Archive of Our Own ^beta

The blazing sky, the neverending maelstrom that churned in the center. He was staring into it, his back lying on the cold metal bridge between two Cars. A moment ago, he was falling to his death, about to be wheeled. But she caught him. Grace caught him just in time. Even after everything he did. Betraying her, taking over the Apex, trying to fight her to the death. Why?

“Why did you save me?” he asked. 

Grace was lying beside him, also in shock. She took a few breaths.

“I...I don’t know.” 

She didn’t know? Didn’t know?! What kind of answer was that? A bullshit answer, that’s what it was. Was all the time they spent together just meaningless to her? So she admitted it. He meant nothing to him. Nothing. That null meant more to her than he did, didn’t she? Grace was no longer Grace. She was just a worthless void.

It took him only a split second to decide. He gathered all his strength into his lower body, and kicked her off the bridge. Yes, it was done. He wheeled a void, a passenger. He stood victorious as the glowing numbers covered his entire body.

Wait. 

What the fuck? 

He just killed Grace, his best friend. 

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Then, he felt it, the cold. A chill that could only mean one thing. A swift shadow in the corner of his eye, then the shadow was in front of him. On top of him. He had no time to react. The Ghom pinned him down. He felt the temperature leave his body, and then an unbearable pain. He screamed.

Simon awoke in terror. He shot up into a sitting position, his panicked eyes darted around the dark room, waiting for the chill, the shadow, to come out and claim his life. As the fog of sleep cleared from his mind, he finally took in his surroundings. First he checked his bare arms. No glowing numbers. He sighed. It was just a nightmare. He was safe. He was in his bedroom, in his aunt’s house, on Earth. Not on the Train. He left the Train years ago. He hugged his arms and forced his breathing to even out. He listened to the sounds of his environment to calm himself further. There was the distinctive creaking of the walls as the house settled at night. The soft hum of his computer, which he neglected to turn off again. The window was open, and he heard the aspen leaves rustling as a gentle breeze blew through them. A bird started singing. It must be close to sunrise, he thought. He checked the time on the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. 04:44. Huh. He found it amusing whenever numbers lined up like that. Just like what his own number was when he met up with Grace again after he…

Ah, there it was. The immense weight of his shame and guilt slammed into him as he was reminded of Grace. That nightmare with the Ghom, it was always that one memory. Why? Simon tried to recall what really happened. After Grace saved him from falling to his death, and then admitted to not knowing why she did, he didn’t kill her. He…thought about it, but he didn’t. Instead, he just ran away. But in his dream, he had gone through with it, and then paid the price with his own life. 

He laid back down. He placed his hands in front of him, and studied them closely. It was barely bright enough by the light of the digital clock face to see the scars on his arms. He traced them absentmindedly with his thumb, and shivered. He retreated his arms back under the safety of his covers. Simon closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, praying the nightmare didn’t find him once again.

At around seven in the morning, Simon woke up to dazzling late-June sunlight streaming through his open window. He did not dream, which was a blessing. He stewed in his own thoughts until he heard his aunt get up, and head down to the kitchen to make breakfast. It must be Sunday, otherwise Aunt Isabelle would have already left the house for her morning shift at the hospital. He reached for his phone, and aimlessly browsed the internet. 

At precisely 8AM, like clockwork, Isabelle went upstairs again to wake up his mother, and his cousin Alex to get them ready for church. She would skip his bedroom, as she knew he liked to sleep in on the weekends, since that was when he didn’t need to go to work. He heard Alex complain about not getting enough sleep as he shuffled down the hallway. Alex had been complaining a lot more these days, ever since he turned thirteen. It was the one universal constant of humanity: burgeoning teenage-hood tended to make one surlier than before. Even when Alex’s older sister Nathalie moved out a couple of years ago to attend post-secondary in Montreal, he took it all in stride. But now, the smallest things would rankle his mood.

