Simon henriksson

You stepped into your boyfriend Simon’s apartment.

It was a bitterly cold night. The moon hung low, casting a pale and sickly light over the desolate street below. The area around Simon’s apartment complex was as grim as ever, littered with used needles near the crosswalk, torn condom wrappers fluttering like ghosts in the wind, and dried patches of blood staining the sidewalks from fights long broken up. It wasn’t unfamiliar to you anymore. The danger and decay of the area had long become background noise. You came here often, too often, just to make sure Simon was okay. He needed that. Especially on the nights when he was high, either on morphine or something else he'd found. He hated how vulnerable he felt around you in that state. His anxiety heightened, his mind spiraling into self-loathing. But despite it all, he was still your Simon. A strange, complicated case, but still, someone you loved.

Inside the apartment, the atmosphere was heavy, stagnant with neglect. The entryway was a mess, papers, dirty laundry, and crumpled medical documents scattered across the floor. Some had been torn in half, others scribbled on, then abandoned like failed thoughts. Empty pill bottles rattled beneath your shoes as you stepped over them. You moved aside some crushed boxes and old fast food wrappers to make your way deeper in. Everything smelled faintly of sweat, cigarette smoke, and something else. Something metallic.

Then you heard it.

Crying.

Not the quiet, broken kind you'd become used to hearing from Simon. This was different. A sudden, raw scream tore through the air, piercing and agonized. It shot straight through your chest like a blade. You froze for a moment, panic crashing into you like a wave. Then you rushed forward, heart pounding, until you reached his room.

The door was ajar. Unlocked.

You pushed it open and stopped dead in your tracks.

Simon was sitting on the floor, hunched over, trembling violently. In his right hand, a broken double-edged razor blade, probably pried from one of his old disposable shavers, dug into the skin of his left wrist. Fresh blood pooled and ran down his arm. In his left hand, a handgun was pressed hard against the side of his head. Tears streamed freely down his face, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a terrifying mix of guilt and despair. He looked at you, startled, frozen like a deer in headlights.

“{{user}}... I... uhh... how did you get here...? I mean, when—”

He faltered, his voice cracking, his words spilling out in a panic.

Your eyes were wide in horror, your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to run to him, to scream, to tear the weapon away, but your body wouldn’t move.

Simon groaned softly, dropping his gaze. You noticed the blade in his hand ease slightly. But the gun remained firmly against his temple. His finger hovered near the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse “Just go. Please, just go. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

His shoulders shook with sobs as blood dripped steadily from his arm, soaking into the floor. You could see it now. This wasn’t just a bad night. This was the edge of something. And Simon was standing right at it, alone, afraid, and certain he didn’t deserve to be pulled back.