Ever since he was attacked on the island, Simon has been comatose. Everyone thinks he is unaware of the world around him: nothing could be further from the truth. He hears everything they say, sitting by his bedside each day. He wants to reach out, to squeeze Ralph's hand, or Jack's, or even Roger's, but he can't: his limbs won't obey him.
And then there's the pain: burning, unbearable pain that surges through him at every breath, every heartbeat. Most times, he's too intently focused on the pain to even make an effort to move. It's unlike anything he's ever felt before, searing and freezing all at once, frigid fire coursing through every vein, every nerve ending in his body. He thinks sometimes he must respond to the pain, cry out or something, because occasionally one of the others will stroke his hair as if they're trying to comfort him, and why would they do that if he didn't show signs of being in pain?
Sometimes he can think clearly, and those are the worst of all, because one thought echoes through his mind then:
There's nothing to hold onto, and no way to let go.
If he could make contact with one of the others, maybe then they would help him. Maybe then they would set him free, release him from the agonizing prison that his body had become. Anything to alleviate this pain.
At first, he doesn't know how long it's been since the island: days? Weeks? Months? Now he knows the truth: it's been years. He hears them planning a birthday party for him. They've done this every year since the island: maybe they hope one of these times he'll actually be awake to celebrate with them. He doesn't even know how old he'll be this year: he gave up counting the years after his seventeenth birthday.