I. Inside Jokes
Strings of rubies, emeralds bleeding into the night sky. The air was hot, sticky, and alive with the electric buzz of Miami's nocturnal life. A concrete kingdom. His entire world was paved with these glowing streets. The kind that devoured footsteps, licked the mud from boots and muffled the stride of faceless identities. But he needs that kind of anonymity if he is to win this game. So they can never see him coming. And by the time Nate realizes it, I'll already be saying 'Check mate, bitch' to his sorry face. Just wait till he sees what I've got in store. Just wait.
It was rounding eleven, the swell of the moon patches against a black velvet sky and here he is treading aimlessly because he was too stubborn to buy a map. For years he trains himself to find his way just by looking at the constellations. Just a brush of dots in the sky to some, but to him they spoke in riddles. He considers it his secret power over the universe.
But since arriving in America the foreigner no longer sees the diamond stars. His guardians. They hide behind a thick blanket of smog and clouds. But he knows where they lurk, just beyond the mortal field of vision. They were burned into his mind's eye. Stars, a fiery white. Traveling with him, these millions and millions of miles over land and sea.
The summertime heat gives way to the pleasant reprieve of a cool breeze. During the day he had abandoned his snakeskin coat, the last valuable thing he owned, in exchange for a train ticket and a bite to eat. It was a heavy sacrifice but he would make do.
Sacrifice. He was willing to do what it took to reach his goals. But right now my only damn goal is to find a place to sleep. Eleven turns to twelve, and then one o'clock rolls on by and he is still wandering. The encroaching tendrils of fatigue are invading his concentration but he is too busy trying to convince himself he is wide awake to notice. Mind over body, mind over body. . .
Lady Luna gives up her throne reluctantly. The sun rises over a condemned church, optimism in the form of UV rays scourging a bruised sky.
What was that saying? Look forward to a brighter day? Who ever came up with that, Matt imagines, never considered the effects of Global Warmings. Or the 90 degree weather which plagues the city this time of the year. It's always too damn hot around here. Welcome to Miami, where it's like living on the mouth of hell.
He pauses at a bus-stop bench, sliding a cigarette from his pocket. Matt fumbles for a lighter before turning to a stranger lingering on the curb, obviously caught between the urge to move and the urge to stand still. "Hey man, you got a light?" He asks, but the other person doesn't hear him, or as Matt later reflects, was probably just ignoring him. Persistent, Matt leans over and taps him on the shoulder. Like a chain reaction, the stranger recoils defensively at the touch. He flashes Matt a manic stare, taking one step forward with his fist clenched.
Instinctively Matt takes one step back. The cigarette could wait.
"Whoa there man, take it easy. I didn't mean to start anything with you," Matt raises his hands with an awkward smile. Stupid, he was not. To pick a fight or just play the wimp, Matt knows there is a time for one and a time for the other. He chooses the latter because the problem with these sort of narcos was how easily they interpreted the slightest actions as a death wish. Tread softly. "We're cool, right?"
Suddenly the stranger grins, only it isn't a friendly gesture. Instead he looks like a dog right before it bites; too many teeth and not enough warmth. "Oh yeah, we're real cool," he replies with words laced in mockery. His voice is fringed with an accent, one that Matt can't place. It's not the local Cuban twang but more like a cross between several languages all rolled into one. BritishGermanFrench with a side of Japanese.
Matt wants to back away, to distance himself from the nutcase, so he wills his body to move. But nothing can coax his legs to bend, his muscles to contract. His gaze locks with the stranger, engaging in a staring contest that he's destined to lose.
Eventually the stranger giggles, which throws Matt off kilter but also gives him the distinct impression that whatever has caused this amusement is somehow a private joke. One that Matt isn't privileged enough to know.
Years later, Matt still won't have a clue what Mello is laughing about half the time. They had been just a couple Kurt Cobains, blazing through life on a bullet train to no where. Strangers then and strangers now, Matt's opinion has changed little in regards to the blond boy who stole his cigarette, and his wallet, after so graciously punching him in the face that night.
Whatta fucking punk.
II. Gingerbread Man
"Can't catch me, I'm the GINGERBREAD MAN!" Matt yells over his shoulder to the lumbering officer. He's sprinting down Marbella avenue after jacking a new camcorder from Radio Shack, converse sneakers beating against the sidewalk in a rush to evade his pursuer. Why is it the whole world slows down when you're in a hurry? The faster Matt tries to run, the slower his legs begin to move. He's inhaling, exhaling with haggard breaths. It's the price you pay for becoming a smoker at nine-years-old, an annoying voice in the back of his mind says just as his feet give way when he stumbles over a crack in the cement. Cursing the nicotine in his veins as well as the healthy cop's endurance, Matt surrenders to the handcuffs as he's jerked into the back of the police car. It's a familiar place. He almost feels at home, pressing his sweaty back into seat. Miranda warnings fill his ears, the words flooding the air—but he knows them all by heart and so he doesn't listen.
The officer who climbs in behind the steering wheel, Deputy Richardson, is also familiar. Still out of breath himself, the large man swivels in his seat to briefly look at Matt through the metal mesh. "Shit kid, again? Didn't I bust you two months ago for stealing a gameboy?"
Matt shrugs, playing the card of casually indifferent.
Deputy Richardson sighs, turning back to start the car. Even as they begin to pull away, he's shaking his head—speaking mostly to himself. "I've got a son your age and thank God he doesn't give me trouble like this. You know it's gonna break his heart to see ya like this again, Matt."
Of all the cops out on the field, Matt has come to find that Deputy Richardson is probably the only one not hardened by his career. If anything, people say he's too soft. But how messed up is that? He's seen so many cops, so many pricks with badges, and sometimes he's wished they could care a little more. Not about him. Matt doesn't give a shit either way, but about others—the kids that steal because they can't afford nothing, not even a piece of moldy bread. He knows them, not because he shares their situation—but because he's sat by them in juvie before. They've told him their stories.
