmons brought his knees to his chest, and drew his arms around his legs, hugging them closer to his torso. His stare remained fixed on the wall on front of him, not granting Grif the pleasure of reading his rumbling emotions through eye contact.
Grif’s soft eyes studied Simmons’ side profile, and Grif simply asked:
“Did it happen again?”
The question almost winded Simmons. He snapped his head around to look at Grif, eyes wide and lips parted with shock.
What? No. No, surely not. This has ever only been an extremely secret side of Simmons, so there’s no way Grif could have known about this. There’s certainly no way he could have known for a while, but kept it to himself for Simmons’ sake. Because if he knew that, then he’d also know this was a reoccurring part of Simmons’ life, that Simmons was nowhere near as structured and stable as he tried to parade to everyone he knows. (Naturally, there were cracks and flaws that Simmons would let show, but he excused those moments with “nobody’s perfect”.)
As much as Simmons wanted it to be an option, there was no running from this. Grif knew. Grif had known for a while, and Simmons felt so guilty. He was horrified that Grif had lived with the knowledge of him being weak both physically and emotionally; and God, he really was a piece of shit, wasn’t he? Because he couldn’t even keep it a fucking secret, couldn’t keep it on the down-low so no one else would have to bear the burden.
But, obviously the one person Simmons would bear attachment and repressed affection for, would be the one troubled by some stupid chemicals in Simmons’ fucked up brain.
Simmons felt his toxicity pumping through his veins. He gripped his wrists, attempting to stabilise himself; but the foul inside of him was eager to spread. Simmons was sure that if Grif got close enough, he could be contaminated.
That thought caused Simmons to kick out, to physically push himself away from Grif, so his back was up against the wall next to the window. Confusion rippled across Grif’s features, and tentatively touched Simmons’ arm, in an attempt at a comforting gesture. Simmons was horrified; but when he realised Grif hadn’t changed, he hadn’t been tainted, he let Grif rest his hand on his arm. The hand slid down to his palm, and he interweaved their fingers.
Simmons darted his head down, his heart fluttering. He scrubbed at his contorting face, eager to rub off the blatantly visible emotions that appeared there. He felt a soft squeeze on his hand, and with the heel of his metal palm digging into his glabella, he started sobbing.
He knew this was bad, this whole situation was awful; but he couldn’t stop this newfound onslaught of emotion. So he just let it rush out. His gross sniffs, hiccups and mewls were filtering through his hand, now splayed across his face, the palm pressing harshly against his nose. His jaw became tense, locked, and the pain caused his chin to tremble. One cheek felt the warm tears fight their way down his face, only to stop halfway and drip onto his lap.
His mind was a mess, an honest shit-storm of feelings; and with his shoulders shaking, dull pains across his clenched fingers and face, his thoughts booming negativity he’s heard all before, he couldn’t concentrate. Even with his eyes scrunched shut, he saw the room spinning and his defences breaking, his captured hand forgotten. Despite this, he faintly heard:
“Oh no, Simmons, don’t, it’s uh… It’s OK… I…”
And now Simmons was sure Grif was blaming himself. He needed Grif to understand that this wasn’t normal, that he’s absolutely broken and Grif shouldn’t have to deal with this, that he could find someone better, and should just leave immediately and –
Through his sobs, Simmons was somehow able to croak out:
“I-I’m s-s-sor-ry I’m brok-”
“You’re not broken, because I… Don’t… I’ve got you.”
Grif’s voice crack on the ‘I’ probably wasn’t how he wanted to portray his strength for Simmons, but the emotion brought with his words and the stable hand grasping his brought the reassurance Simmons needed.
Simmons slowly felt himself calming down. His breathing was still ragged, but that was something that wouldn’t go unnoticed by Simmons.
Simmons slowly lifted his head to look at Grif, chest tight.
Grif averted his gaze, and rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, obviously thinking carefully about his next few words:
“I can’t promise this’ll be solved, but… I’ll be here,” His eyes flicked over to Simmons’. “With you.”
That was more than what Simmons could ask for.