Matthew

Author’s Note: Tricked you, didn’t I? No, the story won’t be in third-person, I just wanted to try it out. Consider it a taste of what's to come? Anyway, enjoy! Or.. try to... I dunno. Angst.

 

 

 

The plane landed in England, a factor I appreciated since my experience with other languages wasn’t exactly up to par. My location didn’t seem to fit the far, far away condition Vincenzo gave; so after some research at an Internet café I hopped onto a train across the border. The hard cash in my backpack made it all so easy.

My first week in France went by without a hitch. I moved near a province with a high population of English-speakers and small-town folk. With the money Vincenzo lent me, I rented a small apartment tucked away in a corner of isolation. The new location, language, and culture kept my brain busy enough to put a dam on my unsteady emotions.

The dam didn’t hold up for long. By the second week I found the need to seek psychological help; all the ghosts and phobias plaguing my life didn’t leave much room for rest. It took dubious amount of effort, but I eventually located a therapist with the capability to offer some sort of advice and aid without demeaning me. I didn’t stay with her for long. She was only a temporary outlet, though the one thing she opened the door to I truly believe saved me. Pills. Before long, without me realizing it, my medicine cabinet became an encyclopedia.

I had one to help me sleep, one to regulate my anxiety, one to control depression, one to stop hallucinations, several for headaches and even more for muscle pain. They kept me numb, and I kept myself moving.

Days turned into months. Months into years. Time moved too quickly to feel real. I got a job at an undersized but popular family-owned pub. Overtime I stopped bleaching my hair, stopped using my glasses, stopped looking over my shoulder.

Don’t get me wrong, I never forgot. I followed Asher’s trial religiously on the television; even in my distanced corner of the earth, his news found me. Without my presence at his trial, and mysteriously missing evidence, his three top-notch lawyers tore down the other side to shambles. He’d gotten a few months in jail due to some half-assed charges and endured house arrest thereafter, but his business took a heavy blow as a consequence of all the allegations. Alrick suffered longer in prison because he took responsibility for contraband found at the pier. Vincenzo disappeared without a trace.

I tried calling Anna once while in England, but the moment she heard my voice she insisted I had the wrong number. It wasn’t hard for me to guess that the cops were searching for me. Although it pained me to completely cut ties with them, I let Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery go.

I stopped living. But I kept moving. Always moving.

 

 

 

Time doesn’t heal. If anything, it turns extreme discomfort into ordinary until it becomes mundane enough to ignore. Wounds closed up and molded into scars, but nothing ever healed completely. Even my thumb didn’t go back to normal—at times it barely bent, other times it didn’t maintain the strength to hold a grip properly. Whether psychological or physical, most of my body stopped working correctly.

To avoid thinking of big issues, I filled up my head with small everyday matters; when to wake up, what to eat, how to prepare it, what to wear, how to wear it—I took everything to such extremes that I often teetered on the edge of obsessive. There were never any holes in my schedule for free thought. My days flew by in step-by-step succession, every minute calculated down to the possibility of traffic and bad weather.

I woke up at 6:02 everyday, showered, shaved, got dressed and ate breakfast by 7:10. In order to get to work by 8 o’clock, I left my home at 7:24. My co-workers usually arrived fifteen minutes after me, which gave me enough time to set up shop. Since we were one of the only places to eat in town, we opened up early and closed down late. I took it upon myself to clean up the floors, set the tables, wipe the glasses behind the bar and fetch the alcohol every morning before anyone showed up. Keeping myself constantly busy reserved my sanity for four years.

The day it all changed was like any other day: I woke up at 6:02, got to work by 8:01, and cleaned up the pub by the time my first co-worker arrived at 8:18.

“Good morning!” Ashley called happily from the doorway. She bounced in wearing her usual red coat, a brown scarf and a matching beanie pulled down over her ears. As she wandered into the back to hang up her coat, two other employees entered the pub. I greeted them both with a nod and they waved lazily back at me. My therapist often teased me about the names of my acquaintances, questioning if I was trying to compensate for something subconsciously. It was really an accident, nothing I planned ahead of time, but Ashley, Rick, and Vincent were my closest friends.

