The Simon Thing

   It’s a widely known fact that bad things happen to everyone, but a less accepted reality is that the worst kinds of things always seem to happen to those who least deserve them.
   The following event (which bears much relevance to the aforementioned law) will not be told entirely from my perspective, because I wasn’t there for all it.
   This is just one of those things on the need-to-know basis about us… Sorry if it bothers you.


   Iggy mounted the stairs and trudged down the corridor, trying to remember just what it was he needed from his room. A pen? That would seem to fit, as Xeeva had wanted one for the daily crossword. But weren’t there pens downstairs? He paused at the door to think, his eyes not seeing the obnoxious hand-written signs tacked to the wood because he’d grown accustomed to having them there.
   The sign at the very top of the door said in neat, laborious letters: This is Iggy’s Room. The sign underneath said in slightly bigger but still neat letters: Ignacius is mistaken. This room is the property of Harry. The sign following that said in not-so-neat red letters: Harry is mistaken. Room is IGGY’S. And on it went in much the same fashion, signs sprawling all the way to the floor, where the red letters gave up and said: Alright, truce k? And the black letters replied: Sigh. Very well.
   Still not quite sure why he had come, but deciding to water his plants now that he was here, Iggy opened the door.
   The curtains were drawn, hazy orange light filtering through them into the warm room. Despite the warmth, Iggy shivered. His instincts, always intuitive and sharper than most, told the muscles in his legs to tense, ready. Nothing seemed awry so he suppressed the urge to run. Why could he feel…? He noticed Harry was curled up in his bed and facing away from him, the sheets drawn up over his face so that just his blonde hair poked out.
   Iggy pursed his lips, his mind filling with thoughts of the most creative way to put and end to Harry’s slumber. He’d begun to move forward, considering as he went, when he stood on something that wasn’t carpet. He looked down. Jeans, and next to them a crumpled shirt. They were Harry’s. That was weird, Harry was always so pedantic about folding and putting away his clothes.
Something silvery glinted out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it; laying his hands on Harry’s bed he leaned down, bringing his face close to the top of Harry’s head. Now thoroughly unsettled by the feeling in the air, Iggy whispered gently,
   ‘Hey, Harry? Are you sick?’
   That was when he noticed the blood. There were small smears of it across Harry’s sheets, oxidising as it dried. Iggy grabbed the sheets, attempting to pull them away from Harry shoulders, but Harry had them clenched in his fists.
   ‘Don’t,’ Harry breathed, his face now revealed. Iggy took a step back, instantly relieved that Harry was conscious. But Harry’s face was an uncharacteristic mask of agony, his jaw was clenched, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shut. Feverish sweat glistened on his forehead.
   ‘What’s wrong?’ Iggy asked wildly. Harry let out a small whimper as he curled up into a ball under the sheets. ‘You’re bleeding, what did you do? Let me look.’ Iggy hurriedly studied the placement and the amount of blood, calculating its severity.
   ‘No. I’m… not wearing anything,’ Harry murmured, his voice thick. Iggy’s ears twitched, something had fallen into place. His eyes darted back to the glint of silver he had seen before. It was an empty condom packet; Iggy’s face darkened, suspicions confirmed.
   ‘It was Simon.’ Iggy said tonelessly. It was not a question. Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked up at him.
   His eyes were filled with pain – a hurt so great Iggy could almost feel it himself. Harry was barely able to move his head to look at him. But it was more than just physical, Harry was ashamed, humiliated, something Iggy had never associated with him before.
   It had not been until this moment that Iggy became fully aware of how proud Harry truly was, but his realisation was null and void for the future that would come. Harry’s self-assurity had been snuffed almost simultaneously to Iggy realising it had been there.
   Iggy took one final look at the love-bites on Harry’s throat. ‘I’m getting Cam,’ he turned and left the room.
   He marched the short stretch of corridor and opened Cam’s door.
   ‘Knock! How many times do I –’
   ‘Harry’s hurt. He’s in his room. You need to go look after him.’ Iggy was already turning to leave, but as an afterthought he added: ‘There’s blood. Don’t freak out.’
   And he was gone.

   I heard his feet on the stairs as he jogged down them.
   I breathed for a moment, my fingers still on the keyboard of my computer. Then I stood, hurrying to the boys’ room.
   ‘Harry?’
