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To say the last few months were strange would be an understatement. Being brought back from the dead and thrust into an alternate universe where the Quiet Rapture happened in reverse will surely leave your head spinning for months on end. Simon wanted to adapt. He wanted to be able to go out and fit into this normal society, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite get the hang of it.
For starters, Simon still struggled this strange old technology. He remembered reading about the tech used on Earth. It was all so behind yet so sleek at the same time. Simon grew up on a ship made of pure gray iron. Now, he watched cars zoom past him in an array of different colors. Personal interfaces (or phones as they called them) displayed a wide variety of people and places and emotions. It sorta frightened Simon, how he could watch thousands of people on a screen in a living room. It felt too personal, like he was an outsider looking in.
So, to combat the amount of screens and people, Simon spent time outside. Specifically, the little park by his living quarters. The first time Simon was allowed to leave his hospital room, he was in such awe at the amount of life that he broke down into hysteria. The trees here were lush and bountiful, ranging in colors and types that he would have never imagined. Wind ruffled the grass around him, moving to brush against his cheek like a mother wiping away her child’s tears.
Simon would spend hours each day sitting at a park bench and just observing. His Rehab manager had warned him people may be creeped out by his staring, but Simon honestly didn’t care. These people were so lucky. They got to live on this beautiful planet, with no worries about the fate of humanity or what lurks underneath an ocean of blood.
And that’s the reason he could never fit in right. None of these people know the feeling of suffocating in a tiny metal tube. They don’t know what it’s like to have your mind ravaged by a monster. They don’t know the feeling of having to rip your own arm off; the feeling of watching scales slowly creep down your arms as flesh rips off in gushing layers.
But Simon did.
And his Rehab Manager, Moby, knew this. He knew about the nights Simon would wake up screaming with fresh scratches littering his legs and chest. That Simon hated to shower because of the feeling of liquid on his skin and would only shower if the water was freezing.
Moby knew this, and he desperately wanted to help. This man from the stars that died and woke up in a world he had only read about (if Simon’s story and government testing were to believe). Moby watched Simon struggle, get up, and fall again over and over, but he knew Simon was trying. He just needed a little push.
Simon arrived at the Rehab Center at his usual time: 3:30. The appointments usually started at 4, but Simon was always early, sitting in the waiting room with his shoulders hunched and his hand buried in his hair. The receptionist would try to make small talk. Simon used to ignore her, giving her a pained look that read ‘I don’t know you. Please do not talk to me’. Now, he returns her hellos.
He’s escorted into Moby's office. It’s a small room with diagrams on the walls and a chair and couch facing each other. Simon slumped down on the couch, not meeting Moby’s eyes.
“How are you today, Simon?” Moby asked. His tone was gentle as always. He had decades of experience under his belt, so he knew how to make a patient feel comfortable.
“I’sfine.” Simon said, the words slipping out to form one.
Moby adjusted his wire framed glasses. “And how has the rest of your week been?”
Simon swallowed. “It’s…. It could have been better.”
“Had any more panic attacks?”
“Yep.” Simon rubbed his face. “I’ve woken up every night, not being able to go back to sleep. I had to go to medical cause I scratched the stitching on my arm again.”
Moby made a not on his clipboard. “I was made aware of that. Have you had any attacks during the day?”
“Plenty.”
“And what have you been doing to combat these attacks?”
Simon paused. “I uh… I just let them happen.”
Simon found that none of the tricks that Moby taught him to combat his attacks ever worked. Instead, Simon would curl up in his living quarters and just let it happen. Sometimes he would pass out. Other times he would throw up and find blood in his bile, which would make his attack much worse.
Moby put down his clipboard. “Simon, I know this is hard. You’ve gone through something no one in this solar system has ever gone through before. Despite all this, I truly believe there is a way for you to live a semi-normal life.”
Simon stayed quiet.
“I’ve been talking to other rehab managers and your nurses and I think we have come up with a possible aid.”
Moby stood and leaned his head out of the room. “Mary, could you grab the crate?”
A few moments later, Mary the Receptionist walked in carrying a large black crate. She set it down between Moby and Simon before giving a little thumbs up and walking out the door.
Moby walked to the gate and opened the lock. Simon peered inside to see a large, yellow dog. The dog made its way out, tail wagging slightly as it sat right in front of Simon.
“This,” Moby gave the dog a little pat on the head “is Chica. She’s a service dog, specifically an emotional support dog. Dogs like Chica are trained to help people who suffer from anxiety or PTSD. I believe Chica here would make things easier for you. It’s not good for someone to be alone.”
Simon stared at Chica. He had seen pictures of dogs. They always seemed alien to him. They would play in the park, yipping and jumping. Simon could see the appeal, but it still felt so foreign. Now, seeing a dog this close, he could better understand what this creature was. She had friendly eyes, soft fur, and a mouth that stretched into a goofy smile.
“How is an animal supposed to help with my attacks?” Simon asked.
“Chica has been trained to come to you when she senses your heart rate increase and your breathing becoming more rapid. She will sit with you and act as a weight of sorts, grounding you to reality.”
Simon doubted that. How could this creature ease the pain he went through? How could this dog understand what it was like to die?
Chica stood, moving closer to Simon and rested her head on top of Simon’s knee. Simon blinked, caught off guard by this sudden affection. Gingerly, he placed his hand on her head, watching her tail wag slightly. He stroked her fur, letting the soft texture linger on his fingertips.
“We can start with a trial run. If this doesn’t work out, we can try something else. How does that sound?”
Simon continued to pet Chica, warmth filling his chest. “I think… it’s worth a shot.”