I don't own Misfits or any of its stellar characters. I'm just playing in the playground. All settings and plotline are that of my own creative invention.

Much of this fic came about after a lot of curiosity about the singularity of each of the characters before community service began. There was a lot of background delving for Nathan during the show but never so much of the other characters and, seeing that I found a lot of my attention focused on Simon and wondering what it was that made him, him, and why he was the way we saw him, I wanted to give him a little more story.

In Season 2 we got to find out that Simon spent some time in a psychiatric unit where he meets Lucy, and I basically just took those two ideas and, some bits and pieces from the Simon Bellamy twitter, and ten months and a lot of lengthy writing later came up with this. I'm hoping that this fic gives his character the complexity he very much deserved in the show.

And I hope you enjoy, as well.

...

Warm and metallic. The taste of something familiar and unknowing, and slightly thrilling.

The blood that fills up his mouth as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek isn't comforting enough, but it's not too much a surprise. Hardly anything is enough these days. Still, he carries forward with heavy feet against the pavement and his head slung low against his chest so he doesn't have to look at them when he passes by.

Thinks to himself, Don't see me. Don't see me.

It's only wishful thinking. If he's seen them, surely they've spotted him. Only someone invisible would be able to pass by without being noticed, and this is something he's not. He's as bare as he's always been around them, unable to crawl far enough inside himself to disappear.

Even through his ear buds, with the music blaring as loud as he could get it, he can hear their jeers and taunts.

"Simon!" someone yells. But not just any someone- Matt. The boy that used to be his friend. He's calling Simon's name. It's been so long since he's heard him say it that he automatically jerks to a stop. Turning around is a mistake, and yet he knows he'll do it- can't stop himself. How long's it been since someone looked at him?

Taking a deep breath, he turns around, pulling the buds from his ears. He has to force himself to look up at them, all five of them. Show no emotion. Give them nothing. He's learned as much by now.

He glances back to the ground. "What?"

"What are you listening to?" Matt asks.

He blinks rapidly and peeks up at him. A trap, the voice in the back of his head whispers. Whatever he says will be giving them ammo, another one of those things that could be used against him. But even so, like a pet starved of attention, he craves the contact and words, fills up with the bubbling urge to answer. Like any of them care. So he opens his mouth and gets ready to tell him, but one of the boys beside Matt- a rough looking kid with a cap too big for his head and a straggle tooth- says something first.

"Probably some emo shit he'll end up killing himself to someday."

He flinches. That one hurt, cuts deep like an invisible weapon made of words. They always know just what to say to make it hurt the most. Worse than that, is the grin that Matt cracks.

"Is it true?" one of the boys asks.

"N-no," he mumbles.

Matt looks at his mates beside him. "He's lying. One time, he took a bunch of his mom's sleeping pills, but he was so scared he threw them back up."

His head snaps up, his eyes widening with surprise. "W-what?" He must have heard that wrong. Had to have mistaken Matt's words. Surely, no matter how cruel he's been in the past, he wouldn't go so far as to tell them something that personal.

But he has.

He even smiles about it. "Go on, Simon. Share with the group." He looks at his mates. "Simon here called me in the middle of the night, crying his eyes out after he'd sicked all over himself. Wanted me to come over and help."

One of the boys laughs. "Did you?"

Matt shrugs. "Well, I didn't want to. But he just kept begging me over and over. It was so sad."

"Why are you doing this?" Simon asks, his voice cracking.

"Look at your face!" He glances around at his friends again, laughing. "Are you going to cry, Simon?"

He swallows hard and shakes his head, gnawing at the raw skin on in the inside of his mouth, drawing out more blood. He won't say anything else, won't give them anything else.

"He's so pathetic he couldn't even off himself properly," the straggle tooth kid jeers at him.

He can't take anymore. The tears are threatening to fall and he's having trouble breathing, he needs to get out of here. He turns around, spits the blood from his mouth and goes to walk away when two heavy hands catch him in the center of his back, giving him a hard shoving and sending him reeling forward.