   He was lying in his bed with his back to me, the sheets around his stomach as he looked down at his ribs. They were adorned in dark welts that were stark against his pale skin. At my voice he drew the sheets weakly around his shoulders and my searching eyes found the bloodstains.
   ‘What happened? Did you cut yourself on something? Where did you get those bruises?’ I approached slowly.
   ‘I slept with Simon.’ Harry said softly, not looking at me.
   ‘You… what?’
   ‘I slept with Simon.’ He repeated, his voice wavering.
   ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling as though someone was sliding an icy blade through my spine. The shock settled at the pit of my stomach, making me feel distinctly ill.
   ‘I guess it’s only fair,’ Harry continued in a hollow voice that frightened me, his eyes impassive and fixed on the wall. ‘If you lose your virginity to a guy you should bleed. Girls bleed, right?’
   I brushed my hair behind my ears, shifting uncomfortably where I stood. ‘I don’t think girls bleed this much. Has it stopped? The bleeding, I mean.’
   ‘I hope so.’ He moved his arms, hugging them to his chest. I didn’t like the sound of that… but what could I do? It wasn’t as though I could tell him to let me look. With a pang I realised I was incapable of helping him.
   ‘Should we get a doctor?’ I offered. It was the only solution I could think of.
   ‘No.’ He said forcibly. I looked at my feet, a lump rising in my throat. ‘Cam?’ His tone was different again. Hushed and frightened.
   ‘Yeah?’
   ‘It really hurts –’ his voice broke, his thin shoulders rising to allow him to shield himself from me even further. Horrified, I knelt beside the bed, laying a hand lightly on his arm.
   ‘If it hurts that much we should get a doctor, shouldn’t we?’ I whispered, as much to convince him as myself.
   ‘No, please. I know I’m not dying. I want to get up. I want a shower.’ He started to sit up. I drew back quickly.
   ‘Can I help? Do you need help getting up?’ I was beginning to feel as though I might throw up as worry churned in my stomach. Harry still hadn’t looked at me, his eyes were screwed shut and his teeth gritted against the pain as he rose awkwardly into a sitting position.
   ‘Can you… get my pyjamas?’ he forced. I watched the colour rise in his cheeks – don’t be embarrassed, I willed desperately. I don’t care… Just be ok. My eyes lingered on the bruises on his ribs and anger began curling through my insides. I turned away, heading to the chest of drawers. Simon was going to fucking get it.
   I pulled out a pair of Harry’s pyjamas and handed them to him. He looked at them regretfully.
   ‘Can you turn away?’ he asked quietly. I turned instantly, shutting my eyes for good measure.
   I listened to his breathing. It quickened in time with the ruffling of the sheets and the groaning of the bed springs. It took him a long time to get up. His breathing quietened then, almost so I couldn’t hear it. Gradually it slowed to a stop. I heard a sharp, gasping sob. I turned back to him, not prepared for what I saw. He’d pulled the pyjama pants on but he remained shirtless; tears welled in his eyes as he groaned, his hands clutched tightly around his lower stomach.
   ‘Harry,’ I mouthed. His shoulders heaved as he bit back the tears.
   ‘Fuck,’ he whimpered, hanging his head.
   I reached for him, but he shrunk away, buckling further.
   ‘I want to help,’ I begged.
   ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ He said determinedly, slapping a single escaped tear from his cheek with the heel of his palm. He began limping towards the doorway. I glanced briefly at his bed, there was blood on the mattress slip too, but it had dried. So none of it was fresh, that consoled me somewhat.
   Harry leaned against the doorframe, one hand still curled around his navel. I crossed the room and slipped an arm around his waist.
   ‘Lean on me.’ I instructed sternly.
   ‘What are you doing?’
   ‘I’m taking you to the bathroom. Come on,’ I pulled at him gently so that he had no choice but to shift his weight against me. ‘Helping a feather walk would probably feel heavier,’ I mused. ‘Not that feathers walk.’
   The corners of Harry’s mouth deepened into a tiny, weary smile.
   ‘I was going to get up. I didn’t think anyone would come in.’ he explained apologetically.
   ‘I’m glad Iggy found you.’ I said definitely. We were nearing the bathroom at the end of the hall.
   ‘I’ll bet he’s not. He probably won’t ever look at me again.’
   As though we spoke of the devil, Ms Raldon’s voice echoed shrilly upstairs –
   ‘Iggy?! IGNACIUS! GET OFF HIM!’