Simon worried about Alex. Gone were the days when Alex remained pleasant and content, able to weather any major changes in his young life. He promised Nathalie he would take care of Alex while she was away. Clearly this was not happening. How could he fulfill this promise if he kept sleeping in all the time, just because he could? He reminded himself that he was only living here out of the kindness of Aunt Isabelle’s heart. He’d already been the boorish slacker nephew for more than enough time when he first arrived here. It would be incredibly self-serving and irresponsible to slip back into old habits. He put his phone down and got out of bed, stretching his tired muscles. He grabbed the fingerless gloves from the drawer underneath the nightstand, and gingerly placed them over his hands to cover up his unsightly pink scars. Today he would change up his routine, get up early, and have breakfast with his family.

 

“Good morning, Auntie.” Simon called out as he entered the kitchen. The delicate aroma of melted butter floated through the air. Isabelle was at the stove, apron around her waist, hair tied back, making blueberry pancakes again. 

“Simon? Good morning, you’re up early today.” Isabelle was more than a little surprised at his sudden arrival. "Breakfast won't be ready for a while, I hope you don't mind." 

“No, not at all. I’m glad I was able to catch you in time before you all left today.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “I should try to get up earlier on weekends. We hardly have any days when we can eat together as a family.”

“Well, nevermind all that. I’m just happy that you’re able to cover dinner for me on so many weekdays!” Isabelle said with her gentle smile. She was on the final batch of the pancakes now. As she waited for the batter to cook, she cut up orange slices and arranged them neatly onto four different plates. Alex then entered the kitchen, sketchbook in hand, and sat down next to Simon. He opened it up to the most recent page and continued inking the robo-panda he was working on.

“Wow, that looks really good. You’ve gotten really good at robots.”

“Thanks.” Alex responded glumly. There were bags under his eyes. He stayed up too late playing video games again. Was that another habit his cousin had picked up from him, Simon wondered.

“Alex, what did I say about art supplies at the table?” Isabelle reminded him sternly. The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine.” He couldn’t close the sketchbook as the ink might bleed, so he picked it up as-is and carried it off to the living room. He returned and slumped down in his seat again.

“You still working on that comic, Alex?” Simon asked.

He perked up at the mention of his comic, but then he shrugged and shook his head. “It’s not ready yet. I’ll show it to you when it’s ready.”

“No problem. I’m sure it’s great.”

Isabelle was just about ready with the plates of pancakes. She marched them over two at a time, first placing them in front of her son and her nephew, then the two others for herself and her older sister, who still hadn’t made her way downstairs. This was typical of Louise. She opened the cabinet door and glanced around the pantry frantically. She took an empty glass bottle out and sighed in dismay. “Oh, the syrup bottle is empty again.”

“I got it.” Simon got up and marched over to grab a fresh can of maple syrup. Instead of getting the regular can opener, he took the Swiss Army Knife from his pocket, pulled out a tab, and punctured two holes at the top of the can, directly opposite one another. He poured about two-thirds of the can’s contents into the bottle, and finished up by wiping the top with a paper towel. He brought the newly filled bottle to the table and sat down again. It was on that cue that his mother suddenly materialized in the kitchen, like an angry spectre. 

“I told you not to keep doing that. It makes the cans impossible to clean.” Louise muttered at her son. He sighed wearily. “Good morning, mom.” She glowered at the can. “Look mom, if it matters to you that much, I’ll open the top all the way during the next refill.” Louise didn’t pay her son any mind. She walked over to her seat and stared at her plate. Isabelle finally sat down as well. “Come on, Louise, he was only trying to help.”

“Helping would be doing things properly, not making things harder for other people later on.” His mother glared daggers at him from across the table.

“Okay, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Sunday, and we’ll be heading to church soon. Let’s try to only have pleasant thoughts.”

Louise narrowed her eyes, and tightened her grip around her fork at Isabelle’s words. “Ah yes. And will you be joining us at church today, Simon? Since you actually managed to get up at a reasonable hour today.”

Simon hesitated a bit too long, and poured too much syrup onto his pancakes. He placed the bottle down, and looked away from his mother. “No. We’ve been over this before. I don’t think it’s the right place for me.”

