#dbf!simonriley

"Y-yes, he did" I mumble trying not to cry, feeling like I was ten again. "He-he slept with Stacy, he cheated on me, Dad"

"He what? I told you something like this would happen. Where are you? Where is he?" I can hear the anger in his voice.

"H-He's still at her house, I have my things packed. Can I stay at your house for a bit? I promise I-"

"Of course you can." Relief loosened something in my chest, but it didn’t last. At the thought of that house, a deep pit opened in my stomach.

"You don't mind if I have one of my mates over, do you, sweetheart?" He asked It was nice to know Dad wasn't alone in that house all the time, that he had a life, unlike me. But right now I wished he didn't because the last thing I wanted was for a random man to see me in this state.

"Yeah, dad. That's okay, I don't mind." I sniffle quietly, dread pooling in my gut.

I drove over to his house in silence, the kind of silence that forces every thought to the surface, leaving no room to escape my own mind. After about forty-five minutes of driving I pull into the familiar driveway, the tall white house looming over me like a ghost. The meadowsweet growing in front of the porch was still as fragrant as it used to be, and the oxeye daisies stood tall, so simple yet so beautiful. I remember planting those with Mom. My eyes slowly traveled up to the set of windows above the roof of the porch, the windows that belonged to my old room. It has been nine years since I've stepped foot in that house, the house that my mother killed herself in all those years ago.

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My Mother was “troubled.” That’s what my dad had said when I got home from school that day. 'Your mother was very troubled, Honey' nothing else. I found out exactly what happened from one of the cops that seemed to infect our house like insects that day. Everywhere I looked, someone was staring at me with pity. But the man that sat me down and told me what happened was nice. I recognized him from the football parties my dad would host during the World cup, he was laughing then. Now he was trying not to cry as he told me about what happened. I hadn’t realized but I had been crying too. I never saw her body, it had been wheeled out before I got home. I'm glad it was because I might have vomited at the sight of her in a black body bag. The moment he told me it had felt like everything had come crashing down on me, the weight of her death is something I can still feel on my shoulders. Because we knew, we knew she had issues, that she had depression, that she once sliced her wrist with a kitchen knife while making dinner. We ended up in the ER that night and my dad had picked a fight with her. For months I had wondered why she always wore long-sleeved shirts until her passing, mostly because I missed tracing her tattoos with my eyes, always lingering on the one that sat on the inside of her wrist. The one that was my name. But now I shudder at the thought of what was under those long sleeves.

But my dad didn't wonder I guess. He pretended nothing was wrong while my Mom suffered. And me, I didn't know what to do. I was ten, What was I supposed to have done? I still didn’t know. Some part of me had never forgiven myself for that. I never hated him though, he was all I had left now. No uncles, aunts, grandparents, nothing. But I would be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that blamed him, that held that festering knot of sadness, guilt, and blame. At the time I had blamed him for not helping her, for not being there for her. He was a cop, he still is actually. 10 year old me thought that meant he was a saint, I guess. Now I blamed him for not helping me, for not coming into my room when I was crying myself sick because I missed my mom. For not asking how I was doing when I was clearly depressed. For acting like I was okay.

We never talked about it, ever. After the funeral it was as if we forgot about it, or we didn’t dare speak about it. But the weight of her death hung over that house like a rain cloud. I knew when it happened it always would. That was what we did, though. Me and my dad. Orbited around each other until we eventually collided, then we kept on in our orbiting. Because that was easier than fighting. There had always been a distance between me and my father, like a gigantic ravine that both of us were too scared to breach. It was when she died that I realized she had been the glue to hold me and my dad together, and without her we drifted like two lone astronauts without our space station.

We spent time together and watched TV. For a while, it felt like that was all we did. At some point we started to make dinner together and play board games. But some days we didn't see each other at all. We only orbited. Saw each other in passing, like two ships in the night. Then at 18 I got a boyfriend who was older, 6 years older. My dad and I had a huge fight about it. He was adamant that I was too young for a 23 year old boyfriend, I thought otherwise. As we argued and bitched at each other we said things we didn't mean, but neither of us brought her up. Because if we had, there would be no coming back from that. Maybe we did mean what we said though, I still haven't figured it out. And I guess I've been trying to figure him out for a while. Trying to figure out what he was thinking all those years ago, what made him not do anything. That argument ended in me moving out with Spencer. We made up eventually, we still had dinner together sometimes, still talked over the phone. To any outside person it might seem like we had a healthy relationship. But I knew, I knew. Nine years had passed. I had grown up, moved out, fallen in love, gotten my heart broken. But some part of me was still ten years old, stuck in this house, waiting for someone to tell me what happened to my Mom.