He throws his arms out to catch himself as the pavement comes towards his face, and his palms scrape against it, tearing the skin open. His knees slam into the ground and a small groan escapes him. He does nothing. Doesn't say a word, doesn't retaliate- never retaliates. That would only make it worse. So he picks himself up and starts to walk again, the sound of Matt and his friends laughter at his back.

Only when he's gotten home and unclenched his fingers that have been pressed against his throbbing palm so he can assess the damage and see all the bits of blood and skin torn off his hand, does he allow himself a small moment to break down. His house is empty, and he's grateful for this as the tears fall large and quickly down his cheeks. He doesn't want anyone to see this.

He scrubs at his wounds with antiseptic and revels in the burn it leaves behind until the tears finally go away and the only sound left after is that of his heavy breathing in the quiet of the flat.

...

He's all alone here. Nothing he isn't accustomed to, really.

His parents are gone for the night- out to some restaurant, and his sister is at a friends. He's home by himself, shut inside his room, face- to- face with his computer screen, and he's lonely. It sinks deep down inside him and settles in his gut like a weight, making his stomach churn. His mind, continuing to take him back to earlier. All the things Matt had said, all the laughter, the sting on his palms still there as a reminder of what had happened.

Simon can't get it out of his head, and not even editing videos is making him feel better tonight. With a hard sigh he stands from the computer desk and shuffles across the room. He undresses slowly and then takes a moment to stare down at his half- naked, pale body. Words from the past when he had to take gym class spring up to haunt him. Pasty face, sunburn Simon, they were just a few that got thrown in his direction when people would tease him. Not the worst of what he's been called, but a start to it all. Something that sticks all these years later.

Matt stood up for him, then, he recalls sadly. Until he started branching out from his one on one relationship with Simon and making new friends... becoming popular, and then he had turned into everyone else. Just another person finding ways to make him hate himself even more than he already did.

There's a lump in his throat as he gets ready to climb into bed, but his phone buzzing in his trouser pocket on the floor locks his feet to the ground as he startles. With a curious pinch of his eyebrows, he bends down to retrieve it- thinks it's more than likely his parents, anyway, messaging to let him know they'll be gone a while longer.

The last person he expects it to be as he opens his messages, is Matt texting him with an invite to the club.

He has to check it twice, three times, to make sure he's read it correctly, his heart slamming in his chest at the realization that- it's true- Matt has asked him to come hang out.

For a moment, all he can do is stand there, staring down at his phone, blinking rapidly. Finally his body catches up with the buzzing of his brain and he hurriedly throws his clothing back on. Matt's asked him to come out, and that's all he can focus on. His hands tremble with nervous anticipation as he throws his coat on, with questions in his head of why Matt may have invited him. Perhaps he wants to apologize? He likes the thought, it makes him feel better.

Walking out the door of his flat, he ignores the voice in his head telling him that it's probably a trap- just another one of those bad ideas he always falls for.

...

At the club, with the music and people and voices so very loud around him, he ducks down, almost trying to curl inward on himself as he weaves through the groups of people with the drinks in his hand- nearly running into a girl who quickly yells at him to move out of her way. He finally manages to make his way through to the back where there are groups of people are sitting around- including Matt and some of his other mate's. Matt has one arm wrapped around a pretty girl beside him as he talks to another in front of him.

Simon stands there awkwardly, staring at them for a moment, with everything he wants to say caught at the back of his throat. Until, with a quick swipe of his tongue against his lips, he manages to force himself to say hi.

Matt's eyes quickly find his, widening a little in surprise. "Simon."

"I bought you a beer," he tells him, holding it out, to which Matt frowns slightly and holds up a drink already in his hand.

Simon takes a nervous look around and swallows heavily. This isn't going well. "I got your text."

"What text?" Matt replies, seeming a little annoyed by that point.

"Y- you sent me a text, telling me to meet you here."

"I was texting my mates. I meant a different Simon."

