6AN: So... quite the episode, eh? I guess the events of 2x04 have made my other story somewhat null and void. I don't really write stories that exist outside the realm of the show and as such, I've started a new one because I'm obviously far too obsessed with this show to just stop writing altogether.
This kind of goes without saying, but *spoilers for 2x04*
Enjoy!
Alisha woke for the third night in a row in Simon's empty underground flat. The harshly bright overhead lights were motion sensitive, and as she pushed herself up in bed, they flickered into life, throwing her loneliness into the harsh reality of day. She pulled one of the spare pillows into her chest and sat like that for a while. Just sitting. She couldn't face going outside; all of her friends kept looking at her, watching her. They could tell something was wrong, but had no clue what it was. And she, in turn, couldn't tell them. So she had, for the past three days since Simon's death, been operating only half in the world. She went through the motions of her life, but all the motivation was gone.
The first night that she slept alone in there had been the night of Simon's death. She had come down to find his place looking just as it had when she left. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but she hadn't expected nothing to have changed at all. The place still looked as if he might turn the corner at any moment to greet her. She had been hoping for some kind of change, something to signal that he really had left for good. Maybe she had been hoping to find a message or note from him of some kind. But she found nothing. As she roamed the wall lined with pictures, her heart constricted when she noticed that every single one of the clocks now read: '00:00:00:00'. She began inspecting the pictures one by one, desperate to find a photo of something that hadn't happened yet, something to indicate that he was still needed in this time.
And finally, she found one. One single photo of a future event: her, and a version of Simon who looked like a remarkable cross between her Simon and the present one, in Vegas. She touched the photo gently with her fingers, but she couldn't bring herself to look at it for very long. She didn't want to think about the current Simon. He wasn't the man she loved. And then, suddenly, she felt a massive rush of anger towards him. Her Simon had caused her to fall in love with him, trust him, open her eyes to a whole future that she might be able to have with someone she was finally able to touch, when all along he had known that he had only a week until his death. And he knew that he would be leaving her alone, heartbroken, and burdened with secrets she was unable to share. These facts made her livid and she thought for a moment that she might hate him just as much as she loved him.
It has to be like this. Why did it? Why couldn't he have rescued all of them off the meat hooks minutes earlier? Why couldn't he have attacked the video-game lunatic instead of just standing there like a human shield? Christ, why didn't he just get a bullet-proof jacket? In face of all these other options, the only answer Alisha was left with is that he believed he had to die. The thought made her so angry that she wanted to scream at him, yell at him, hit him. And then, the cold reality grasped her again: she would never be able to do any of these things.
And then, as quickly as it had come, her anger abated, leaving only grief. She crawled into the bed as her tears overtook her. Eventually, she fell asleep in the same bed she had been sleeping in for the past week. She just couldn't stomach leaving. So that night she cried herself to sleep, clutching one of his hoodies, and breathing in his scent.
The same hoodie still lay in bed with her on this third morning. She picked it up and covered her face with it, trying again to capture its smell. But she couldn't smell anything anymore. She supposed, with another dull pang to her chest, that she had held it so much in the past few days that it no longer held his scent. He really was gone. She was shaking slightly as she stood up, but she refused to cry any more. Instead, she pulled on his hoodie over her clothes, zipped it up, and went to his wall of pictures. Finding the one of them in Vegas, she picked it off the wall. It was the only picture that even slightly resembled her Simon. She folded it once, and placed it in her pocket. Then she left, locked the door behind her, and vowed not to return.
Whether he was her past or her future, it was a question for another day. She decided – with her usual steel – resolve, that the only thing she was capable of focusing on was her present. And so she went to her community service, her head held high, and her hands in the pockets of her love's sweater.
AN: This is shorter than the stuff I generally write. Also, it was just Alisha, but if I continue writing, it'll probably become a more fleshed out story.
What do you think? xxx