Saturday mornings were usually the easiest part of Simonβs week.
There were no mind-numbing appointments that required his attention, no obligations important enough to drag him from his rooms, and, mercifully, no invitations waiting on the breakfast table.
None of his friends had thought to invite him anywhere, though he could hardly blame them. His recent habits had turned him into difficult company, a pain to have around, and he had done very little to persuade anyone otherwise.
He was not sad about the absence of invitations. A tiny part of him was grateful for it.
Gaming houses had become dangerous places for him. So had the clubs.
He could tell himself he would only stay for an hour, only play a single round, only have a drink or two. Yet the atmosphere of those places seemed designed to strip away whatever restraint he possessed.
Money changed hands too easily. Credit was offered too readily. Every loss only drove him to try again, desperate to win back what he lost. And every victory fed the dangerous delusion that perhaps, if he kept playing, he could win even more.
Some nights, Simon left feeling satisfied with himself. On others, he returned home with his pockets considerably lighter than when he arrived.
Simon could no longer afford to be drawn back into that kind of existence.
The creditor who currently held the greatest leverage over him did not need any additional advantage, and Simon would be damned if he gave the man one.
So he remained at home, locked away in his chambers in a self-imposed isolation.
Perhaps that was why, shortly after his meagre breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, buttered toast, and tea so hot it scalded his tongue, he went straight to where he stashed his paints.
Painting had always been one of the few things capable of holding his attention without demanding anything from him. He did not paint for commissions, nor had he ever entertained the thought of exhibiting his work. A man in his position was not supposed to do such things.
Painting was supposed to be a pleasant pastime for a gentleman, something one might do when the weather kept him indoors or when boredom became unbearable.
Simon happened to be rather good at it. He simply never considered that fact particularly useful.
That morning, he stood before a large canvas near the tall windows of his bedroom, brush in hand, trying to lose himself in a landscape he envisioned mentally. A large tarp was spread over the floor beneath him to catch any drips or messes, its edges tucked beneath the legs of the nearby furniture.
The image taking shape on the canvas was of a country estate surrounded by trees, their leaves beginning to shift into the colours of the changing season.
The house stood in the distance, partially obscured by branches, while the sky above it carried the muted grey of approaching rain. He spent nearly an hour working on the minute details, repeatedly softening and strengthening the shadows until the scene began to acquire the depth he wanted.
He added darker strokes beneath the trees and lighter ones along the distant fields, stepping back every so often to assess his handiwork.
It should have grounded him. Instead, he found himself increasingly distracted by his own hair.
It had grown considerably longer over the past year, falling just past his shoulders in thick strands of deep brown. When he was younger and cared more about appearances, he kept it short, neat, and carefully trimmed. These days, he rarely bothered with it at all.
That morning, however, every strand seemed determined to remind him of its existence.
As he leaned toward the canvas, his hair slipped over his shoulder and brushed against his cheek. He pushed it back.
A few strokes later, it fell forward again.
He swept it behind his ear.
Another bend over the palette, another loose strand slid across his neck, worsening his sensory overload.
Simon exhaled through his nose and continued painting.
It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous.
Yet irritation began settling beneath his skin, growing with every small intrusion. The hair brushed his cheek again. He shoved it back with more force. A strand caught against his wrist. Another tickled the side of his neck, making him tense as he tried to ignore it.
He set down the brush, gathered the loose hair, and pulled it behind his shoulders.
That lasted perhaps a minute.
When he resumed painting, it slipped forward once more.
Simon paused what he was doing and gathered his hair into a bun, hoping it would help. Wishful thinking.
As he held his hair up, his gaze fell on the shears lying on the table not far from him. A dangerous thought entered his mind, lingering for a moment longer than it should have before he shook his head and forced it away.
No.
But the irritation already took hold, and there was little he could do to quell it.
The trouble was not the hair, he knew that.
The trouble was everything else.
The debts. The creditor. The uncertainty surrounding his future. The friendships that frayed beyond repair. The humiliating knowledge that he no longer trusted himself around money. His drinking habits and the fact that his life spun further out of control with every passing week.
His long, unruly hair merely gave all of that irritation somewhere to land, a scapegoat for all his other failings.
He tried to continue. This morning was supposed to act as a reprieve from all his problems.
He grabbed the brush once more, ready to refocus his attention on the canvas and block everything else out, but his hand faltered.
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Once more, his gaze was drawn to the shears. Angry, dangerous thoughts flooded his mind like a tidal wave.
Impulsive. That was what he was.
Reckless.
Mad. Just like his dear old father.
Simon squeezed his eyes shut, banishing those thoughts as quickly as they came. It did nothing to soothe his irritation.
When he reopened his eyes, he stared at the canvas, at the image of the landscape slowly coming to life.
He remained there, taking deep, slow breaths. He knew what was coming but was powerless to stop it.
Every emotion felt heightened. His heart was beating too fast, too forcefully. His muscles felt charged with energy, every inhale felt arduous rather than something happening automatically.
Then he turned away.
His gaze once again landed on the pair of shears resting on the table and, just like that, his mind went blank, no longer able to control what he did next.
His legs carried him to the table. He snatched up the shears a second later, gathered a fistful of hair at the back of his head, and began cutting.
The first snap of the shears was awkward.
The second was harsher. After that, he stopped caring about neatness.
Hair fell around his shoulders and onto the floor in uneven clumps. He cut through another handful, then another, hacking away at everything that had grown past his shoulders. The shears opened and closed, the sharp metallic sound cutting through the otherwise quiet room.
He kept cutting until the hair stopped brushing against his neck.
Only then did he lower his hands. The silence that followed seemed enormous.
Simon stood perfectly still, the shears hanging loosely from his fingers. A thick bundle of dark hair rested in his other hand.
Several shorter pieces littered the floor around his feet.
He stared at them, his pulse fluttering rapidly like the wings of a frightened bird.
Next came the familiar shame. It crashed over him like a storm, drowning him in its torrents.
He knew this pattern. The longer he stayed away from alcohol, the more frequently these sudden bursts of anger seemed to surface. Sometimes the irritation was so small he hardly noticed it. Other times it was overwhelming, disproportionate to whatever had provoked it.
He could go days convincing himself that he was managing perfectly well, only for some insignificant inconvenience to send him spiraling, exposing how much anger remained beneath the surface.
His father possessed the same volatile temper.
That was the part Simon despised most.