The embarrassment of the words and the situation at hand cut right into him, his eyes widening as the back of his neck and palms flush with a burning heat. This is humiliating. Everyone- Matt included, seems to glance down in embarrassment. He needs to get out of here, needs to go home and try to pretend this never happened. The air feels suffocating as he sets the bottles down and hurries to turn around and rush away.

His chest hurts. He doesn't even make it outside the club before the tears are stinging his eyes and blurring his vision and he hates himself for this. Hates how weak and pathetic crying makes him feel. He swipes angrily at his face to wipe them away, knocking into people as he stumbles past them outside.

Each breath he takes sends a jabbing pain through his chest and stomach. He can't breathe, struggling to get air into his lungs. People are staring at him. All he wants is to fade away from this moment.

The walk home is brutal. He can't stop replaying in his head the things that happened inside the club. By the time he reaches his flat, he's so angry he can hardly see straight. It doesn't help that the house is still quiet with no one home yet. It makes him feel even worse.

Jaw clenched tight, he shrugs out of his jacket and moves quickly to the fridge, throwing it open. He counts out each beer at the back. There are twelve. He tells himself he's only going to have a couple- leave the rest for his dad, but once he's started, he can't seem to stop. The first beer makes his stomach feel warm, the third sending tingles through his legs. The fifth beer makes his head and body feel light and floating and before he knows it, they're all gone, and he's very drunk.

Alone and drunk. He couldn't feel any more pathetic if he tried. And he knows it, knows it so well, this pathetic loneliness.

If Matt had just...

Simon digs his fingers on the underside of the table, his upper lip curling with disdain on it's own accord.

"Matt the asshole," he slurs to himself. Matt, this terrible, awful person who used to be his friend. Who traded him in without second thought and tossed him to the wolves every chance he got. Simon hates him so much, just then. Hates him more than he's ever hated another human in his life, never thinking it were possible to feel such a way. He wants to hurt him back, make him feel all the pain that he's made him feel.

What's the worse thing that could ever happen to you, he'd asked Matt once.

Probably if I didn't have the things I like, Matt had told him. Like if we had a house fire and I lost all my things, that would suck. That would be the worst.

That's it, he tells himself. That's the answer.

He stands from the kitchen table, wobbling his way on unsteady feet as he moves to the storage pantry under the sink. There, he finds the lighter fluid, and his breathing quickens. He's going to do this, he has to. After grabbing some tissues and finding a box of matches from his parents bedroom, the first thing he does is check to make sure no one is home. Matt's the only one he has a problem with and, besides, he doesn't want to get anyone killed.

As soon as he's sure no one is there, he drunkenly stumbles out the door of his flat and next door to Matt's, glancing over his shoulder every couple of seconds to make sure no one is around. His entire body is trembling as he reaches the door to Matt's flat, his belly warm with liquid encouragement but his head throbbing. His hands shake so hard as he's pouring the lighter fluid on the tissue that he drops the bottle, soaking the bottom of his pant legs as it hits the ground, and he silently prays he won't drop the match, too.

It takes him six separate tries to just to get one to strike and light, and when it does, he gets so caught up in staring at the way the orange and blue and purple dance together that it dies out burning against his fingers. He tells himself he'll give it one last try before he'll give up entirely, crawl home, and spend the rest of the night in front of his computer screen, wallowing in self pity. Maybe throw up. He's feeling rather sick.

The match lights, and for one moment- just one fleeting second- he questions whether or not he should go through with it. Until Matt's voice rings loudly inside his head, I meant a different Simon.

He knows better. Matt doesn't know any other Simon's.

He lied, and would keep lying, and keep hurting him.

With a new determination, he lights the tissues, pushes open the letter box, and drops them inside. And he watches, he wants to watch the whole place burn down in front of his eyes. The carpet catches almost immediately, the frayed edges going up in flames that lick together and spread outward. Smoke starts to billow out from the letter box, just then. He pulls back so it doesn't get in his eyes, and tells himself it's time to walk away before he gets caught. But something stops him- a noise- not just any noise, though, it's the distinct meowing of a cat.

