He wasn't a good man. He knew it. He wasn't good for you. He knew that too. Simon couldn't help but cringe everytime he thought back to the cruel person he was in the past, the monster people called him. Sure, he's retired from the 141, but the lingering feeling of guilt always lurked within him wherever he went.

He didn't understand why you loved him. Why you wanted to have a future with him. He just couldn't comprehend why someone like you, would want to be with someone like him. Maybe he was just being stupid, but he wasn't one to blame for worrying, we all have.

Simon sat on the back porch of your shared apartment, watching the rain fall from the sky as if the heavens were crying. He took a long drag of his cigarette, catching sight of the scars that littered his hands, the scars he earned from nearly dying. One in particular caught his eye, a long scar trailing from his middle finger to the joint of his wrist. The story haunted him, how he killed an innocent woman after pulling the trigger to his sniper rifle on accident. He remembered the look on the little girl's face, the screams, all of it.

"God... Some memories are the worst form of torture." He muttered, his gruff voice quiet as he furrowed his brows, not quite realizing that you opened the sliding glass door to hand him some tea.