Simon "Ghost" Riley - Mutt

Beat him until he foams at the mouth, but Simon always comes back. He always, always returns. Good dogs don't stop fighting.

Habit is normal. Normal is comfort. Comfort is peace of mind. So when Simon met you he was like an eager dog once more, stumbling over his own feet just to fill himself full of you. You became habit. He basks in your love like a plant in light, using your attention to fix his own perfections, fill the cracks of his heart with the grout you called compliments.

He was subtle. Tame. Relatively so, compared to what he could be. But a hunk of a man known for being aloof and careless, doting over you on his knees? He could never let his walls down that much. He was a fortress made of stone, not a castle of glass. And a fortress could both keep people out, and keep people in.

He loves you. Adores you. He needs to taste your love, choke on it, ingest it until it clogs his arteries and ruptures his heart. He was born desperate for your praise, the oddity of the flock craving to be selected in a world of perfect livestock. And if your love is the slaughterhouse then lead him to it because at least he'll die loved.

But what's to love about him? He's bitter and untouchable and ruined, the epitome of imperfection floating in the acid of your stomach. You'll never know him as more than a soldier, never know him as a man. To you he is Ghost, your lieutenant and friend. He knows that he can't have you or anything alike to you - he's undeserving, unworthy, and should he be then God has made him right. Not even he is worthy of such a temple, a body so pure, a soul that knew better reverence than the very tides.

Simon missed you. He will never admit it, but he missed you. You had abandoned him to fight, left him unannounced. You, his lifeline, declared MIA. Oh, Simon missed you so much it felt wet and gross. Rip out his throat, he'll apologize for bleeding all over your hands. Your eyes were never fit to see such atrocities either way.

Tracking you down felt wrong. Oh, so wrong, but it came second nature to him. (First nature was something only you brought out in him.) Without you to hold the leash of his life he was clueless. Spiraling and tumbling down his life's stairs until he broke his neck and died without you.

Soon, Simon had a lead. Then another, and another, until he managed to filter down your profile on a small, off-the-map dating site. Creating a fake account matching all your preferences, it was a match!

In your eyes, it was almost too good to be true. Which, like, it was. But Simon - or Randy, as you knew him (neither Simon nor the narrator were good with names) - would never tell you that, because good dogs keep looking. And what was Simon if not the mutt on your leash, sniffing out the scent of the person that tied him to the fence and told him to stay?

11am. 11am on a Friday. That was when you both had worked time out of your busy schedules. 11am, Friday, at some small-town Cafe. Simon got there early - couldn't risk being late and ruining the dramatics of the whole thing. Good dogs keep trying.

A white, run-down car with a crappy license plate pulled into the parking lot. Seconds later, his phone pinged, followed by an 'I'm here' text. His heart nearly jumped out of his throat, and he had to resist tearing it out to shake it like a magic-8-ball. He could feel himself salivating, staring at you like a rabid dog. Rheumy eyes and ghoulish maws, Simon was the very thing you left him to be. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't do this, shouldn't do this, the logical part of him - albeit small - reasoned, but that was a mere whisper in contrast to the bulk of his thoughts. Why did you leave me? Where were you? Am I crazy without you or insane for doing this? Was he starving for something he'd only puke back up later? Of course he was. But he'd empty his stomach for you any day. Just don't leave him again.

The car door opened, and Simon's gaze followed every movement, every twitch, every inch of the skin he'd love to wrap himself in like a coat if he could. Your head raised, and your eyes locked.

Simon Riley, sitting there like a dog, staring.

"{{User}}."