His heart jumps, and he quickly bends down and peers through the letter box again, having to blow the smoke out of his eyes to get a better look. Sure enough, there's a cat inside the flat. On the one hand, he wants to run away from there as fast as his drunk legs will carry him, but on the other... the cat never did a thing to him. The cat didn't bully him at school or any of those things Matt did. He can't leave it there to die, it wouldn't be right.

Simon's now at a loss for what to do. He didn't bring any water over with him, he hadn't planned on putting a stop to what he was going to do. The flames jump closer to where the cat sits, curled into itself, meowing loudly. He doesn't have any water with him, but there are other means.

Taking another quick look around and finding that- thankfully- no one has noticed yet what he's been up to, he unzips his trousers and lowers them enough to pull himself out, press very closely to the already warming door, and piss through the letter box. The fire inside the houses hisses as it distinguishes, and he closes his eyes, tilting his head back in relief- it's all going to be okay.

"Just what in the hell are you doing?"

His eyes fly open and he looks over his shoulder to find Matt's mother, arms crossed, glaring at him. "I-"

"What are you..." Her eyes widen. "Is that lighter fluid and matches at your feet? What are you doing up against the door like that? Is that smoke!" Her voice only seems to get louder with every question she asks until she's practically screaming at him. "Simon Bellamy you better answer me right now, what are you doing at our house?"

He blinks rapidly, glances down at the ground, and answers with slurred speech, "Peeing."

"You're peeing? Are you peeing in my letter box, is that why you're up against the door like that? Oh my god it is, isn't it? You sick, pervert... that... that's it, I am calling the police. I'm calling them."

And he wants to tell her to wait, to just shut up for five minutes so he can just think straight and explain things to her- to maybe tell her about what happened tonight, why he felt the need to do this. But he doesn't, he can't, the words are too jumbled on his tongue and he's haphazardly trying to shove his cock back in his pants because the other neighbors are starting to come out of their houses and stare.

All the while Matt's mom is on her cell phone throwing a big fit, calling him all sorts of names, and just when he thinks things can't possibly get any worse... Matt walks up. Matt and his mates, with a few girls from the club with them, no doubt. He doesn't even get his pants zipped up before he vomits.

He's still throwing up when the police arrive ten minutes later, throw him in handcuffs, give him a bag to be sick in, and toss him in the back of the police car. Even through the pounding in his head, he can still hear Matt and his friends laughter, ringing in his ears as he's driven away.

...

Three months probation, seven weeks community service, a handful of people that haven't stopped calling him a pervert since the incident at Matt's house- Matt included, of course, and his parents are staring at him like he's murdered someone.

"I just don't understand it, Simon," his mother says, releasing a sigh. She's said this a lot since the night he got arrested. "What possessed you to think this was a good idea." She scrutinizes him with wide, unblinking eyes- eyes as blue as his own. His entire life has been one, 'you look so much like your mother,' comment after another. She stares at him, expecting answers, but he has nothing to say. All he can do is shrug.

"That's not a sufficient answer," his father tells him.

Simon looks up at him, at the way his upper lip is curled in irritation the way his own tends to get when he's extremely bothered by something and he mumbles a quick, "I'm sorry."

His mother leans close, she likes to do that when she's trying to really get through to him. He can't seem to help but flinch back. Her eyebrows come together in concern. "I thought you were friends with Matt," she says.

The noise bursts out of him before he can stop it- a dark laugh. He laughs and laughs and laughs until he's sure they probably think he's crazy, but he can't help it. The sound escapes him until he's close to tears- hysterics, maybe? "My- my friend? He's not my friend."

"But-"

"Have you listened to anything I've said in the past year?" he asks, the anger lilting in his tone. Of course they haven't been listening, if they had, they'd have heard all the times he's said to them, help me. Help him make the words stop, the looks stop. To help him make the teasing's go away once and for all, to set things right. But no one listened.