“Yes, of course a delinquent like you would say that. How disappointing.” She carved out tiny pieces of pancake, no bigger than an inch, and shoved them aside instead of eating them. “Although with your unkempt appearance I would be too embarrassed to bring you there anyway.”

“Louise!” Isabelle cried out, as she placed a hand on her sister’s forearm. “Let him decide for himself. It’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t go to church.”

His mother shot Isabelle a belligerent look. “You would be just as disappointed in him if he was your son! Look at Alexandre, he listens to you, he behaves himself. He doesn’t let his hair grow to unnatural lengths!” On cue, Alex pulled his shoulders closer and leaned more towards the wall. Bringing Alex in meant his mother was itching to insult her son in any way possible. 

“Simon is a good kid. He helps out more than his fair share around the house.”

“He is expected to do that. And it took your daughter several months to convince him to do barely anything. Did you forget that he was a good-for-nothing layabout when he first got here?” Her tone was getting harsher. It was only a matter of time before she brought that topic up again. Everyone at the table could sense it.

“That’s all in the past, he’s very responsible now. He even has a job in town. Don’t put him down like that, this is your son you’re talking about.”

“If he’s so good then why did he leave me, Isabelle? Why did he leave me all alone for eight goddamn years?! ”

Their argument was interrupted by the harsh scraping noise of a chair against the tiled kitchen floor. “I think I’ll finish my breakfast outside.” Simon took his plate of overly syrupped pancakes and half empty mug of lukewarm coffee and walked out to the back porch.

 

The early summer buzzed with the droning chirps of insects and the piercing songs of warblers and finches sailed through the air. The morning dew still clung to the shaded blades of grass under the tall aspen tree. Honeybees, and other more unscrupulous bugs attempted to steal drops of syrup from his empty breakfast plate. The acrid aftertaste of his black coffee clung to his tongue, and on his breath as he exhaled. He glanced at the maroon fence that separated his aunt’s house from their neighbours. A thicket of garlic mustard had grown in again, their white blossoms peaking out like rice grains against the wide green leaves. As Simon surveyed the idyllic scene before him, he thought about what his mother said. Her accusatory tone, her sepulchral gaze. Louise Laurent wasn’t capable of much these days, having to struggle with her mental illness, but she always found the time to berate Simon for what a huge disappointment he became. He sighed. Ever since the sudden disappearance of her only son, Louise’s mind was gone, and they deemed her incapable of taking care of herself. This was why she no longer lived in the US, but was living here, in Quebec, with her younger sister. His mother was yet another victim of his unconscionable actions. His aunt was too.

Simon had thought perhaps he could use the unwelcome return of his nightmare to motivate himself to have a good day for once, to simply do one thing correctly, like having breakfast with his family instead of sleeping in. Like most things he attempted, it did not work out. He tried to recall the last time he had that nightmare. It must have been almost a year ago, he hardly gave much thought to the Train these days. He hardly ever thought about Grace these days either, though there was a time when he had been obsessed with getting back into contact with her. But life moved on, and in the middle of reconnecting with his family, finishing high school, and applying for jobs,  it left hardly any time for reminiscing about his “lost years”. Not that there was much to reminisce about anyway. 

When he first left the Train, the nightmare invaded his subconscious mind almost daily. It was the persistent guilt of knowing that someone like him was able to leave in the first place. He was incredibly lucky in the end to have found his way back to Earth, back to his family. But as the saying goes, life continues after your happy ending, whether you’ve earned it or not. The dream might be some sort of warning perhaps, an echo of a different time, had he made a different, worse, choice. He supposed this dream meant he should have become one of the Train’s fatalities, didn’t it?

“Passengers die all the time here. It’s more common than you think.”