   ‘I hope he got him one from me.’ I muttered darkly.
   The blood in Harry’s face drained away to be replaced with a sickly pallor even worse than his previous flush.
   ‘Will he tell?’
   ‘What?’
   ‘Iggy! Will he tell Sylvie what I did?’ He’d stopped walking, his limbs freezing up in panic.
   ‘What you –? No, of course he won’t. He doesn’t need a reason to beat up Simon. I’m sure Sylvie will understand.’
   Harry drew a breath and I was glad to see his pupils return to a size that wasn’t shrunk by terror.
   ‘And you didn’t do it. Unless you wanted him to hurt you…?’  I had to know, so I asked.
   ‘I knew it would hurt. But I didn’t think…’ he trailed off and I didn’t press him. It was enough to reassure me. I steered him into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind us, but not before we’d both heard a voice we knew even better than Ms Raldon’s echo forcibly:
   ‘I just felt like it, alright?!’
   ‘See? Iggy didn’t tell.’ I said placatingly to Harry as I let go of him. He only looked more upset, and although I thought that was probably a given considering his situation, I still ventured to ask solemnly, ‘Will Simon tell?’
   ‘No.’ Harry answered. ‘We’ve been doing stuff for awhile. He never wanted anyone to know.’
   This shocked me. Why hadn’t Harry ever told me? How could he trust Simon Wrett of all people and not me? I’d been his best friend for ten years!
   ‘Define “doing stuff”,’ I said, and although I tried not to sound indignant it still came out that way. Harry looked wretched and I regretted saying anything. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said unhappily. ‘It’s none of my business.’
   ‘It’s not that. I should have told you before. But,’ he wrung his hands together, ‘I said “we”. That’s not really right. I did stuff. He didn’t actually, um,’
   A word surfaced in my mind that made me dearly hope Iggy had not held back in punishing Simon. Used. Harry had been used.
   ‘Did he ask you to?’
   ‘No. I did it because he liked it.’ Harry said sadly. Something in the way he looked at me now made me sure he knew how deeply concerned I was that he’d opted to have himself used.
   ‘Did you like it?’
   Harry hesitated, and then said in a very small voice, ‘I liked making him happy.’
   ‘Har-ry,’ I groaned despairingly. ‘That’s not how relationships are supposed to work –’
   ‘I know, ok? I know. I guess I got what was coming to me.’ His words were not bitter, they were accepting.
   I swallowed down my retort and opened the shower door, turning the taps angrily. Water slammed into the tiles, steam rising from it thickly.
   ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Harry said timidly.
   Some people want to do things for others because they care about them, I thought vehemently. I remained silent, adjusting the temperature of the water. When I’d finished I did my best not to glare at him.
   ‘Do you need help taking those off?’ I gestured to his pyjama pants. ‘You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen in a text book.’
   ‘I’m fine. I’m feeling a bit better.’
   I was relieved to see he wasn’t lying. ‘Alright. If you’re not out in half an hour I’m coming to get you.’ I had my hands on my hips, vaguely aware of how much like Ms Raldon I’d just sounded.
   ‘Why?’ he asked apprehensively.
   My motherly instincts faltered. ‘I don’t know. In case you’d passed out in there or something and drowned.’
   ‘You can’t drown in a shower.’ He was still speaking softly, as though afraid of opposing me.
   ‘I’m sure you could if you tried.’ I huffed, reopening the bathroom door.
   ‘I’m not going to kill myself, Cam. And please don’t go down there and harass Simon. It’s not his fault.’
   I curled my lip and rebuked him with the fiercest look I could muster. Harry, ashamed, hurt and exhausted, still managed to find room to look sheepish.
   Not wanting to leave him, but knowing I had no choice, I exited the bathroom.


   Iggy was leaning against the balustrade, arms crossed over his chest, one hand holding a bloodstained cloth against his forearm.
   ‘What happened?’
   ‘I’ve been sent to my room.’ He said grimly.
   ‘No, to your arm.’ I pointed, concerned.
   Iggy grinned. ‘Simon’s got pretty sharp claws for a Bunny.’ He explained. ‘I knocked him out, though.’
   My eyes widened, and Iggy chuckled dryly. ‘Do you want entertaining details or a medical report?’