He wonders if he even said anything at all, or maybe he just imagined it all in his head- the way someone crazy might. Mentally unstable- they tossed that word around a lot when he was being handed his sentence. I'm not crazy, he'd wanted to say... but nothing came out. The way he won't let it all come out now. Everyone had the chance to do something and no one did. Why would he look to them for anything now? No, he'll go back to his silence- the unspoken words.

"We're just trying to understand this," his father tells him. "We just want to help."

"Yes, talk to us," his mother pleads.

"It's nothing," he tells them. "Everything's fine. I'll do better from now on."

The lie sounds so convincing rolling off his tongue, he nearly believes himself.

...

They corner him walking home, Matt and five of his mates. Two blocks away from his flat and all five of them come running up to him without showing an inkling of intending to stop. His first instinct is to shrink away, but there's nowhere to shrink to. His back hits the shrubs along the sidewalk and his hands instinctively fly up to cover his face- which leaves his stomach wide open for them to pummel into with their fists. The first blow sends him to his knees, the air leaving him in a heavy gust.

One of them spits on the back of his head.

Another kicks his back, sprawling him out on his stomach.

His hands don't leave his face or head, however. He makes sure to keep that covered in the off chance one of them decides to pick up a brick. On the ground, throbbing gut pressed tight against the sidewalk while four boys kick and punch and swear at him, he opens his eyes and peeks through his fingers to see a pair of shoes standing a distance back- Matt's shoes.

Matt isn't partaking in this.

"Get up, you pussy!" one of the boy's yells, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him up. He stumbles, tripping over his own feet and knocking into another boy who hits him in his lower back.

"Are you going to cry?" one of them asks.

He clenches his jaw and tightens his fingers into his palm, shaking his head. No, he won't give them that ever again. They'll beat him to death before he'll give them that power. He's prepared for it, too- the idea that one of these boys could take this far enough to end his life. They continue to hit him until Matt tells them to stop.

One of the boys gets behind him and pushes their hands through his arms, pulling hard enough to make him uncover his head and force his arms behind his back. He ducks his head down, watching as Matt's footsteps come closer until he's right in front of him.

"Do you know how long I had to wait for this opportunity to present itself?" Matt asks. "What is this with you never leaving your flat? Is this what you were afraid of?"

He says nothing.

"Hit him again," Matt commands one of them, and one does, right in his mouth. The taste of the blood on his tongue and against his teeth makes his stomach twist. "I've wanted to beat your ass since the night you tried setting my house on fire, and look at that, I got the opportunity."

Except Matt hasn't touched him, he's let all his friends do it for him. Simon wonders why that is, wonders as he looks up, why it is that Matt isn't even looking at him. This is the wrong time for those kind of thoughts and questions, he knows, but he can't seem to help it.

"Do you have anything to say?" Matt asks, and when he shakes his head again, he gives his friends the go- ahead to- in his words- hit him until he decides to talk. So they hit him a lot, because he won't give them a single sound. Eventually, when he's struggling to breathe after one of them gripped him up in a choke hold so the other could slam their knee into his face, Matt finally calls them off. "Just let him go," he says and, it's stupid, but Simon almost wants to thank him.

He struggles to his feet, wheezing, hardly able to see, and starts to stumble away. He doesn't make it very far when something hard hits him in the back of the head, followed by something else biting into his shoulder. Another thing flies past his head and clicks against the sidewalk. It takes him a moment to realize it's rocks they're throwing at him. He's trying to get away and they're laughing and pelting him with stones. He has to start zig- zagging just to avoid being hit, which is hard enough considering he's hurting everywhere and can't see very well.

He thinks it can't get any worse than this- nothing could be worse than the physical pain they've just inflicted on him- until one of the boys calls out, "It's a shame you didn't succeed in killing yourself the first time. Better use a rope next time around," that gets to him the hardest. The words sink into his chest like rusty blades, digging and opening at a wound that's been there for as long as he can remember- never healing- and rips it wide open until he cries out.