Amelia’s words, from the last time they spoke. It rose from the darkest depths of his memory, ancient bones rising out of the tar pit in his heart. Even after all this time, he didn’t understand why Amelia helped him, of all people, when there were all these other passengers that she could have saved. Others who most certainly deserved it more than him. Others who did not do so much damage to someone she was close to… 

Tears formed in his eyes as he thought of that denizen girl, Hazel. What he wouldn’t give to take it all back. He couldn’t fathom why he did it, why he killed the kindly gorilla denizen that acted as Hazel’s surrogate mother. How Hazel looked that day would forever haunt him, the look of abject terror, followed by wailing despair. He caused it, he brought this upon a child. And at the time, he tried to convince himself that what he did was correct and just. That it was inevitable, that it had to happen that way. But the truth of the matter was he looked into the pleading eyes of a grieving mother, and betrayed her. It wasn't really murder if it didn't happen to a human being, right? Jesus Christ… He felt sick to his stomach. He was disgusted with himself. He had no good reason to do it, and yet it was done. No wonder Grace didn’t want him to find out the truth about Hazel. As it turns out, if you murder someone, you’ll lose the trust of others, who would have thought? And not murdering was pretty easy, actually.  One would have to be some sort of complete monster to do that . The knowledge of the depths of his own depravity hung heavily on his conscience and pressed painfully into his mind, like a steel plate permanently nailed onto his skull. But the surgeon he had did an excellent job of hiding the scars for him, so that everyone else would be none the wiser.

“Simon?” Isabelle appeared at the door to the back porch in her church clothes, interrupting his dark introspection. “We’re leaving now. Do you need anything?”

He shook his head. Isabelle noticed he had been crying. She stepped outside and sat down next to him.

“I’m really sorry about earlier. I’m sure your mother didn’t really mean it. She loves you, you know? I love you as well. Take care of yourself okay?” His aunt gave him a quick kiss on the head, and a hug, but before he could return it, she had to leave. His family would otherwise be late for Sunday service. She left the way she came, sliding the glass door closed. A few moments later, her car started, and his family drove off. 

He glanced at his long sleeves, and his gloved hands. Yes, the scars really were far too easy to hide. Not even Grace saw them during their final journey together. He clenched his hands into fists. That motherly gorilla, Tuba… the fact that she lost her only child was just like the situation his mother had been in. The fact that after that tragedy, she was still able to care so unconditionally for Hazel, it was just like his aunt. If his family ever had an inkling of what kind of person he used to be, they wouldn’t let him within a ten-mile radius of their home. He shivered as if the warm June day had suddenly plunged into winter. The world became grayer, the sounds of love birds muted themselves. There was a storm coming, he could feel it. The return of that dream, the harsh reminder from his memories, they were all omens of something sinister.

Unsure of what to do, he texted his boss, and told him he needed to take the next week off. He didn’t take any vacation days last year, so he felt it was justified. Regardless of that, in this town, no one really cared that much. 

 

Simon needed a distraction, badly. He headed towards the shed in the backyard. It used to belong to his late uncle, Nathalie and Alex’s father, but sat in a state of disrepair for the longest time, until he decided to fix it up for his family. Simon had never met his uncle, but renovating the shed made Simon feel closer to him somehow. Nowadays, the shed pretty much belonged to himself, not that he claimed it or anything of the sort. Aunt Isabelle figured no one else would use it for anything other than storage. Since he was the only person who actually did some form of handiwork, in his hobby of wood-carving, at least he could put it to some real use. 

The musty air of the shed was tinged with the robust aroma of wood. It mingled in his nostrils, and traveled through his olfactory nerves into his brain, and banished his thoughts back to the dark recesses of his mind. To the left sat the snow shovel, the road salt, and the bags of sand. To the right were gardening supplies and bicycles. The workbench sat in the middle, under the solitary lamp, waiting for him. He grabbed a fresh block of basswood. It was just the right shape and size for carving a little man. He’d made so many of these that the motions were second nature to him. He reached for his old whittling knife, made sure it was nice and sharp, and began. 

After almost an hour, a stout gentleman wearing baggy clothes, a knit cap, and a gentle smile materialized. Simon used to carve these figures with only one knife, but today, he made use of his v-tool and a smaller detailing knife to speed things along. His family got him a fresh set of wood-carving tools for Christmas last year, despite the fact that every year he kept insisting that he didn’t want anything. But in the end, he was glad to accept their gift, as having the proper tools made all the difference. He felt that the expressions he could carve into his miniatures had vastly improved.