“I don’t feel like working today,” Vincent sighed. He was usually a quiet fellow, very smart, the eldest of three siblings and the breadwinner of the family. Although he was born and raised in France, he frequently spoke English for my sake.

“Just need some good coffee to wake us up,” Rick offered. At only twenty years old, he had a trust fund that set him up for life—though for some reason he came into work without fail everyday. He originally migrated to France as part of a study-abroad program, but after his year was over he talked his father into letting him stay. I respected his decision to take his own road, regardless of how an easier path was already waiting for him.

Last but not least was Ashley, an army brat with a bubbly personality too bright for her own good. It was always the brightest bulb that attracted the nastiest bugs, after all. She always had a skip in her step and a happy hum in her words, both of which I shamelessly envied. Her smile easily became something to look forward to everyday.

“Guess what I did last night,” she dared as soon as she returned to the bar.

“It depends on which club you went to,” Rick snickered teasingly.

“Shut up,” she snapped, throwing him a quick glare before looking back to me. “Guess Matty, guess! Guess!”

I shrugged at her inquiry, but spared a small smile to show her I was interested enough to listen. Behind her, Vincent gave a roll of his eyes as he wandered over to switch on the television hovering over the pool table. We all knew what her story would be about, and she would tell it regardless of our willingness to listen. I was just the only one still prepared to play along.

“I met this guy last night,” she squealed happily, drawing a sigh out from the other two men. Ashley was known for her flavors-of-the-week habit. “No, listen, listen! He’s not that cute, he’s kind of grungy and has this awkward limp, totally not my type right? But there’s something about him! He totally gets me. I think this one is the one, Matty. Aren’t you excited for me?”

“You think every guy is the one,” Rick scoffed, making sure to use air quotes.

“Well, technically Matty is my one and only love. If he agreed, I’d marry him right now,” Ashley chirped. Leaning over the bar, so her bosom hung provocatively out the low-cut collar of her shirt, she reached forward and ran a finger down my cheek. I arched both eyebrows at her, once again disappointing her by showing no interest in her flirting tactics. As a result, her caressing finger quickly turned into an assault by joining her thumb and flicking out at my forehead. “Alas, he has that horrible sickness.”

I hissed lightly at the numb pain her flick left behind, reaching up one hand to rub against my forehead as Vincent chortled out a forced sound. “Just because he’s not interested in you doesn’t mean he’s sick,” he mumbled.

“Blasphemy!” she gasped, reaching up to clasp at her left breast like an arrow had just pierced her. “Everyone’s interested in me!”

The two men glanced at each other and with a synced sigh, hung their heads. They couldn’t say any different, as they both had been involved with Ashley in the past. To stay out of the conversation I busied myself by taking up the task Rick had suggested earlier: I made some coffee. The dark nectar was still one of my guilty pleasures, but I hadn’t drunk any in over four years. One of the many ways I punished myself for past misconduct.

“I think he’s just not into women,” Rick proposed. “Have you ever seen him with a girl?”

Ashley gave a soft shake of her head. “No, but I’ve never seen him with any guys either.”

“Then again that doesn’t mean anything. Just because we haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

The conversation continued as if I were never in the room, weaseling its way in and out of possible scenarios where I was either hiding a lover or had my heart devastatingly broken. Sadly both extremes had some truth to them, a reality I wanted to shun. I let my attention wander to the television screen prattling above Vincent’s head, the screen flickering from sports to a soap opera to the news. Tomorrow entailed cold wind and dark skies, according to the weatherman.

“Hey Matty,” Ashley called, easily bringing me back into the discussion. “Have you ever been in love?”

My hand instinctively moved into my pocket, grasping at the object that’d grown to be my source of comfort the past few years. I squeezed the keychain in my palm, willing it to keep me upright while my foggy brain tried to find the best possible answer to the dreadful question. The pills never let me think fast enough anymore. “I don’t know,” I laughed forcefully. “What’s your definition of love?”