He clutches at himself through his shirt, stumbling and tripping on his own feet until he slams into the door of his own flat and shoves his way inside. He doesn't even close it behind him, doesn't check to see if anyone might be home.

Hand gripping at the railing for support, he drags himself up the stairs one step at a time. It hurts to move, to breath, to even exist, just then.

All he wants is to make it stop.

...

The chair beneath his feet wobbles unsteadily against the carpet under his weight, making his heart leap. He takes an aching breath, holds it inside his lungs until it burns, and slowly lets it out as he slips the rope around his neck. His fingers tremble against the rough material. His shaking hands pulls it tightly against his throat, so tight that it hurts. He grabs at it above his head and gives it one good yank to make sure it's secure enough around the beam he's tied it to before letting go. The chair jerks and he lets out a gasp, quickly working to regain his footing.

Not yet.

Inhaling against the restraining material of the rope, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his iPod, slipping the ear buds into his ears before turning the volume all the way up. He needs the distraction from what he's about to do. When he hits play, and the music erupts against his eardrums, he tells himself that this is it.

There won't be anymore pain or suffering, no more sadness that lingers through the long days and follows him well into the night, turning into the thing he fears in his nightmares. Nothing will hurt after this.

He takes a constricted breath.

This is the only way to make it stop.

Lets all the air out.

It'll all be over soon.

He imagines what might be said after he's gone, how people might react- how Matt might react. He wants this to haunt him, but knows it probably won't. Who will be there to miss him when he's gone? Tears catch at the corner of his eyes and he blinks them away hard, licking his beaten and bruised lips as he tells himself one more time that he has to do this.

Still, right before his heavy feet can kick the chair out from under him, her face springs up in his mind. Rebecca- his sister. She'll be home from school soon. He wonders how he could have forgotten this. He'd made sure his parents were gone and his suicide note written, but he forgot Rebecca. She would get home before his parents did.

She'll be the one to find him.

The guilt strikes deep in his gut at the thought. He can't do this to her, she wouldn't be able to handle it, it'd destroy her. And she doesn't deserve that. Becca's a good sister, kind and caring, everything that no one else has been to him in a long time.

With a dejected sigh, he reaches up and goes to remove the rope, but before he can do so, the chair jerks beneath his feet once more, this time tipping out from under him, sending him dropping as the chair hits the floor.

Luck would have been his neck snapping with the impact of his fall, but that doesn't happen. Instead, the rope tightens hard around his throat, cutting off his air supply. He chokes on breaths he can't take and silently- trapped only in his head- hopes that the end will come quickly.

The seconds feel like hours as things start to grow fuzzy.

That would be how Becca finds him, arms hanging at his sides, feet dangling above the ground. The first thing she does is scream, the sound so loud he can hear it above the music still blaring from his ipod.

"Simon? Simon!" she shrieks, rushing forward to grab his legs in attempt to hoist him up. She gets him up just high enough that the rope loosens and he manages to take a breath, but his weight becomes to much for her to hold and her arms slip away, causing him to fall again. The rope pulls tighter than before, and he curses himself for being so good at the knot tying course he took in cub scouts one year.

"What do I do?" Rebecca cries, looking around the room wildly and back at him. "I... I'll go get Matt!"

No! The word sounds so loud in his head, but it's no use as they're not leaving his mouth. Oh, God, he just wants to breathe.

"Wait, no, that'll take too long. What do I do, Simon?"

He glances down at the chair beneath his feet, eyes starting to cross as he tries to convey the message to her with them. All she needs to do is pick the chair up and place it back under his feet, except she's too upset to think clearly. With each passing second his consciousness slips.

"I'm calling an ambulance," she cries.

It'll be too late for that.

The chair.

Everything's starting to grow dark. The world is slipping away. He's leaving while the music plays on.

I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through.

I'm ashamed of the person I am.

...

Song lyrics at the end are Joy Divisions Isolation

I'll be updating every Wednesday

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