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“Is all this hassle really necessary? Can’t you just leave me alone to rot in the hole under the prison that you worked oh so hard to throw me into? Or are the two life sentences and sixty years not enough?” Simon asks with a flourish of his wrist as soon as the door to the visitors room opens, the heavy chains binding his wrists together clacking against the ones locking him in place. Behind him, the armored guard jumps slightly. Simon scowls as he puts his hands in his lap slowly, the chains clanking together lamely.
“I mean, after all. I killed a foreign head of state. Who knows what I can do to a helpless little defense attorney like you. You’re better off on the other side of the glass.” Or better yet, fucking off compleatly and leaving me alone. God knows neither of us want to be here.
“Oh, come on now, you’re not half as scary as you pretend to be. And for that part that's left? Well, that’s why I’ve got good old Willy-boy here with me. I trust him with my life.” Raymond Shields says with an easy smile, a folding chair tucked haphazardly under one arm, and a briefcase in hand as he tips his hat in greeting.
“Easy for you to say, you're not the reason he turned the safety off of his gun.” Behind him, the guard - Willy, according to Shields - gasps as Simon hears the sound of Willy moving around. Then Shields suddenly drops the folding chair with a clatter as his hands go flying up, briefcase still in hand.
“Woah there, calm down buddy, there's no need to-”
“How do you know I did that?!” Willy barks at the back of Simons head, as he gesticulates wildly enough, to the point that it's clearly audible in his voice.
“I heard the safety click as you walked in-” Simon says slowly, trying to placate the man he cannot see who is, most likely, pointing a loaded gun directly at his skull. “- That, your footsteps, and the door were the only sounds heard before Shields got here and started blabbering.”
It’s hard to ignore threats as blatant as that. The sentiment was left unsaid.
For a tense moment, nobody says anything, and Simon is left to guess at his fate through the reflection in Shields's face, as he half expects to be painted across the inside of the bullet proof glass, based purely off of the naked fear on Shields’s face.
At least if you're dead you won't have to eat anymore of the mess halls sorry excuse for food. Or dodge that woman's dessert.
Behind him, Simon hears more shuffling of fabric as the guard - presumably, - returns his service weapon to his holster, as Shields finally sighs and drops his arms with an awkward smile.
“Gee, I'm glad that little snafu ended when it did. . . My wrist was starting to get sore.” Shields laughs rather lamely, as he rubs at the wrist that was holding the briefcase aloft, his normally easy going smile tight around the eyes.
“Like I said, is all this hassle needed? I’m sure the guard here...” Simon carefully avoids the man's name, just in case he’s too stupid to realize Shields said it and he actually shoots Simon this time for knowing more than he should. “...would feel much better, if you were safely on the other side of the glass where I can’t even breathe the same air as you.”
“Sorry, but no can do, buckaroo. I’ve got some juicy gifts to give to you, granted you can pretend that you don’t hate me for long enough.” Shields laughs gallantly as he sets the briefcase down and fiddles with the chair, struggling to unfold something so simple that even a child can operate it.
“I don’t hate you, I barely even think of you anymore. Why am I, as the kids say, living in your head rent free?” Simon rolls his eyes at Shields’s blatant pride in completing the simple task of sitting down while only making a minor fool of himself. Shields's face grows rather serious as he pointedly makes eye contact with Simon.
“As the legal representative of the late Horace Knightley, due to his lack of surviving kin. . . I ended up in possession of his entire life.” Shields says, deadly serious, his words frightening with lack of his usual cheer. Simon swallows dryly against the rising tide of confectionaries and bile in the back of his throat.
“I-It’s been eight years . . . Why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie?” Why are you doing this to me now? After all this time? His voice raw with questions left unsaid, but it was understood nevertheless.
“Been a crazy few years in the legal world I’m afraid. . . I've only just got around to sorting through his life. Found some things that might be of interest to you.” Shields says with a shrug, as he clicks open the briefcase.