Ashley released a soft sigh, curving her palm up to prop beneath her chin as a dreamy look settled onto her face. “You know… you get that fluttery feeling in your chest when he’s around, so much so that you feel sick, but then when he leaves you can’t wait to see him again. And all you can think about is what to wear so he’ll notice you, or what to do to get him to stay on the phone a minute longer.” She paused, sighing once more as her lips stretched back into a wistful smile. “Ah, I miss love.”

I followed the bounce in her words, resenting the beautiful picture they painted in the muddiness of my mind. The hollow smile remained placated on my face, but I didn’t dare let myself connect personal experiences with her analogy.

I couldn’t go back there.

And I didn’t need to. A few seconds later, our first customer cheerily waltzed into the warmth of our establishment. The two boys retreated into the kitchen to take care of the cooking, leaving Ashley as the only waiter while I remained behind the bar. Although I spent four years in France, I found it easiest to play dumb and pretend I still didn’t have a good grasp on the language. Overtime I’d picked up on the vocabulary, and understood most of the slang, but I resisted the urge to partake in actual conversation. Not that I needed to, my friends censored enough of my world to keep the requirement to a minimal. I usually got banished to the bar, where the names of the drinks were easier to remember than conversing directly with customers and taking orders.

“Hey Matty! Need three coffees for table two,” Ashley yelled as she bounced past my position. I nodded at her request and moved to follow through. The coffee was already prepared, it only required pouring, so I fetched three mugs from behind the counter, set them out and began filling.

That was when the first bad omen arrived. From beyond the tinted windows of the pub, a jeering sound loud enough to penetrate the walls and the jabber of the television burst into the warm dwelling. The residents within all turned toward the door, following the sound of the ambulance as it whisked by outside. Because we lived in a small town, chances were everyone knew the person the ambulance had been called for, which of course tugged on their curiosity. Everyone rushed outside in a collective mob to check the direction of the alarmed vehicle.

The obstructive sirens had the opposite affect on me.

The deafening sound caused a hiccup in my hand that skewed the handle to one side, rendering my thumb useless as the container once in my control toppled over in a waste of coffee. The hot liquid splashed against the edge of the second mug, overflowing the first and spilling across my arm. I winced at the heat capable of flattening my sleeve into my flesh as I abandoned the coffee, quickly staggering away from the counter in my haste.

My next glance up locked my gaze onto Ashley, who was the last person remaining in the pub. She stared at me with wide eyes, her complexion completely pale, the worry on her face hinting that she was just as aware of the meltdown that was about to commence as I was. Before she could think to approach me, I tucked tail and dashed into the bathroom.

“Matty?!” she yelled.

I locked the door behind me, just seconds before her body smacked into the barrier. She called out again, her voice just a pitch higher than the rattle of the doorknob as she struggled with its unmoving oval. “I’m fine,” I rasped as calmly as I could manage. “I just spilled a little coffee.” To add substance to my claim, I turned on the cold water and shoved my sizzling arm under it. Cold water seeped into my sleeve, offering momentarily relief to the irritated skin beneath. But it wasn’t the physical pain that had driven me into the confinement of the bathroom.

You? Asher’s voice erupted into my eardrums. You did this?

The sirens faded from reality, though remained stubbornly dormant in my mind. I tried to blink away the grey eyes that glared hatefully at me through the haze. They were so mean, so unrelenting. Please stop. Don’t look at me like that. Please don’t look at me like that.

“Matty!” Ashley called again.

“I’m fine,” I whispered, jerking my arm away from the sink. “It’s okay Ashley. Go back to work. I’ll be out in a bit.” With trembling hands, I fetched a bottle of pills from my pocket, popping the top off to shove two through my lips. A tilt of my head let the water from the faucet overflow my mouth, escorting the pills down my throat. I let the cold wash over me, weighing down my hair, stinging my eyes, filling my head with a sensation other than panic.

