God existed for Simon not Simon for God.
If God existed, his life wouldn't have been built on trade-offs. His childhood wouldn't have been decorated with traumas that caused his mind and head to switch places.
Life wouldn't have been so absurd.
Life wouldn't be shrapnel. though everything in this world is shrapnel, so we live on some shrapnel thought sequences. if it wasn't so, these lines wouldn't exist.
Life wouldn't have dragged him into a forced life, wouldn't have tortured him outright.
Simon is fed up, but in his heart of hearts he assumes that someone or something is going to free him from the clutches of this dark life in a positive sense.
It's just an unattainable dream.
He'd always preferred to settle in the countryside and live on a farm, orphaned, as he had been all his life.
unattainable but beautiful dream, hidden
words involuntarily soothe his heart, a balm rubbed on his burning skin
along with burning gun parts, burning rotten skin that should have disappeared years ago, and it's too soft for pain, again in this damn base.
Simon wasn't told his death would be so peaceful. He was told it would be unnecessary but painful.
For some reason, the smell of his aubergine purple skin cooking reminds him of a barbecue he went to with his father many years ago.
Simon can't deny it, he loves and cares for his father, and even though he's a spring-loaded killer, the days when his father cared for him seem distant but close.
He carelessly sets his cheek on fire on the edge of the leather sofa, kissed by the flames, the edge of his split lips crinkling.
Burning and hot. Soon he will die.
Simon wished he could die. Now it's finally gonna happen.
Maybe he won't go to heaven, but he's not afraid of hellfire. If he dies, he exists for God.
But God forgot him, maybe he never existed for God.
God took only the ones he wanted, like Tommy;
there was no Tommy for Simon , but there was always Tommy for God.
And Simon wasn't wanted, God didn't want him.
He didn't consider him worthy of hell, Simon didn't exist for God.
But there is one thing he always wanted to say, that consumed lives always have a taste. Every human being has a taste, some sour, some sweet or bitter.
Simon knew that Soap,'s flavour was sweet.
Simon knew that his father tasted bitter.
like Simon knowing that Price's taste is off.
Simon wants to know his own flavour.
"savoury as a plump strawberry, poisonous as a drop of blood"
Simon's mom high-pitched voice rings in his ears like a simple hum.
Simon now knows what it tastes like.
he can die now.
