He stares into the blank morning, the eyes of no one following him. The sun shine dimly, the world is shining bleakly. Sure, he's not worth anything, and sure, where has everything gone to. But he simply cannot ignore her grave, he cannot ignore her painful eyes, he cannot ignore and hide behind his silence. He cannot, anymore.
He was nothing more than a nobody. He was a coward, a pretender. He pretended to be filled in his own world, to be content and happy. He pretended to be peaceful, to be nice. He pretended to not be filled with such a pain, nothing could ever take away. He cannot explain the screams that rip in his stomach, the pains that have set him apart from everyone else. He simply cannot, and no one dares to touch him, to reach out. He looks around, and kisses the grave goodbye. He gets the bag beside him, he brushes of the grass stained jeans he sports, he walks away, and he lets the tears slip.
Day goes on without so much an acknowledgement from anyone. He simply says nothing, and doesn't look anyone in the eye. His are still red, partially from his allergy to grass, but mostly because of the tears waiting to fall from them. Sitting in the back, as usual, he is never called on. He is never asked up. He is never called to, and so why does it matter to them, if they don't care for him?
Silence. It wallows in him; it covers up everything about him. It makes his head spin; His heart tremble; His eyes water; it's the thing he breathes in when he cannot breathe no more. It's simple, and it's a tremendous waste of time, tears. And it's a way to keep everything hidden, and away. Not even his best friend – his best friend – notices how quiet he's gotten. He barely opens his mouth to sing, and no sound comes out.
Empty. That's what he is. A replica of a boy everyone once knew so very long ago. One who chatted, who talked. One who danced with passion, one who smiled when he was smiled at. Now, the said boy listens to his iPod, quietly, waiting for someone to make smile, like he use to when he was so very young. Not even his best friend – the one who would tell him everything would be okay again- was looking at him now.
Pills. The container stays half full, for days. His parents aren't home enough to notice. Time flies, and he shrinks into the background, and when he speaks, no one notices. He dumps them all down the trashcan, and he gets some more from the doctor. The doctor says no, because he's doing fine. He nods, and doesn't disagree. If he can fool the doctor, he is fooling everyone.
He waits in the summer, alone in the house. His skin crawls with anticipation. He cries with fear of his own doing. Those pills kept him sane. The marks that were on his arms are coming back, slowly. The cuts are deeper, they hurt a little more. They sing to him, a deathly song, which makes all the pain in his chest disappear for one moment. He dances with death, he cuts a little deeper. Blood stains his arm, a vibrant shade of blood rose red. He washes it off, the sting of the soap making him wither in agony. He cries in the hot water, and he visits her grave once more.
He tells her not to worry, little angel, not to cry, little sweetheart, not to let herself be sad. He talks to the inanimate object for hours, never complaining, and always telling her it's going to be okay. He doesn't cry, for once, and he walks away, telling her that one day, it'll all make sense. He tells her to go sing with the angels she was with, and to bless those who died with her.
He walks away, he goes home, and he cuts to the bone, intentionally. He bleeds, and he bleeds, and he stops bleeding only to admire the cut that is there. He knows it's unhealthy, but who isn't? Someone takes part in a dirty deed. His was the only one that hurt him though. Logic was never his forte.
Cutter. That's one word he would have never used to describe himself. The pain can only go away for so long, but now cutting doesn't go deep enough. He wants more pills, and he needs them. He's going crazy, his mind is spinning, the ground is next to him, and the pain is still there. Blood is dripping up and down his arm, and he wants to get out. He gets the phone, and he puts it on speaker, cutting more and more. He's angry, and the pain needs to go away. He reopens scars, he cute more and more till the taste of salt and the smell of blood is all it the room. He hears a voice, and he screams in surprise. It's is phone.
"Matt? Matt what's wrong?"
"Quinn, I'm sorry for not being good enough."
"Matthew, are you okay?"
"Quinn, everything's blurry. And my arms, my arms, their scarred and red with blood."
"Matthew, are you, okay?"
"She's gone, she's gone Quinn, and I couldn't help her."
"Matthew, stay with me. Matt, stay there."
"No, NO NO!"
"Matthew, I'm coming to get you."
"I'm sorry."
Matt would feel himself breathing harder, and softer, and painfully. Every breath was a blow to his chest, his arms felt like they weren't there. He wanted to move, but he couldn't. He stayed there, and he stayed there, and when someone came, he tried to stay. He stayed as they hooked him up; he stayed as they poked and prodded at him. He stayed, but he never came back.
Silence. That's how he died in. No one was there to hold his hand. No one was there to tell him to turn back. No one was there to stop it. No one, not even the girl, could bring his back to life.
My take on Matt. Very angsty, very very angsty. Yeah, I know. Don't kill me.
About a thousand or so words.
Review is the shit:)
-Madi