Simon should’ve never helped that man, he should’ve never let his guard down to pretend he was some kind of hero.

The sound of the car ramming into his lower body is something he’ll never forget. The last feelings of his lower body being crushed to bits against the bumper of a car.

His mental state has never been worse.

Maybe it was his obsession with that girl from college, Sophie he calls her. You don’t recognize her, her name doesn’t ring any bells.He tells you he’s over it. That you’re the one he loves now. You asked if he truly loved you more than her, maybe out of pettiness or bitterness. Simon didn’t respond.

Or perhaps it was the things he claims to see, usually during night time. Simon says he wants to protect you, that things are trying to hurt you both–you called his therapist the next morning.

Dr.Purnell seems to be the only thing helping. He told Simon to write a book, a diary of sorts. Though he refuses to let you go through it, it seems to keep him somewhat sane.

Just as usual, Simon is hunched over the dinner table in his wheelchair, writing away in his notebook for what seemed like hours now. The smoke from his still lit cigarette in the ashtray intrude your senses–reminding you both of the sick reality in front of you and him.