I know, pathetic. After four years of therapy I gained the ability to deal with my fear of water, cars, blood, and could manage my claustrophobia better but the sound of sirens turned me into a trembling mess. I ceased to have respect for myself long time ago.

Lowering myself to a crouch beneath the sink, I swayed to lean my weight against the wall while my body waited dependently for the effects of the pills. Ashley’s banging eventually faded, along with the sirens in my head, and as I rested my eyes the grace of silence finally found me. Soon the only thing on my mind became the dull ache of the singed skin on my arm. Though putting any sort of ointment on the harmed area felt like too much effort, especially because I’d need to actively search for the first aid kit. As the pain continued to throb beneath my skin, with no desire in me to put an end to it, I grew strangely fascinated by my own lack of care for myself. When had I grown so apathetic to my own well-being?

Then again the pills helped avoid physical discomfort. The low dose of tranquilizers I carried with me not only numbed panic but cut down the feelings of pleasure and pain. My therapist constantly warned me of the side effects of long-term use, but I told myself there was no other cure. It was the only way I could deal with it on my own. I was so overloaded with emotions that I needed the occasional dose of medication just to keep myself stable—thankfully not a lot of ambulances or alarm-blaring cops visited our town, so my panic attacks weren’t frequent in appearance.

A knock at the door startled me enough to bring my eyes up to the locked doorknob. I rolled my sleeve down over the irritated patch of skin on my arm as I stood, but I made no move to open the door. “Yeah?” I called.

“What the hell are you doing in there, dude? Giving birth?” Rick grunted. “I’m about ready to piss my pants here.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

I took that promised minute to splash some water on my face, run my wet fingers through my hair, and replace my pills in my pocket. When I opened the door, Rick charged impatiently past me and straight to the toilet. He didn’t spare any time waiting for me to completely exit before he unzipped and whipped out his dick.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands, Mr. Cook,” I sighed on my way out.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied with a soft exhale, clearly enjoying his release.

I retreated to my spot behind the bar. Ashley threw me a few uneasy glances, but couldn’t approach me; the customers were flooding in, keeping her much too busy to attempt interrogation. Still, she managed to slip a hushed "Are you okay?” my way when I passed her some drinks for a particularly large order. I nodded to soothe her worries, put on my best smile for her, and even showed her the wrong arm to prove my health. She smiled happily, awakening the jealous beast in me that thirsted for the careless life she led. Why couldn’t I have been born as her instead?

The day went by systematically after the small hiccup in the grand scheme of things, right down to the minute for me to clock out. Mr. Moreau, the owner of the pub, arrived at approximately 9:25 to take over my shift for me. I cleaned up my station, changed back out of my uniform, and as usual Rick slipped me an invitation for drinks at his place with the rest of the gang. As usual, I refused. Alcohol had proven to be my enemy.

“I have Bourbon,” the trust-fund brat teased.

“I have things to do,” I lied. “Thanks for the offer though. You guys have fun without me.”

“Hey,” Ashley whispered, stopping me before I could slip out of the front doors. She grabbed onto my damaged arm, causing a ripple of discomfort strong enough to make me wince. I kept my face slanted away, reluctant to let my friends notice. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Stop worrying,” I chuckled forcefully. A glance back assured me that my suggestion was not an option, so to lighten the mood I moved in closer to her. My other hand outstretched, gently brushing her bangs out of her face before I trailed my fingers up to her forehead. “You’re going to get worry lines. You don’t want wrinkles at such a young age,” I commented. “Go back to work. I’m going home to get some rest.”

“I can come with you,” she offered loyally.

A soft whistle brought both of our eyes to Vincent, who was wrapping a light blue scarf around his neck in preparation of the cold night just outside the doors. He grinned knowingly at us, admiring my proximity to Ashley. “Looks like your charm is finally working, Ash!”

“Welcome to the club, Matt!” Rick laughed. “You’ve finally joined the dark side!”

