Simon Ghost Riley

The flat was a shithole, but it was all Simon could afford.

After everything that happened with Task Force 141, he'd been erased from every military record that proved he existed. As far as the government was concerned, Lieutenant Simon Riley had never been born.

There was no pension, no support, and nobody left to give a damn about what happened to him. He'd taken what little money he had saved and rented a cheap flat in London, far enough away from his old life that nobody would recognize him.

That had been almost a year ago. Since then, Simon had barely left the flat unless he needed food, cigarettes, or another bottle of whiskey.

The place smelled like stale alcohol and dirty laundry. Empty bottles covered the coffee table, dishes filled the sink, and the curtains stayed closed most days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd properly cleaned anything, including himself.

He knew he needed help. A doctor, a therapist, someone who could explain why his head was so fucked. But therapy cost money he didn't have, and even if he could afford it, he wasn't interested in sitting across from some stranger and talking about everything and everyone he'd lost.

Besides, he already talked to the lads plenty...

Price was usually the first to appear. Sometimes he'd be standing near the kitchen, arms crossed, looking at Simon like he'd just failed an inspection. Gaz preferred sitting in the armchair beside the television, while Johnny always seemed to find a spot right next to him on the couch.

None of them were real, of course. Simon knew that. He'd watched them die, and no amount of drinking would change that. Still, knowing they weren't real didn't make their voices any quieter.

That evening, Simon was sprawled across the couch in an old shirt and sweatpants, watching some rubbish reality show about rich people arguing over nothing. A half-empty bottle of whiskey rested between his thighs, and another sat on the floor beside him. He hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, but the alcohol helped settle the shaking in his hands.

"Look at the state of you, Lieutenant."

Simon didn't bother looking toward the kitchen, he already knew who it was.

"Used to be a bloody good soldier," Price continued, shaking his head. "Now look at you. Can't even keep yourself clean. I'm disappointed in you, son."

"Fuck off," Simon muttered, taking another drink.

Gaz laughed from the armchair, the gaping bullet wound in his forehead hard to miss as blood stained his skin. "That's all you've got to say? You got me killed, remember? Made it out yourself, though. Funny how that works."

Simon's grip tightened around the bottle. He kept his eyes on the television, trying to focus on the crappy reality show. He'd heard these accusations hundreds of times, but they still hurt just as badly.

Then Johnny spoke...

"We could've been happy, Si."

Simon went still.

Johnny was sitting beside him, looking almost exactly how Simon remembered him. Same stupid haircut, same blue eyes, same little smirk that used to drive him mad. Except there was blood on his shirt, and the side of his head was covered in it with a bullet hole.

"Could've gotten ourselves a wee place somewhere nice," Johnny continued quietly. "Just the two of us. You promised we'd talk about it after everything was over, remember?"

Simon swallowed hard.

"Johnny, stop."

The hallucination didn't stop.

"Could've had a dog, maybe. You always said you hated the idea, but I reckon you'd have loved it." Johnny's smile faded. "Could've had a whole life together if you hadn't fucked everything up."

"Shut up."

"You let me die, Simon. You know that, aye?"

"I said shut up!"

His voice came out louder than he'd intended, thick and slurred from the whiskey, before he aggressively threw the bottle toward the television, watching it just barely miss and smash against the wall instead, spilling what remained onto the carpet.

"All of you, just shut the fuck up! You're dead! You're all fuckin' dead, so why can't you just leave me alone?"

The flat went quiet apart from the television.

Simon sat there breathing heavily, his eyes burning with tears. He rubbed both hands over his face, trying to stop himself from crying again. He was so fucking tired of it. Every night was the same. He drank until he couldn't think straight, cried over people who weren't coming back, and eventually passed out somewhere in the flat.

He was about to reach for another bottle when someone knocked on the front door.

Simon frowned. Nobody ever visited him. He didn't have friends, and he hadn't spoken to his landlord in weeks?

"Fuck's sake," he grumbled.

He dragged himself off the couch, nearly stumbling over an empty bottle. His head spun as he made his way down the short hallway, using the wall to keep himself steady.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'."

He pulled the door open without checking who it was, already prepared to tell whoever had disturbed him to piss off.

A stranger, standing on the other side. He didn't know who they were or what they wanted, but he didn't particularly care...

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