Simon’s eyes dart around the room, desperate to find anything to look at that isn’t Shields, or the last earthly remnants of the best friend he loved to hate and hated to love for eighteen long years. His gaze is unable to find respite, lest it drifts back, to the pile of memories he is determined to continue ignoring. A stream of harsh laughter slips past Simon's numb lips.
“Full offense, but you don’t really know me at all. How can you be so sure that I’d even care about whatever bullshit that idiot collected in his sorry excuse of a life?” The raw terror bubbling in the back of his throat masked behind an acidic barb, targeted against the long dead.
“He had a lot of photographs. Looks like he was trying to get into scrapbooking too, at least that's what I think. Would explain all the funny scissors and stickers. Just figured that it’d be better appreciated by one of the popular subjects of the photos, rather than just gathering dust in my attic. Can’t give you the scissors though, Willyboy here made sure of that.” As he speaks, Shields pulls out an old, beat up photo album, drawing Simon’s gaze.
The corners of the once-white vinyl was yellowed from age, and peeling away from the structural cardboard in the center. The whole thing is perforated with tiny holes, like a kid took to the vinyl with a mechanical pencil during a particularly boring lesson. Across the front in scratched, faded sharpie in a childish hand the words Simon Keyes complete with sunbleached, scratched up, and peeling horse and monkey stickers.
“What use do I have for anything that Oaf cared about? I don’t want to inherit anyone’s sick pornography collection. Much less a chess themed one.” He can barely hear the sound of his own voice over the blood rushing in his ears, his eyes locked onto the handwriting of a boy he once knew, spelling out his name.
Shields’s lips quirk, as he raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I don’t need to know what the two of you got up to in your free time, I just think we should take a stroll down memory lane. Ya know, visit an old mutual friend in much need of some company.”
“He’s not your friend. . .” Simon hears his own voice more than he consciously decides to say something.
“Pardon?” Shields’s voice is distant and distorted, like he’s underwater.
“I said, he’s not-- He wasn’t your friend.”
“Why do you reckon that?”
“Youre just some fucking lawyer, that he hired to do the impossible and try and get him off scot free. You only met him twice!” An arent burst of crackling giggles bubble up through the bile threatening to drown him in sweet acidity.
“Perhaps, but I’m not the one who signed his life away, with the ringing of a bell.” Shields’s voice is soft and low, audible pity almost dripping off his lips.
Simon’s head flies back like he’s been struck, iron blooming in his mouth as his teeth pierce the flesh of his tongue. The taste matching the cold steel constrictor tightening round his body. Behind him, the idiotic guard’s shoes squeak against the floor as his armor rustles against cloth and his breath.
“Do you think you're telling me something I don’t already know? I’m the one who spent countless nights in his spare room fantasizing about smothering him in his sleep! I know what I fucking did! You don’t have to remind me of my mist-!” His hysteric raving cut off by a bang, the bullet proof glass in front of him spiderwebbing, as everything is painted with a red mist.
I hope this doesn’t ruin Knightley’s photos. It would be a shame to ruin his life one last time.
Then the pain kicks in, a bone-deep aching, in his shoulder as something warm and wet begins making its way down his body. All he can do is stare at that, now bloodied, photo album, his blood now starting to stain all of those childish stickers.
He must have made this when you went missing. . .
Beside him, someone starts yelling. He sluggishly blinks, now that person is bent over him, pushing something blue against his shoulder, yet he can’t bring himself to look away from Knightley’s child self’s handwriting.
He would have left with you if you told him. Why didn’t you?
He would have done anything for you then.
He blinks again.
The person hovering over him disappeared, but the blue thing remains. He tries to reach forward for Knightley’s photo album but something heavy is keeping his arm down. He tries the other arm.
Suddenly, there’s screaming. It takes a moment for him to realize that it’s him. The screams trail off into whimpers. Behind him, someone is painfully saying something, but he just can’t make out the words.
He tries to ask someone to wipe down the book, so that Knightley doesn’t get upset, but all that comes out is whimpering moans. The voice behind him continues talking in the almost calm of someone trying very hard to keep it together, mostly succeeding.
He blinks again.