“Good night guys,” I declared willfully, shaking my head. Ashley squeaked in protest, but I wasted no time in pulling my arm away from her. I knew Rick would escort her home after work, so there was no need for me to worry.

I caught bus 28 back to my apartment, a nice 29-minute ride in a quiet environment devoid of prying eyes and prodding questions. The bus was mostly barren at that time of night, so I had no problem finding a seat near the window. Sticking to my developed habits, I took up the second seat in the fifth row and slouched against the dirty glass. There was no need to worry, think, reflect or contemplate—everything went according to my imaginary schedule. Nothing changed. Nothing was new. Nothing was complicated. The bus took me a short walk away from home, to the road I’d walked countless of times, and even in the darkness I felt the ease of repetition lead me back to my familiar door.

There was nothing new about unlocking my door, kicking my shoes off, or hanging my coat up in the closet. I followed a step-by-step procedure in heating up a microwave meal, grabbing a soda and plopping down behind my computer. Just like every night, I would spend a few hours finishing up homework for online college courses before I attempted sleep. Just like every night, I planned on passing out beneath my ivory sheets with the help of sleeping pills.

But unlike any other night, a knock came to my door at exactly 12:15 a.m.

I glanced up from the glow of my screen, past the edge of the table, past the dip of the couch, straight to the door that shouldn’t have emitted a single sound. The knock didn’t repeat itself, but it had been loud enough the first time for me to be sure it wasn’t just an echo in the back of my head. I slowly pushed my chair back, hesitated a moment, then stood. With indecisive steps, painfully labored by pauses in between, I approached the door. Who was it? And at this hour?

I didn’t imagine it was the second bad-omen of my day.

When I opened the door, I initially saw nothing. The street beyond my doorstep was blatantly empty, but as my gaze wandered down I noticed an unfamiliar mound crouching in my doorway. What the hell? After a moment of awkward silence, I slowly knelt down in front of the form cowering before me. I stared at the outline speechlessly, unable to wrap my mind around the presence of what shouldn’t have been. Was it a prank? A bad joke? A mistake? A wrong turn?

What was a little girl doing outside my apartment?

“Hey…” I paused, giving a lick to my lower lip before switching languages. “Est-ce que ca va?”

Her wide blue eyes peered up from the shadow of a light green hood, filled with more worry than intrigue. Before I had a chance to ask if she was lost, she thrust out her little fist and held out a small piece of paper. I kept my eyes on her face as I accepted the note, instinctively searching for signs of her identity. She wasn’t a friend’s kid, nor was she from my neighborhood, but she looked up at me expectantly. Like she knew me. Like I was supposed to know her. Although I didn’t recognize her, there was something jarringly familiar about the little face. Where had I seen it before?

I glanced down at the paper in my hand in hopes of a clue, but what awaited me pushed me further into confusion. Keep her safe. I’ll be back soon, it read. What the fuck?

“Qui es-tu?” I tried. The girl continued to stare at me, still cowering at the foot of my doorway. “What’s your name?” I asked her, trying English once more. The blue eyes remained wide, staring, her little pink lips parted with warm air that created puffs of mist in the darkness of the cold night. She shivered when a soft breeze wisped into my home, driving her arms tighter around something she was cradling against her chest. I tilted my head to get a better look, finding a blue and yellow transformers backpack clutched in her grip. “Damn,” I sighed. What kind of irresponsible mother left their kid at a stranger’s doorstep?

“What exactly am I supposed to do with you?” I mumbled to myself. I usually avoided kids and I was no licensed babysitter… but I couldn’t just leave her out in the cold. It was the middle of the night. “Come on in,” I said before realizing French was the dominant language in my region. As I wracked my brain for the correct vocabulary, the nameless girl stood and shuffled into the warmth of my abode. So she understood English? That made life easier for me.

The kid politely took her shoes off and left them in one corner before migrating to the couch, where without my permission she curled up in one corner with her bag still hugged against her stomach. I stood up to close the door, taking a moment to study the note in my hand again before glancing toward her. I didn’t recognize the handwriting either.