   I raised my eyebrows as though the answer should be obvious and sat were I stood in the middle of the hall. I was relieved to do so, I felt surprisingly weary. Iggy slid his back down the balustrade, joining me on the floor.
   ‘Well, I went down there and he was in the kitchen. Do you wanna know what he was doing?’
   ‘Not really, but tell me.’
   ‘Hitting on Xeeva.’
   ‘Uh-oh.’ I said heavily. If there’d ever been the off-chance I’d forgive Simon, it was definitely gone now. He’d turned out to be more of an asshole than I’d thought the first time I met him.
   ‘Yeah. He’s lucky he’s not dead. So I grabbed him and dragged him outside –’
   ‘Bodily?’
   ‘Bodily, with him kicking all the way. And he’s probably still outside. I’m the only one strong enough to move him, and I don’t particularly care if he wakes up in the daffodils as opposed to on the couch with a cold flannel on his head.’
   ‘So you just punched him in the head?’ I asked disappointedly.
   ‘Pfft, no. He’s taller than me, he put up a fight. He got my arm. I got his jaw, his eye, his balls and his temple.’
   I considered this for a moment, a little affronted by how plainly he spoke of violence, and then approvingly said, ‘Good.’ Thoughtfully, I added, ‘I’m glad you got his balls.’
   Iggy gave an empty laugh. ‘I didn’t get him hard enough. He’ll still be able to add to the gene pool.’
   ‘I wonder what Harry sees in him.’ I said honestly, knowing it would sound like a silly thing to say, but I was genuinely confused. Iggy’s eyes were dull.
   ‘It makes me sick.’ He muttered.
   ‘What? Gay sex?’
   ‘No – uh, yes. Cam, it looked like he’d as good as raped him.’
   ‘That word did cross my mind. Harry thinks it’s his fault.’
   ‘What?’
   I sighed. ‘Harry said yes, so he thinks he’s to blame. I think he was just craving something from Simon. He told me he’s the only one that’s ever done anything out of the two of them. I suppose he didn’t realise sex was just another way for Simon to use him,’ I faltered, knowing there was more to this but deciding to give myself time to think further before I came to any conclusions.
   Iggy grimaced, but took this new information on board with admirable tolerance… for him. ‘Either Harry’s an idiot then, or he wanted to be used.’
   ‘Who wants to be used?’ I asked exasperatedly, having reached this obstacle in my own thoughts.
   ‘Emotional cripples and masochists.’ Iggy answered evenly.
   ‘Harry’s neither.’ I scoffed.
   ‘Maybe he just didn’t want to feel good himself,’ Iggy suggested.
   ‘He’s not an emotional cripple.’
   ‘No, no, how can I put this? Some people are afraid of feeling good because it’s foreign,’ Iggy explained as though he didn’t really know what he was explaining.
   ‘Harry’s always happy.’ I said, nonplussed.
   ‘Cam, I mean coming and stuff,’ he grumbled awkwardly.
   ‘What –? Oh. Yeah, I guess that’s true. But usually being afraid of that is based in issues with self control and not being able to let yourself go. Harry’s not that sort of person, if something feels right he does it.’ Iggy eyed me warningly, ready to interject if I launched into one of my spiels concerning the psyche and sex. ‘Anyway, he’s a boy, so it’s not like he wouldn’t be used to coming.’
   ‘That’s a bit of a gross generalisation. Not all boys jerk off.’ Iggy said, affronted.
   ‘As funny as that conversation could be it’s not really the point. Harry’s worried you’re not going to look at him anymore.’
   ‘That’s a stupid thing to be worried about. I didn’t see him having sex with Simon, the worst thing I’ve got to un-see is the empty rubber packet – or,’ his shoulders slumped, ‘his face. I’ve never seen him like that.’
   ‘Me neither.’ I felt the cold press into me again. Arguing with Iggy as though all was right with the world had warded it away. Iggy’s expression told me he was feeling something similar.
   ‘Is he in the shower?’ he asked, his ears pricking as he listened to the running water.
   ‘Yeah. Where’s Xeeva?’
   Iggy’s countenance changed dramatically. ‘Downstairs.’ He said dreamily. ‘You’ll never guess what she did.’
   I raised my eyebrows. Sure enough he needed no further prompting to elaborate.