The entire room has disappeared, and he finds himself on his back looking up, at a drop ceiling with too bright fluorescent lights as he’s being moved. Looking further upwards, he can just barely make out a man, with yellow hair and a serious expression moving in time with him. He tries to reach up for the man, but something around his wrist catches. His vision blurs even further, obstructing the man's face entirely from view.
“ Horace? You’re back? . . . Why are you-” He shakes his head and sniffles.
“I-I’m so sorry I-I didn’t kn- I was wrong. I was so horribly wrong and then you died, but you're back now and-and-and I’m so sorry.” With this, the dams break and he begins to shiver and sob on the stretcher.
Above him, Horace starts saying something, but the specifics of what is lost to the sound of blood rushing in his ears and a high pitched ringing. Simon watches as someone reaches past Horace with a needle filled with a medication of some sort. Before he could react, he watches as the needle is stuck into the flesh of his thigh. Then the ringing in his ears grows louder, as Horace and the ceiling above him fade to black and he sinks into a sea of static-y unconsciousness.
---
Simon awakens to the sound of a rhythmic beeping. Groaning, he rubs his face and tries to sit up.
A hot wave of agony radiates out from his shoulder as he cries out in pain, his body going limp as the beeping speeds up significantly.
So we’re in the hospital.
A rush of footsteps could be heard outside the door, followed by said door being unlocked and then thrown open, as a nurse with a bright green mullet and black roots walks in. He’s tall, well built, and has tattoos blanketing his arms continuing up under his blue scrubs. His hands hover over Simon, as he looks down at him with worry and a sense of professional care in his eyes.
“Easy, easy there, Mr. Keyes. You’re at the Hotti Clinic downtown. You’ve been shot in the shoulder in an officer involved shooting, at the prison. You've been brought here for treatment which you've already gotten while you were unconscious. Now we’re just monitoring you overnight.” The nurse explains, as he fusses with Simon’s shoulder wrappings. It’s at this point that Simon notices the handcuff wrapped around the wrist on his injured side.
“How am I supposed to piss if I can't get up on my own?” His voice was strangely hoarse as he coughs into his free hand.
“Well, just push the call button, it’ll alert us at the nurse station that you require assistance. One of us will then bring one of the officers on guard, to unlock your handcuff and escort you to the bathroom.” The nurse - Stanley, according to the badge - replies cordially, stepping back from Simon to type at the computer.
“Jesus, all that just to take a leak?”
Stanley glances at Simon and frowns. “I know, it’s not ideal, Mr Keyes but it is hospital policy for whenever we have to treat a prisoner. Be glad that they don’t deem you a danger to yourself or others, otherwise, we’d have to cuff both your wrists, and ankles to the bed.” He shivers and shakes his head, as if trying to escape the thought.
“No need to threaten me, I wasn’t planning on doing anything.” His head falls back on the pillow as his eyes close, exhaustion suddenly catching up to him, despite the fact he was just asleep for an unknown amount of time.
Unconscious, not asleep. And an unknown amount of that unknown time was spent potentially under anesthesia for whatever treatment he's not explaining to you. Who knows what happened to you while you were out.
Simon frowns and shakes his head.
“There was another man with me when I-, when, I-” his voice suddenly gets caught in his throat and he has to cough into his fist. “- before. There was a man with me before. Is he here as well?” His question sounds pathetic. Even to him.
Why are you even asking? We don’t care.
Stanley shakes his head. “You were the only patient brought in from the incident at the prison, but you did have someone visit you, while you were asleep. Said his name is Raymond Shields. Left a binder or something for you, here. I think it was there when you got shot, due to the fact it was covered in blood. Restrictions means I had to make Mr. Shields wash it, before he was allowed to bring it in. I can get it for you now, if you want?”
Mortifyingly, at the mere thought of the photo album, his heart rate speeds up on the monitor. Stanley was, at least, kind enough to not comment on this.
“Y-yeah, sure. Why not.” Simon laughs humorlessly, as he watches Stanley fetch the book from the chair, with growing apprehension in his gut.
