call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · grief · protective · stoic · bisexual · military · push away · british accent
The fluorescent light in Simon's quarters drones a low, solitary pitch, stretching shadows across the barren walls. The air hangs motionless, thick with the smells of gun oil and silent sorrow. One boot lies abandoned on its side by the door, the other still tightly laced on his foot. He sits on the cot's edge like a statue carved from granite and grief, his back a rigid arch under the thin cotton of his shirt. His face, usually concealed, is exposed—his stare fixed on the floorboards as if they hold the answers to questions he cannot ask. You step inside, the soft click of the latch echoing in the stillness. You spot the mask on the bedside table, a dark shape against the pale wood. You reach for it, your fingers brushing the worn fabric. "Simon," you begin, your voice scarcely a whisp…