The dream was the same each time. Simon was screaming in the middle of an unnamed, unknown city. Snow was falling and a large blizzard hovered over above. Snow was hammering down on the city mercilessly, and Simon was in the middle of the blizzard. On his knees weeping yet laughing at the same time. It was not a joyous laugh, and neither was the cry natural.

The laugh was covered by a hysterical echo that seemed to bounce off the buildings of the city and was dragged on by the strength of the wind. But one could sense a feeling of fakeness underneath, like it was an echo of the pass resurfacing for just a second before being gripped by insanity and dragged under once more.

The cry was just the opposite; it held a dry humor that only the maddest of men could understand. And it seemed faint but loud as well. Unlike the laugh, the sadness was present and near indescribable in its seemingly eternal pain. Nothing was merciful enough to drag it back under and hide it in his sea of swimming emotions. And so it stayed there, like a cut that never got better and then festered.

Marceline, the Vampire queen was there. But she was her six year old self. The cold was unbearable, frost had gathered on her eyebrows and her mucus had frozen then broke each time she breathed in, breaking up shards ice so they stabbed into the soft flesh of her nose. Blood seeped down the front of her lip and she felt like she might keel over and die at any moment.

But there was one thing that kept her going, the thought of Simon being in pain, that same horrid laughing cry that made her heart want to break for abandoning him at his time of need. It was her fault that Simon was like this, and maybe if she could take the crown off, he would be better.

The adult Marceline screamed inside her own mind for her childish self not to approach Simon. That he was to unstable and too far gone to save now. But trying to warn her young self was like a man trying to warn someone in the past. Though this was not pass she had never experienced, it was equally as futile to try and warn her younger self. All she could do is sit back, and watch as the events unfolded.

Little Marceline approached the new Ice King as delicately as she could, like a babe trying to pet a vicious yet pitiful hound that was bound to bite. She held one hand out but she wasn't sure why, maybe she wanted to put a comforting hand on his shoulder? She didn't know.

Simon didn't move only continued to kneel, his hands on his temples as he laughed and cried. His tears freezing as soon as they traveled across his cheek, this was her fault, and she couldn't deny it. She left him even though he had protected her in the early days after the war. Just because he was losing himself, she abandoned him. She felt cold deep inside, not only her heart, but her very soul for having done this to him.

Perhaps if she had stood by him just a little longer, maybe stole the crown and burned it. Maybe, just maybe she could have helped him redeem himself. And perhaps it was not too late. She thought at least, and finally reaching him, she stopped.

Something was wrong, something was very, very, very wrong. The snow had stopped and now the former Simon had stopped his weeping and laughing had stopped, replaced by ragged breathing. He held a dark blue aura around him and she didn't know, but she felt a toothy grin on his face.

She reached out to grab the cursed crown then Simon screamed, an ear splitting hellish screeched that made her have to cover her ears. Then Simon was on her. Squeezing her small neck with both hands as he suspended her above the ground, she struggled and kicked against his arms but it was impossible.

His cloths were tattered and ripped in most places, revealing blue flesh here and there. Marceline's eyes began to bulge from their sockets, and blackness consumed what little vision she had left. And as life, in all its preciousness slipped from her grasp, she peered into Simon's icy white eyes.

She saw only hate. Not the hate you could have for just anything, but for everything. Along with that she saw insanity, the craziness that would one day consume the hate and only leave a sad, crazed old man.

Marceline awoke with a shout of mental and emotional pain, her body aching and her naked body consumed by a cold, thick sweat, she sighed; sat up and pulled back the covers exposing her pale body. She stood, grabbed her velvet robe and put it on, tying the belt so it did not fall. Marceline reached over to her night stand and grabbed up a rubber band and doing her hair up as a ponytail, after this, she levitated from the ground and traveled down stairs.

Finding herself too weak to levitate, she fell on her feet. Mustering all the strength she could, she walked over to the sink and vomited all the contents of her stomach into it. After using the sink to clean the corners and inside of her mouth, she fell down on her knees and wept horribly.

The visions had been happening all week, but for only the past couple of days did she hear the voices, telling her to hurt herself or give up, she tried her best, but couldn't stop them, she had given up on Simon all those years ago, they told her. The only way to redeem her was to give herself the pain, so she would know what Simon felt. They whispered that to her at night, keeping her awake for hours on end.

She stood using the sink to steady herself and reached over to her knife holder and grabbed the first steak knife she could, her hand trembling. She stared at the faint reflection of herself in the window. She was pretty, pale, black eyes and an enticing face. She had all the curves in the right places.

She couldn't take her eyes off the reflection as she cut her wrist open, black ichor falling out into the sink. This was what Simon had sacrificed his sanity for, the voices continued to whisper to her until she had finished slicing. She spent the rest of the night, huddled in her pantry, weeping until sleep, with sleep came nightmares, some worse, and some more mild.