Hey there,
Not much to say other than; this chapter is very, very, overdue, so my apologies for that. Secondly, this chapter is quite short, and again apologies for that, but I wanted you readers to see into Baz's head first before I proceeded with Simon's P.O.V. so that you could understand his behaviour and how he will treat Simon in future chapters, hence the small 1,000 word or so introduction.
Lastly, I've written Baz to swear a lot. I know that some people do not like a lot of swearing included in a character's character, but I think for Baz, it enhances his bitterness. If it does, however, offend some of you readers, do let me know and I'll work around it.
Addressing 'booksforever' in the reviews, and I suppose as a reminder to other readers, yes this is based of the plot from the book/film, 'Me Before You', which I did address previously.
So I suppose without further adieu; a big thank you to those who have stuck around, enjoy reading and a very Happy New Year to you all.
xo
BAZ
My mother has messed up massively. Goodness sake she had, what, one job? And more than enough ability, mobility pardon fucking me, to do it.
Fuck sake I even gave in to accepting that Niall couldn't look after me on his own, not when he has so many other patients to tend to. Mother (Daphne that is, I only call her that to please father) has neither the time nor strength and energy to lift me – I shudder at even having to admit this- and my father is never here. Out doing things that I should be doing, that I used to do.
I know that Father will never admit it, because if there's one good thing I suppose I can say about him, is that he loves me. Loves me more than fucking life itself. But he'll never admit to me, or to anyone, that he's disappointed. Not in me, no, like I said before he loves me, but disappointed about me. That I'm queer, for a start. Though we've crossed that bridge a long time ago and he's "dealt" with the fact that, to put it bluntly, I can't fuck with girls, I know that he still can't accept it, not really.
Doesn't matter now anyway, I suppose.
Which brings me to my second disappointing quality; I can't even walk. I'm paralysed. Ha fucking ha.
I twitch my mouth- the coarse beard that I've grown out since that day is quite impressive, but it's goddamn itchy. Haven't even got hands to scratch it. Such a charmed life. Perhaps I can ask this mutt that my mother's hired to fucking scratch it for me.
Medium height, stocky yet skinny, with bronze hair that looks unkept yet flawless simultaneously, fidgety hands and trousers too short at the ankles- his suit is fucking laughable. Someone threw a jar of cinnamon at his face when he was a baby or something, because no one can have that many freckles scattered across their nose. Boring as fuck blue eyes, stubby-ass lashes and chapped lips.
He's fucking beautiful.
He grins, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. "H-hello, uh, I'm Simon Snow, nice ta meet you, Basilton." Chopped words, a typical, heavy and rough London accent.
Then he makes his first mistake; holding one freckly hand out, he proceeds to shake my own in greeting. My hands, both lying limp on the armrest of my chair. My hands, paralysed. Finally the gears in his miniscule brain (I'd love someone to get a microscope and examine it; I bet it's really fucking tiny) start turning and he realises his mistake and freezes.
He stammers and runs a hand (there's a mole on his little finger, how cute) through his messy curls, attempting to play it off as his intention all along. There's a pregnant silence in the room, and I let him stew in it. Because I've no ability to control anything else in my life, may as well control this. (I know, I'm cruel).
Niall, however, finishes zipping up his medical bag and gives him a tight lipped smile (not because he's pissed or anything; his lips are just quite thin) and says, "Nice to meet you too Simon, looking forward to working with you", thus breaking the silence that I was beginning to enjoy.
The mutt stutters and grasps at the rope that Niall has thrown him. "You, uh, you too!", he just about manages to get out, nodding his head vigorously and bronze curls going every direction. He wears it up-to-date; close-shaved and short at the sides with curls piled on top. Typically boyish. I would think that he's of them boys that broke hearts with a smile- if he could get a word out properly and didn't stammer his way through a conversation, that is.
Mother clears her throat elegantly, and I wait a few seconds before giving her my attention. She raises a manicured brow at me, and encourages me with her eyes to say something. I don't want to. I most certainly do not fucking want to.
He's only here because of me.
He's only here because of the job and the no doubt amazing pay it offers.
He's only here because I'm bound to a chair. Bound to a life of spoon feeding, of lifting, turning, twisting, sighing, crying, dying.
Dying.
I'm not being dramatic. I died that day, when carelessness and lack of awareness was the only thing that directed me through London's busy streets. I died the moment I lost the abilty to raise my arms, tap my foot, turn my neck. Live.
Everyone tells me that I'm wrong; Mother, Father, Niall. Everyone being anyone who still has the abilty to wipe their own arse. Anyone still standing on two feet. But anyone standing on their own two feet can't possibly breathe them words laced with pity and tied with a bow of sorrow without knowing for themselves how it fucking feels. How it feels everyday when I wake up, wanting to stretch, reach across cool sheets to the body of the one that I love, to get up and put on my own clothes, make my own breakfast.
How now instead I wake up, and icy fear drowns me as I realise that I can't move, the bed is not slightly dipped and lacks one extra person, how I cannot slip my arms down the sleeves of cool white cotton shirts and do up the laces of my shoes, how now my lips are prodded with a cool metal spoon as I'm fucking spoon-fed.
I died that day. And everyday when I wake, up, I die all over again.
He's here. Because of me.
Call me selfish. Unfair. Cruel. I don't care
Because my life is anything but fair. So don't fucking mind me if I take out a portion of my anger on this pretty boy here.
I lick my lips, raise a brow and curl my lips back into the cruellest sneer that I can muster, "How fucking marvelous to meet you, Simon Snow."
I watch as sweat clings to his brow, his face pales and floods with dread. As he realises what he's signed up for.
I. Don't. Care.