What the hell.

Thrusting one hand into my pocket, I slowly fished out the light blue frame of my cell phone. After a few quick taps of my thumb, I raised the phone to my ear and waited anxiously for the other end to pick up.

“Hey Matty!” Ashley chirped.

“Hey… Listen… Something weird just happened,” I mumbled, eyeing the kid a moment before deciding it best to continue my conversation in the next room.

“A kid?” Ashley pondered after I’d explained my unexpected discovery.

“What do I do?” I bit into my lower lip. “Call the cops?”

“It might be the best thing to do, if she’s lost. But you said there was a note? And in English? Maybe it’s someone you know.”

“I don’t know anyone with a kid,” I said confidently. “Is it one of your friends? Maybe they went to the wrong house.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe. What’s her name?”

“One sec,” I whispered as I stepped back into the living room. “Hey kid,” I redirected my attention to the little girl still sitting on my couch. “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”

The big blue eyes rolled up toward me, wide and unblinking with the uncomfortable silence she continued to demonstrate. My patience proceeded to cave in on itself. “Ask her about her mom,” Ashley’s voice resonated in my ear.

“What’s your mommy’s name? Do you know?” The question sounded awkward in my head, I’m not sure why I bothered uttering it. A name couldn’t really help the situation. “Do you know where your mommy went? She’s not too far, is she?”

At the mention of her mother’s location, the kid’s eyes pooled over. Within a matter of seconds the moisture turned into streams that striped down her cheeks as a shrewd sound echoed from her little lips. Her hands clutched her backpack tighter, flattening the material in a last attempt at physical comfort. Before I could stop her, she’d started wailing. “Ah,” I paused, wincing at the sound. “She’s crying.”

“Poor kid!” she wailed into my ear. “Look, I’ll drop by after work, so just watch her for now. I know you don’t like kids but bear with it for a bit, and be nice to her! Don’t be your usual aloof self! I’ll be there soon.”

The click of the line disconnecting stopped me from verbally resenting her statement. I exhaled softly into the increasingly uncomfortable atmosphere of my home as the kid I previously thought to be mute cried with a voice and volume capable of crumbling buildings. I stared blankly at her trembling form, the sight igniting dull warmth in my stomach that slowly churned into lava. Anna would bake her some muffins, I found myself thinking. Hah. What a silly thought. What a silly memory.

My therapist always theorized that I took it upon myself to help others, to save others because I never saved my brother in the back of our runaway car. I didn’t help my mom. I couldn’t rescue my dad. He claimed my need to be the hero in the past was my subconscious way of making it up to myself. I disagreed with him. I hated playing the hero.

But Anna’s memory compelled me to at least fetch a glass of water for the screaming kid’s soon-to-be sore throat. I set it down on the coffee table in front of her and plopped down on the other side of the couch. There was no compelling desire in me to rush over and comfort her, to hug her, or tell her that anything would be okay. That was a lie. Nothing was ever okay. I remained slouched in place, phone still in hand, watching her cry her pretty blue eyes out. The sound grinded on my nerves, but even that didn’t motivate me to act on what I knew was right.

I let her cry until she passed out.

Due to my last shred of decency, I picked her up and carried her to my room, though it was more out of obligation than concern. I should have felt bad, my conscience told me, should have been worried and fretful—but her flood of emotion had left me numb. This was life. We all had to face hardship in the end. Still, the visible agony on her face sent another shard of familiarity through my body, awakening a few dark memories I’d tucked away long ago. Revulsion sent a tremor of anger through my fingertips when I tucked her into bed. Who was she? Why did her mother discard her at my doorstep? More importantly, what did it have to do with me?

I slipped back out of my bedroom with the sore thought that I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my own bed that night. With my priorities all in the wrong places, I headed back towards my laptop and books. Which is when I heard another firm knock.

It was already at my door; the third omen of my personal apocalypse.