“While I’m here, would you like any water, or extra blankets?” Stanley says with an easy smile, passing the album to Simon easily. Like looking at the damn thing doesn’t make his head start to ache and his stomach fall.
It doesn’t for him. Lucky prick.
“N-no. Just this.” He stares blankly at the cover, the ancient stickers that once decorated the front have unfortunately been peeled off, revealing shadows of unyellowed vinyl where they once stood. Knightley’s handwriting on the front is lighter than the last time he saw the thing too.
I guess whatever Shields used to clean it must have been harsh on the ink.
The longer he stares at the cover, the worse that sinking feeling gets, until he’s forced to open the damn thing, lest he pass out and draw the ire of the nursing staff, and ends up chained to the bed even more.
The first page in the thing is a note, not written in Knightley’s hand, written on the back of a business card for some local law agency.
Figured you’d need some legal advice pretty soon, for the police brutality case you’re the victim of. I’d offer my own services, but my schedule's currently full. Figure you’d want the next best thing. Just tell Trucy, that Uncle Raymond sent ya, they’ll help you right out.
- Raymond Shields
Simon scoffs at this, and tosses the business card to the floor, having no intentions to go to court about any of this. After all, he’d never be able to enjoy the winnings of the case behind bars, should he even win.
Finally, with no more distractions to forestall him, Simon locks eyes with the first page of the binder, and sees his missing poster for the first time.
The photo of him is cropped from a larger one, Knightley’s shoulder and part of his face are still clearly visible in the poster. Based on the sparklers clutched in his hand, it must have been taken at one of the New Years celebrations at the orphanage after Rebecca moved in.
He doesn’t remember posing for this photo, but he remembers when he dropped soy sauce on that shirt, and got that stain on the neck line. He doesn’t remember how Knightley’s shirt needed to be patched on the shoulder, but he knows how he got that scar on his cheekbone, from climbing to the top of the swing set and falling off of it, when Roland yelled at him from the window.
He struggles to swallow the mouthful of bile, as he quickly flips past the missing persons, only to be faced with one of his childhood drawings. It’s a simple thing, barely coherent, really. - He never really was skilled in that way. - It was more of a colorful scribble of nothing, than of a monkey,but there it was. Labeled in Knightley’s childhood hand, with the words “ Simon’s last drawing.”
At the bottom corner, the same hand had also written, “Please come back, I’m sorry.”
He flips the page again, this time he is greeted by a page filled with photos, of him and Knightley. He flips the page to avoid looking at the face of his best friend. More photos of the two of them.
Flipping the page again, the pictures of the two of them playing chess together, in the window nook at the orphanage, greet him. Flipping the page again, and they’re in their halloween costumes, always a matched pair. Knightley’s insistence.
Turningthe page again, and again, and again. He watches, as the two of them age in reverse, from the time that he disappeared, to the time that the two of them appeared.
You two were found together, spent every waking hour together, and shared a room.
A drop of water appears on the plastic protecting the photos. Then two, three, four, the droplets keep appearing and rolling down the page. It takes an embarrassingly long time to realize that it’s his tears and even longer to register his great heaving sobs. The only thing that clues him in on those sounds being his own are the sparks of pain from his shoulder breaking through the haze of his medicated anguish.
All he ever wanted was his friend.
He flips to the last page of the album, utterly desperate to avoid the pages of Knightley’s childhood self, blissfully unaware of what horrible things the boy next to him is planning for him. Unaware of what depravities lay in Simon’s heart.
He would have done anything for you till the end.
Instead, he finds his orphanage intake paperwork. The words illegible through his hysteric tears, though he can just barely make out the intake photographs. His fingernails find purchase in the meaty parts of his cheeks as he sees a half frozen Horace Knightley curled around his childhood self, in front of a fireplace.
And you still lead him to his death.
With a guttural scream, Simon throws the photo album against the wall opposite his bed, sending its carefully curated contents scattering across the room. Ruining yet more of Knightley’s life in his careless actions, he digs his fingernails further into his flesh.
What a piece of work we are.