Chapter Text
Simon of Eden feels like shit.
To be fair, thats his constant state of being at this point in his life. As of recent though, he had reason to feel okay. He’s been on Erid a month or two now, he’s not entirely sure, and his host no longer has a calendar that tracks human time.
Today, though, Simon feels like shit. Again. Worse than what his usual had been for many years of his life as well.
His host and saving angel, Ryland Grace, was out at the moment, hosting an incredibly important lecture with Eridian scientists. Grace was incredibly important, Simon had come to learn, frequently needing to step out and talk about research about things Simon had no interest or knowledge of. The only lecture he had attended was when Adrian had asked him to join, stating that top botanists from Erid were attending to discuss the flora of the biodome.
Grace was ecstatic that Simon had shown an interest, wanting to make his guest feel more at home, he had practically let Simon chose whatever plant life he wanted in the dome. They had spent several hours, humans and Eridians, scrolling the depths of Ryland’s computer to look for similar trees, flowers, and bushes galore to further decorate the biodome. Adrian had even promised rescheduling before the follow up on a surprise for Simon specifically, which just thinking about made his chest tighten… But in a comforting way.
The feeling didn’t last long, and Simon quickly sank further under the blankets and sheets of his bed and let his mind clear out again. He shivered, silently cursing himself for preferring the freezing temperature he liked the house to be at for comfort, trying to soak up as much warmth from the comforter above him as possible. It’d be far too big an ask to get up now and crank the heat. Laziness wasn’t something Simon used to have the privilege of and he’ll be damned if he’d ever give it up again.
So he stays under the blanket and blinks through his rapidly drying eyes, willing himself to at least cry, damnit, to feel something other than numbness. If he’s going to feel sorry for himself, the least he could do is actually act pitiful. But he can’t even bring himself to do that. Thus, he continues to wallow, silent, sucking in deep breaths when he feels he’s been too still for too long, desperate for air that seems to be escaping himself. It’s like a hunger that cannot be quelled, and he begs to Eden for one small mercy today, if any at all, to let him breathe in peace.
Eden, as always, though, is a cruel mistress and disregards his prayers just as She always does. Simon takes another long gulp of air, releasing slowly and shakily as his mind clears, remembering a story from his time on Eden, one that explained the very basis of his and his sibling-in-branches arms.
When life had died on Earth originally, it was the rebirth of Adam and Eve that brought hope for the next generations. They brought life back to the empty expanse of space, caring for their sacred fruit tree in order to feed their children, their followers. Adam tended the food itself, delivering meals to the hungry and desperate, the working class and ruling.
Eve, however, tended the tree itself. She trimmed its branches, watered its soil. Wept in sorrow and grief when the leaves fell in the winter, knowing her people faced hardships, and wept in joy when the tree grew its blossoms once more, knowing her children would be fed.
Gardening was a sacred practice on Eden. Children who trampled flowers were punished violently for daring to disrespect what sustained the fragile life they had on their station. Children who could cultivate seeds and gently till soil were thought to be blessed by their Sacred Mother, treated even higher than The Father and all his preachers.
That's what Simon had wanted to do, all his life. He wanted to care for something, tend to it while it grew. His kin had all done work that stained their fingers with oil or flesh, but Simon desperately wanted to dig his fingernails into the dirt instead. His mother let him tend to a small patch of flowers they hid in a supply closet that they thought had been long abandoned, somewhere others wouldn’t see.
Simon never got to see them bloom. The station had burnt down long before he got to move them into the rays of their heat lamps, to prove his calling was with the organic.
He supposes he eventually got his wish. Simon did die in that submarine, surrounded by organic material to the point of drowning in it, no matter what the high end scanners and his angel say otherwise. Simon didn’t know if his second chance was a blessing or a curse.
Currently, it felt like a curse. Simon can’t even use his hands for anything. He traces small circles along his bicep on his left arm, it always still stings with the pain of being ripped apart. It happened, he knows it did, and he doesn’t know why he’s even still here. Alive.
He tucks his hand under his cheek, still on the left side, fingers struggling to tremble when they’re pressed to his pillow and face. Those scars lingered. Calcified and aching. Bone that shouldn’t exist yet stains his face and reminds everyone who looks at him that he’s no longer human, no matter how much he prays for his humanity back.
O, Lord, you have forsaken me and made me useless. I can no longer even care for myself. You must get a sick fucking joy out of making and watching me suffer and squirm and beg, gods and stars, beg for any meaning to return to his life.
Simon’s prayers are once again met with silence from his deity, but he relishes in the sob he chokes out when he can finally curl around himself and cry, desperately, into his knees.
He wishes his Lord or the stars would release him from misery. But there's only one angel that can free him from pain anymore, and he will be gone for hours more to come.
Simon cries until his eyes dry again, and then lays in silence once again.