   ‘She just stood there when I grabbed Simon, cool as can be. She didn’t even say anything when I took him outside and beat him up. She came to watch. As far as she knows I did it because I was jealous Simon was flirting with her… Which means she let me defend her honour – which means some part of her, at least, likes me.’ He finished triumphantly.
   ‘You over-analyse like a girl.’ I mocked. He looked stung. ‘She probably just doesn’t mind the odd gore, like a fourth-world Roman.’
   ‘Can’t something happy happen today?’ Iggy demanded irritably.
   ‘She’s harder to read than Harry. She could run you through with a sword and I still wouldn’t know whether or not she actually hated you.’
   ‘A sword would mean she loved me ’cause it’d be quick.’ Iggy said glumly. ‘Only Xeeva wouldn’t use a sword, she’d –’
   Just what colourful method of murder Iggy supposed Xeeva would utilize, I would never know, because at that moment the bathroom door opened. Harry was wrapped in two towels, one around his hips and the other draped over his shoulders obscuring the bruises on his ribs. He was holding his pyjama pants against his chest. He looked unwell.
   ‘Hey gaybo,’ Iggy said kindly. ‘How are you feeling?’
   ‘Um. Not too good.’ Harry admitted shyly. Iggy didn’t look as though this came as any surprise to him.
   ‘You’d better get good. I’m not changing your sheets for you.’
   ‘Iggy!’ I hissed.
   ‘What? I don’t know how to handle this. I’m distressed!’ he cried. I didn’t chastise him further because despite the theatrics he appeared to be telling the truth.
   ‘What happened to your arm?’ Harry asked, unaffected by Iggy’s jeering.
   ‘Simon took a swipe at me.’ Iggy answered proudly.
   Harry’s eyes lingered on the blood. ‘Iggy, I’m sorry,’ he turned away, pressing his fingers to his lips as his shoulders started to shake. Iggy and I looked at each other, one slightly more alarmed than the other.
   Iggy stood. ‘Harry, I’m gonna get you something for those bruises,’ then he glanced imploringly at me and fled.
   I got up slowly, my limbs heavy, and walked over to Harry. I comfortingly placed my hands on his arms and bent my face close to his.
   ‘I don’t know where else to touch you that won’t hurt, but you should know I’d like to hug you.’
   ‘Actually, m-my arms hurt from… h-holding myself up,’ he managed between sobs. I hastily removed my hands. ‘Simon’s arsenal of… positions was rather lim-limited. That’s why I’m bruised, he held me… too tight.’ He gave a fluttery little laugh and a fresh bout of tears rolled down his cheeks.
   ‘Come on,’ I held his hand, leading him back to his room.
   ‘I’m such an idiot,’ he sobbed. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’
   ‘You can’t think like that,’ I said seriously, shutting the door of his room and heading for his bed. I started stripping the sheets. ‘Everyone knows the first time sucks no matter what. Perhaps yours was a worse, but there’ll be other first times with other slightly nicer boys, and that’s what counts.’
   Harry laughed again, sniffling. ‘You make it sound like a lovely clichéd little drama.’
   ‘That’s all life is.’ I said blearily. I straightened up, looking at him. ‘Just promise me you’ll never let anyone hurt you like this again.’
   Harry wiped his tears away with his hand. ‘I don’t know if I can.’ He laid the hand over his eyes.
   I didn’t know what to say.


   I didn’t know what to say for much of the remainder of the evening. You know that Harry eventually ended up lying across my lap, while I held the ice-pack kindly provided by Iggy against his bruises. The crying resumed off and on, and troubled me further with each occurrence. I think this was because it was accompanied by his self-demeaning comments, and every time he cried it was for a different reason, a different facet of the mistake he’d made. I could only listen, offer protests I knew he didn’t care about and hold him. It wasn’t enough.
   All at once he stopped and said he wanted to go to sleep. He made me promise to tell Ms Raldon he wasn’t coming to dinner because he was sick. He stayed in his room all of the following day, refusing to eat anything. The greatest amount of animation anyone received from him was when Ms Raldon suggested she take him to the doctor to find out what was wrong. He assured her he would be fine by the next morning and, seemingly, he was.
   I still worry about the fact that he never properly talked about it, but it’s sunk beneath the surface now, irretrievable. I’ve asked, and he’s shrugged it away, smiling and saying it was a stupid thing to do. He never once blamed Simon. Although, he didn’t seem to mind that Simon’s eye looked as though the swelling would never go down.