He placed the newly minted little man aside, and wondered what to do next. The clock on his phone indicated it was still mid-morning. He was usually fast asleep at this hour on most Sundays. The carving itch still hadn’t left him, so he started on another block of wood. This one was larger, so he thought he could be a little more ambitious with it. He grabbed a pencil and began to sketch in the outline of a giant panda. He considered the direction of the grain, and placed the head and limbs in their proper places. He put a protective glove on his non-carving hand, grabbed his chisel, and began roughing out the general shape. Time flew by quickly, and before he knew it, the rectangular piece of wood had transformed into a seated panda bear clutching onto a rather thick piece of bamboo. He squinted at the panda. It felt off. Proportions were not his forte. 

Around noon, he considered taking a break. The air in the shed was getting stale. He left to place his new carvings in his bedroom, and also to grab his headphones. He wondered if he should wait in the house for his family. They would be back from church soon, with takeout. However, he was not looking forward to confronting his mother. She would no doubt continue to press on the issue of why he didn’t go to church with them, or why he was always sleeping in, or why he didn’t apply for post-secondary education after finishing high school over a year ago. He could practically recite everything she’d say in his head. “You used to be an excellent student. You even skipped a grade! And then you had to go and throw that all away! You’ll never amount to anything, just like your father. You left me, just like he did!” Yep. That was the gist of it. The panda he made earlier left him a little disappointed. He could do better than that. He returned to the shed and placed his headphones on. Late nineties and early 2000s rock blasted into his ears. He thought hard about what to carve next. The obtrusive dream came back into his attention, and inspiration struck. 

He took his pencil out again, and sketched the eerie form of the Ghom into the largest piece of basswood he could find in the shed. His hand trembled, the lines were shaky, disjointed. He pressed on, mirroring the sketch on the sides, marking the placement of its lupine legs, its leathery wings, its unsettling lamprey-like mouth. What did his therapist say? “Externalize your demons. If you manifest them physically, you will see that overcoming them is an extraordinarily trivial matter.” He let out an uneasy laugh. Dr. Lalonde had always been excessively verbose. She reminded Simon of a certain white cat he used to know. 

Working on the Ghom was difficult. Not only in the sense that finding reference pictures was nearly impossible as it was not a creature of the Earth. He tried not to think about the first time he ran into one, and the tight bundle of emotions that came with it. He also forced down the bone-chilling terror of his dream. After much struggle, the nausea and fear subsided as the zen of the wood-carving process took over. 

   

Simon was about a third of the way through carving when he heard a knock on the shed door. It was Aunt Isabelle, looking somewhat perplexed. “Hi Auntie. Sorry, I’ll eat lunch later.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Yes, I figured that was the case. It’s past two in the afternoon right now.”

“Oh.” He might have gotten carried away again. 

“I’m here to tell you that a girl is here to see you.”

“Is it Anne-Marie? She probably wants her novel back doesn’t she?” Anne-Marie was one of Nathalie’s friends. She works at the hardware store, which her father owns. He also worked there, which meant her father was also his boss. For as long as Simon had known her, she was far too kind to him.

“Uh no, actually. This girl, she’s… American?”

American. American? It couldn’t be. He dropped his chisel. 

“D-did you get a name?”

“I believe it was ‘Grace’. She said that she’s… an old friend? I told her to wait for you in the living room.”

His heart skipped a beat. It really was her. There wasn’t anyone else from the States that’d remember him. He stepped out of the shed and ran towards the house. 

Simon ran up the steps of the back porch and reached for the sliding door. He hesitated. Was this possible? Would she really have come all the way from Southern California to this nowhere town just to see him? After everything that happened? After what he did? He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He entered the house, made his way through the kitchen, down the hall, and cautiously stepped into the living room.

An elegant young woman sat on the couch, idly scrolling through her phone with a leisure swipe of her slender finger. She glanced up as she saw him enter, a coy smile spread on her lips. She stood up, smoothed out her dress, and moved towards him.

“...Grace?”

“Hey, Simon.”