It is a strange and unhappy paradox, living forever and yet damned. The paradox is in that the living forever part is rarely true, and the damned part, always so. However, most of the demon-tainted ones live for longer than they would have, if they were human, and burning for eternity is actually worth the hundreds of years they had on earth. When the time comes to go down, most vampires are thankful for the abundance of years and acceptant of their fate. Simon was a vampire for two years.
True, those two years were amazing, enhanced with love in the form of Isabelle Lightwood, and with friendship in the form of Clary Fray. He could really say he was glad he hadn't died when he was sixteen. But he could not agree that he was satisfied to a forever of scorching at eighteen.
Simon Lewis was not in Hell at this moment, now. At least not literally. Strangely, everything felt absolutely clear. As if he were alive again. Less than a second had passed since a mysterious force had ripped him from life, but he already knew that he would never be alive again. He was dead now. Dead, but not gone.
It felt like a horror movie when Simon realized that he could see his body, torn open and blood spilling out on the ground. He wanted to throw up, but there was no nausea. He was not substantial- just a wisp sprawled out on the sidewalk like phosphorous egg yolks spilled out of a cracked and broken shell. Everything he perceived was how he would imagine it, because it was all in his head. He was neither cold nor hot, the sidewalk beneath him neither rough nor soft. As he lost his concentration, he drifted through it.
Drearily, he straightened up. He found that, if he thought about it, he could hold his feet on the ground and walk normally. He imagined that the ground below him was strong and impermeable to keep himself from falling through it again. Inventing the world he perceived around him, the ghost of Simon walked down the street, not knowing where he was going. He wondered if he would get tired. Did he need sleep anymore?
Izzy's face kept appearing in his mind, always blank and expressionless. He couldn't remember what her face had looked like when he last saw her. Probably happy. He couldn't remember what his last words to her had been. Most likely something inane and unimportant. There was time for frivolity when you live forever.
If he could have known that he would die tonight, that he would end up pretending to walk on a dark and empty street, bodiless, he would never have left Isabelle. He would have held onto her forever, for eternity.
Infinite time was beginning to seem much more real than he'd ever thought of it before. He could be burning forever. He was dead forever- death didn't change or become easier. Death was infinite. He might as well be walking on this dank road forever. He was nothing but a ghost.
But pondering the reality of infinity was just a way to avoid what he really needed to focus on, because once he did focus on the real issue he would have a purpose, and if he had a purpose he couldn't just keep walking and walking, he had to think, he had to remember all the painful truths, that Maia was dead, he was dead, something was out there killing. Simon was not alive, but he was sentient, real. He alone knew of the terrible force that had ripped apart his universe in seconds.
Philosophy rained down on him as he headed back to the scene of his mutilation. He was there soon- time was all in his mind. Nothing was real anymore.
Maia's and Simon's mangled remains lay spread out on the ground. Ghost Simon knelt on the side of his corpse. His glasses were askew. He tried to straighten them, but his hand passed right through them, and he came too close to his own dead face. He began to shake, and it took him a moment to realize that he was crying. Real or in his head, he couldn't tell and didn't care. Time was irrelevant, but the sun had risen and Simon was still sobbing ghost tears onto his former self. He left then- somebody would find the bodies, eventually. It didn't matter. The bodies were like time, they were meaningless. Maia was not lying on the ground, she was in the place with all the lights, and he was not lying next to her, but pacing through the streets of New York.
Simon, when he was living, had always tried to cheer himself up. He tried now, but all he could do was picture Casper the Friendly Ghost, and that only made him feel sick.
Simon the Pessimistic Ghost half-walked, half-glided toward the Institute, only for lack of a place to go. Perhaps seeing Isabelle would lift his spirits.
Although he had no spirits to lift- he was spirit.
He might have been going to the Institute or anywhere else. It didn't matter. He was just a misguided ghost.
A/N: Again dedicated to Paramore, particularly the song "Misguided Ghosts."