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Simon's POV

After that day, Simon was honorably discharged. Or as he liked to call it, spit back out into the world. Left with less than he’d had when he’d joined. And sure he had a pretty decent amount of money saved up from his service. It was more money than he’d ever dreamed of having at eighteen. It still meant fuck all compared to what he’d lost.

When Simon got back to his flat in London he spent a total of four days there before he sold it and got a house in a nice neighborhood. He had a few neighbors. One was an old lady, Gladace. She was, as Simon had come to find out, a very unique lady. She spent most of her day gardening, tending to flowers Simon couldn’t name. She also swore at them. Frequently.

His other neighbor he had met the day he moved in. The man had been standing on his porch drinking something from a mug when Simon pulled into his new car park. He introduced himself as Mike, and Simon gave him his full name automatically, the habit ingrained too deeply to think about. For the first few weeks Simon kept to himself, rarely leaving the house for anything other than groceries, take-away, and the daily run he went on in the mornings. But one day Mike had invited Simon over to watch a rugby match with some of Mike's mates. The interaction had been curt, there was a knock on the door when Simon was walking by it on his way to grab a book to pass his time. He answered it reluctantly, human interaction being the last thing he needed. Mike stood on the other side with a small awkward smile.

"Simon" He nodded

"Mike" Simon nodded back

"Got plans this weekend?"

"...No"

"Would you care to come over for the match on Saturday?" Mike asked, hands finding his pockets.

"Sure"

"Alright. Some of my mates are gonna be there too, is that okay?"

"Aye, s'fine"

"Great, see you at 5 on Saturday" He said starting to turn around

"See you" Simon closed the door.

The truth is that Simon didn't want to go to Mike's house that Saturday, but he couldn't think of any excuse to not go. And in the back of his mind he could hear Price repeating those words, “Find something to enjoy, Simon.” They had become somewhat of friends. He was probably the first friend Simon had who didn't share some kind of trauma with him. He couldn't get over the normalcy of it, of a friendship between neighbors. It was easy, it was calm, it was...fine. Perfectly fine. Simon's friendship with Mike wasn't like the one with Price, or Gaz, or even...Johnny. That name still stopped him cold. That Saturday he went to Mike's house. He was mostly silent unless someone else started the conversation. After, he went home feeling drained by the social outing but decided he liked Mike.

They were neighbors and so they had grown closer through trashcan ventures and small talk by the mailbox, about football, or music or the rugby matches they sometimes watched together. It was a friendship that Simon was careful about. Mike didn't know of Simon's military background, the torture, the killing, the death...the guilt. The guilt that clung to him like a leech as he silently trudged through what was “the rest of his life” as Price had put it. "go live the rest of your life, Simon. You've got so much left". Well it doesn't feel like it, John.

Mike had no reason to know any of that. That's why Simon liked him. He could sit and pretend to be normal with an actually normal bloke. But then again he didn't know much of anything about Mike. He knew some things. He lived alone, no evidence of a second person in the house. But there were a lot of photos of him holding a little girl. Could’ve been a daughter. Probably was. Whether she still came around, Simon didn’t know. Simon had come to observe that Mike was a really nice guy, he volunteered at the homeless shelter on his days off from being a police officer. He mowed his lawn every Saturday morning like clockwork. Then one day he stood watching out the window when he saw an old woman fall in the road. Simon watched Mike help the old woman back to her feet.

Easy.

Mike was good at that sort of thing. Simon wasn’t. Simon would volunteer. Donate. Pick up litter along the side of the road. Anything, if it might make the guilt shut up for five fuckin’ minutes. That ache felt older than he was. It had followed him since childhood, a black dog at his heels, teeth sunk into his leg.

Simon had thought about telling Mike about his service. Almost did once. He’d interrupted Mike halfway through a story, then told him he needed to take a piss instead. He didn’t want Mike to idolize him. Didn’t want to hear that he’d fought for his country, that he’d done something noble. He didn’t feel noble. He was tired.

Tonight they sat on Mike's couch, having a few jars while watching the rugby match on the tele. They were engrossed in the match when Mike's phone went off. He picked it up and immediately answered. Simon reached forward to turn down the match, the announcers' voices fading to a slight murmur that buzzed in his damaged ears. A muffled voice came through the phone, some bird on the other end.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Mike said, concern etched on his features, an emotion he had never seen on the man.

Right after he said that he could hear what sounded like crying. Simon sat up slightly, watching Mike. Who was this person? Was it his daughter? Simon didn’t know or care that much. So he looked back to the tele to watch the now quiet match and tuned the conversation out. Next thing he knew Mike was telling him his daughter was coming over.

"You have a daughter?" Simon asked, as if he hadn't seen the photos.

"Yeah, she's a bit...different" He said before looking back to the match, reaching for the remote to turn the volume back up.

The sounds of rugby filled his ears as that word stuck in his head.

Different.