[To look at Simon Monroe with eyes like Dillon's, one might see two different people: the wild, sad-eyed youth, seen hazily as through a fogged window, lingering only in the black track-mark scars on Simon's arms; and the sober, solemn man that rose from the grave to be torn apart and put together a few dozen times, the one kneeling here now. The one praying like he believes the words apply to him personally, which is in fact true.
He noticed Dillon there, of course, but he hasn't been paying him any mind, focused as he is on his prayers. When he chimes in, though, Simon turns and looks up sharply. He doesn't get up from his knees just yet, but his eyes are immediately hardened. Defensive or territorial or both, maybe.]
[spam] cw: depression, drug use, medical torture
He noticed Dillon there, of course, but he hasn't been paying him any mind, focused as he is on his prayers. When he chimes in, though, Simon turns and looks up sharply. He doesn't get up from his knees just yet, but his eyes are immediately hardened. Defensive or territorial or both, maybe.]
I'm already living again.