   I’m amused by the fact this whole story has been told without Simon actually being in it. I prefer it that way. If you want to know details such as: ‘What did he look like?’ and ‘Was he abused as a toddler or something is that why he was such a prick?’  I guess I could elaborate.
   The answer to the first question: Simon was very handsome in a glossy bad-boy kind of way. He was tall and fit; he had fair skin, straw-coloured wavy hair and a smattering of similarly coloured freckles across his nose and under his eyes. His eyes blatantly betrayed his true colours: they were blue-grey, and he would watch you like you were something to be eaten regardless of who you were.
   The answer to the second question: No. He’d been raised by his uncle who had died of a heart attack, and Simon never appeared to be mourning his passing. He’d come to the orphanage five months prior to these events and I distrusted him right from the moment he stepped through the doorway and winked at me.
   Simon loved attention. He used his flawless skills for reading people to determine who was useful to him and who was not. If you quietly hated him as Iggy and I did, he left you alone, acting as though you didn’t exist. But Harry’s eyes couldn’t contain his feelings and Simon revelled in them. He would bring his face close to Harry’s when he talked to him, laugh lightly through their conversation, and touch his hand briefly with his own. Harry, just as competent when it came to reading people, was blinded by Simon’s dashing smiles and his flattery, but whenever Harry was elsewhere, Simon started on Xeeva.
   A less-reactive target, Xeeva merely watched him with stoic eyes when he talked to her. He was not put off by this, and there were countless times when his gaze roamed shamelessly over her body while Iggy glowered in the background. I once asked Xeeva why she put up with it, but as it turned out she had absolutely no idea Simon was lining her up. She’d been annoyed by his apparent interest in her, but other than that completely unaware he was attracted to her.
   She still doesn’t realise Iggy likes her, which would be funny if he hadn’t held that particular torch for four whole years now.
   Anyway, somewhere along the way the physicality started between Simon and Harry. There was never a doubt in my mind as to who was responsible for the first move. You’ve been informed of what it led to.
   Afterwards Simon ignored Harry, clearly feeling as though he'd served his purpose, but he regarded Iggy with newfound cold apprehension, and one afternoon about a week after he’d slept with Harry, he asked Iggy curiously: ‘So did you want him or something? Is that it?’
   I was sitting on the couch, but Simon looked past me, his gaze fixed on Iggy who was seated on the floor doodling on his homework sheet.
   ‘No.’ Iggy replied calmly. ‘He’s my friend.’
   ‘And what about Xeeva? Is she your friend?’
   Iggy never moved an inch, his eyes unwavering on the pencil. ‘Yes.’ He said.
   I was now able to clearly imagine what it would have been like to witness him drag Simon outside. Xeeva told me his face had looked like a statue, composed and unfeeling. Simon appeared to realise this too, and he said frankly: ‘You’re a lot stronger than you look. It’s because you’re pure, I suppose. Congratulations, your ancestors built our infrastructure with their colourful hands.’ He laughed.
   Iggy shut his eyes, frowning slightly.
   ‘Hey,’ I directed forcefully at Simon. ‘Fuck off unless you want your other eye black too.’
   ‘He won’t do it.’ Simon shrugged. Iggy looked away, his expression revealing that Simon was right.
   ‘Perhaps, he’s too decent sometimes. I, however, haven’t had my chance to get you back yet.’
   ‘You really are an incestuous lot, were you in love with Harry too?’ Simon demanded.
   ‘Sure, but not in a way you’d ever understand.’ I said gravely. Simon rolled his eyes.
   ‘I can’t wait to get out of this madhouse.’ He muttered, and left.
   Three weeks later he was gone. Adopted by a couple charmed by his false sweetness; I think of them sometimes, and dearly hope for their sake he left home when he turned eighteen.
   So that’s the end of it. Harry’s alright, but the issue remains undealt with, boxed up inside him somewhere. I have no doubt that box is wreaking havoc with something important, but I’m yet to see just what.
   I guess that’s what’s funny about things like this, you move on even though at the time you don’t think you will. It falls in place behind you, but you’ll be bound to trip on it whenever you find yourself walking in circles.
   I’m afraid to think of what I’d do if I ever saw Simon again.
   Unfortunately it’s something I’ve always struggled to accept: some people truly are horrible, and for some unfathomable reason those who are obliging rarely see them coming.