personal blog: simon

I wrestle in gaining my bearings. my lips buried in blood and I cough to clear my throat as Kevin strays to the side. his hands in the air, an indication that he means no harm. I recoil in fear, unable to recognize him at first.

“good. you’re alive,” he says, clutching a cloth to his side.

my fingers jump in alertness, touching my forehead. my head’s heavy, like bricks have dropped on it, crushing my skull, and I realize that I must be on the floor. the light from behind the bar spill to the dining area and Kevin’s figure appears in full view.

“you’re bleeding,” he hovers with a scuffling impression in his expression, but Kevin never remains angry with me for long and presses his fingers to my chin. “you scraped it as you fell.”

but I don’t feel any pain and trace along Kevin’s brow.

Kevin’s brazen eyes quickly fold to caring ones. “Simon,” a gentle worried whisper.

“Simon,” Bryan’s gentle worried call echoes.

“how you feeling?” a concerned question.

but I cannot feel. in an auto mode, painting along Kevin’s hairline to his ear, down his jawline to Kevin’s neck, then up stopping at his chin.

every man has his price.

“Simon,” the whisper of Bryan’s musical way of calling my name. “Simon,” where the ‘i’ strands a little longer. a held note.

“Simon,” the misgiving call from Jacob when I have done something wrong or mischievous or typical.

“Simon,” the heavy and coarse breath of my father, beastly and cruel one moment, kind the next, but ever the same.

“Simon,” a gentle call through the fog as the only few drunks left gathered to examine the situation.

my arms feel strange.

“Simon,” Kevin’s voice tranquil and harmless, enough to bring me back. “hey?”

“hi,” and I swallow my pain, staring up at Kevin. his kind eyes. his allotment of care. a shell of who I truly am, devising for my allowance as my eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry.” a shallow exhale, my pathetic apology, “I’m broken and I don’t think you can fix me.”

“yeah,” his faint grunt and he lengthens his gaze away from my eyes, dabbing alcohol on my chin. it stings a little, but I like it. then patches the scuff with attention and caution.

“I’m thinking of seeking help.”

Kevin lays the moist cloth to the side, scrunches his face. “that’s heavy,” and grazes my cheek with his thumb. “let’s go,” he gathers my hands and stands up, lifting my arms with him. “let’s get you home.”

my wobbly legs cave under but I manage to lift my body, leaning on Kevin for balance. “I don’t want to go home.”

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© simon whittle — second act