Simon loved Marceline. He loved her in the way he would have loved his own child if he and Betty had never split. He loved her knees, which were so knobby and clumsy, and how her arms would claw at the air weakly for him while she slept even though he told her they couldn't be close. In the end, his resolve always cracked and he would pull her to him, his chin on her head. A soft sigh would escape her lips and in that moment, he would feel warm. Oh, and she loved the color red, especially any shade that was close to Hambo's. Sometimes, when they were in a wooded area, he would forage for red berries just so he could see her rare wide grin. Of course, he would make sure they were all edible; the crown would deter him from picking them if they weren't. That was the thing with the crown-it didn't want him to die, but it didn't give him much of a reason to live, either. Marceline was all the incentive he needed. He was feeling its presence constantly now. Before, it was more of an itch in the back of his mind, but now he was feeling numb and at times it felt like he wasn't even the same person. There were instances in which he contemplated the idea of wrapping his hands around Marceline's little neck and squeezing just to see her own eyes deaden and grow cold. He wanted to feel the warmth seeping out of her. He wanted to-no. The crown wanted that.

***

He had only asked her about her father once, to which she replied by wiping her eyes with her arm, "He ate my fries." That was it. It wasn't like he had the right to pry. She was just so young, so innocent. And yet the world had been ripped from her within a matter of days. Even with all that, she was lucky. Simon's world had been tugged away from him inch by inch for years, and he had felt every millimeter. He wanted to so desperately stay with her, and nurture and care for her like her father would have. There were times in which he indulged himself in these fantasies and he would grow old and frail like any other human being and she would be so strong and lithe, but then he would feel the cold.

-

A suit. She remembered the scent of crushed pine leaves and rust. She remembered the taste of slimy French fries that had been dusted slightly by ruined cement. The fried potato strips were on a sheet of parchment paper in one of those plastic baskets. There was a diner, lots of linoleum and broken lights, and a desperate sort of laughter that permeated the hazy air. Every now and then, there was a scream that pierced the atmosphere. "Hey Marceline," her dad said, "Look at that." She did, even though he hadn't pointed, and when she turned around she found him chuckling with all of her fries in his mouth. For some reason she couldn't fathom then, his chuckle then turned into a sort of belly-aching guffaw. Tears streamed from his eyes as he slammed the table with his fist again and again and again. Scared, angry, and confused, she started crying, too. He started inhaling the air in big gulps and finally swallowed the food. "Look at that," he smiled as he gestured to the pieces of broken glass, the charred structures that looked more like cavity-stricken teeth than buildings, the motionless bodies scattered everywhere. "Hey Marceline, look at that."
She sniffed, but didn't say anything.

***
The next day, he picked a new dress for her to wear in a department store that was leaning against a skyscraper. It was then she was inclined to ask why he didn't pick up new clothes for himself. He brushed the dust-there was always dust-off his shoulders. "Nah, there's nothing here I can wear. Besides, I've got to look dignified when the right occasion comes."

When they exited the store, these three men emerged from the shadows of one of the buildings holding pieces of asphalt and re-bar in their hands. Their voices slurred and they all had these dreamy expressions on their faces. "C'mon and play with us, busy man," they taunted. "Busy busy busy man." It was then that her dad had screamed for her to run. Never in her life had she heard such fear in his voice, so she did even though he didn't tell her where. She kept running, weaving around chunks of large rubble and crisp figures. When she looked back, all she saw was a crumpled heat of crimson. That was the one shade of red she didn't like.

***

When he thought she wasn't there, Simon would pull out a folded photo of a woman in scrubs. He would stare at it for hours before looking for Marceline who had been told prior to collect some firewood or to pack up for a move. She understood to some extent what that woman meant to him. It was like her dad with her mom. You didn't have to think too hard on these things.

***

In all the time they spent together, he had only hurt her twice. The first time was when she poked the gold crown that was slung at his waist. He had turned and tackled her to the ground, growling at her with blood-shot eyes which were glowing with this bright hue of blue. "It's mine, you little pest. Mine. You can't have it. I will slit your throat if you touch it again." They reminded her of the ice that had frosted her windows shut months before. She had burned herself when she put her palm against the glass. She whimpered, tears already coalescing in her lashes. His eyes cleared, and he sat back, lips quivering as he said, "I'm so sorry, Marceline. I'm so sorry." He buried his face in his palms. "Why, why did this happen to me?" he sobbed. Hesitant, she wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and rested her cheek in the hollow of his neck. That was one of the last days they spent together.

-

He spent the next day carefully writing on the back of Polaroid of Marceline he took weeks before. It had been the last sheet in the camera. He couldn't be with her anymore, not when he had easily succumbed to the crown's malice the day before. He had to keep her safe. That was why he was sending her away. They were walking through the woods when he started explaining. "I packed everything you would need for your trip into your backpack. There's a pack of red lollipops in there, a little flashlight with extra batteries in case you get scared, and a red blanket just in case you get col-" "Are we going somewhere?" He looked down at her confused face and he felt his eyes crinkle. He crouched down in front of her and rubbed her arms. He pretended she didn't flinch at the frigidity of his touch. He pretended her teeth weren't chattering at that moment. "I-I need you to be strong for me, Marceline. I need to have some time alone. I promise I'll come back for you, wherever you are."

The desire for all the warmth to drain out of her eyes was fulfilled in that moment. Her eyes were devoid of any life. In a voice thick with sadness, she asked, "When do I leave?" He couldn't bear to look her in the eyes. "Tomorrow. At first light." The note bit into his palm.

-

That was the second time he had hurt her. When she packed everything for her departure and went to him to say goodbye, she found him sitting on the same log he sat to look at the picture of the woman. He held it between his fingers and stared at it intently. A sob erupted from his chest and sent shudders through his bony frame. He began ripping the creased photo piece by piece until his fingers became red and raw.

***

He had told her to leave, but not where to. They didn't hug-he hadn't even taken a step closer to her. She simply followed the trail deeper into the forest silently. She'd noticed something balled in his fists right before she'd left. She almost considered asking him about it, but thought against it. She didn't want to see him cry again. When she looked back, she saw him waving, but couldn't keep her eyes off of the spiky silhouette of a crown perched on top of his head.

~
''Marceline, I can feel myself slipping away. I can't remember what it made me say, but I remember that I saw you frown. I swear it wasn't me, it was the crown. "