Choices, Matty. There is always another choice. There goes that voice again. A small frail voice that he sometimes labels his conscience. But it's more a nuisance then an assistance so he practices the art of ignoring it. Suffocating it. Drowning it with sarcasm and bitterness.
Matt is gazing out the window, feeling distinctly like an animal on display in the zoo as bystanders are staring back at him. He can read the little nameplate beside his cage: Homo Sapien Delinquent. The eighth wonder of the world.
The radio in car is buzzing with noise and voices. And then Matt hears the clear voice of an officer, asking for minor back up. "Guess we got to take a little detour," Deputy Richardson says and pulls off the main street. And this is how Matt met him. Again.
It was in the back of a police car, of all places. The deputy left him in the car at the curb, walking into a bar. When he came out minutes later, he was with four other officers trying to wrestle a scrawny boy into handcuffs. Matt watched with fixated awe at the way this guy fought back, like a violent thrashing demon straight out of a video game. But it wasn't long before he was on the ground. It had taken a tazer shot to get him down. What a cheap shot.
Matt slides against the window as they put the guy in the backseat, eyes widening with recognition at his backseat companion. Unconscious, the guy seemed harmless. Almost angelic with feathery blond hair and pale skin. But remembering what had happened a few nights ago and after witnessing the fight just moments ago, Matt feels slightly on edge. The hair on the back of his neck raises and he's tightening his hands into fists—not that it would do any good with the handcuffs on.
"Relax, he's going to be out for a little bit," the deputy says after noticing Matt's mounting apprehension. It doesn't matter though, because Matt still keeps one eye cocked in the other guy's direction the rest of the ride, waiting for him to spring to life at any moment.
It's got to be more then coincidence that they would meet up like this but Matt can't figure out what kind of demented god would use their powers to make two strangers wind up in the same cop car.
When Matt walks into the Miami police station, there is a split-second lull as many people look up—the officers who recognize him immediately wince and those that don't are quickly briefed by those that do know Matt. And then they wince.
While the other boy is carted off to a cell, Matt is immediately taken to the sheriff's office. Deputy Richardson leaves Matt in the office, walking off to process papers, while the sheriff has his back turned away, facing the window as he talks on the phone. All Matt can here is the sheriff's end of the conversation a series of 'yeses' and 'uhuhs'. Twenty bucks says he's talking to his wife.
"Yes, dear. See you when I get home." Click. I'm right.
The sheriff turns to face his audience and suddenly his relaxed expression is casts with shadows. His gaze traces the handcuffs binding Matt's hands, while his lips move with silent the ghost of words— preparing for the speech, things he's said before in this situation, each time hoping he won't ever have to say them again. And each time he does. The sheriff's face is weathered and in this light, Matt thinks he looks fifteen years older then his forty-two years.
"Hey dad," Matt says flatly.
"Matthew," he replies with a deep breath, sitting down in his leather chair as he rubs his face, trying to rub away the permanent frown printed there. After a long, deliberate pause all the older man can muster to ask is, "Matthew, why?"
He cocks a defiant, smug grin, "you obviously haven't seen this thing. It's a pretty good cam."
His father hides his face within his folded hands, scrambling for the words that will give him an edge over this situation. Something new that will make a difference this time. But he realizes it never does. Matt is so strong-willed, so stubborn—that nothing he says or does will make a difference. "Is this out of spite, Matthew? Do you do this to me because you hate me and want to make your mother and me miserable?"
Matt, infused with a venomous tone, "Spite? You give yourself too much credit, old man. I don't give a shit about you and that hag of a wife of yours."
"GODDAMNIT!" His father shouts, suddenly lurching forward and slapping Matt across the head. The hit connects to the side of his temple and Matt nearly loses balance, faltering as he sees black spots in front of his vision. "Don't talk about Jessica that way!"
With utter loathing the son barks back, "then don't you dare call that thing my mother. You left my mom rotting in Japan, remember? You left her nothing, yousonofabitch."
Those were the last words Matt remembers saying. Afterwards there is a rush of motion as his father comes at him, he raises his hand and Matt figures he is going to slap him again only the hand that comes down is in a fist. And when it strikes, it doesn't stop. Over and over and over. . . He's falling over; the linoleum floor is cool against his cheek. People are yelling, a flood of footsteps. And then darkness.
III. Cell Mates
He wakes up with a start, frozen in a moment of disorientation. And then suddenly the where and the how come flooding back to him, bringing a headache. An ice pack slides off his forehead as he props himself up on the cell's stiff cot. From the tiny window in the far corner he can tell it's night time. His cell is dark but looking around he can tell he is not alone. Against the wall he can see the silhouette of someone's body. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he realizes that it's the guy from before, staring at him.
Ah shit. It's that demented god at work again. Putting him in places he doesn't want to be. Matt closes his eyes, hoping the other boy will just ignore him.
Only he doesn't.
"You have been asleep for three hours," he states.
Matt looks up, "Oh", is all he can say because he's caught off guard by the awkwardness of this. Matt knows he should be pissed at this guy after he stole his wallet. But Matt's priorities are pretty simple at the moment and getting beaten up a third time in less then 72 hours is not one of them.
"This happens often to you, doesn't it?" The other boy asks, but the way he poses the question it sounds like another statement. Matt takes in the way the stranger looks at him, the cat-like stare that makes him uncomfortable. He gets so lost in this feeling that he forgets to answer the question.
Matt nods with a slight chuckle, "yeah, but usually without so many bruises. How bad does it look?"
"It could be worse," he replies. And Matt wonders if he means, he personally could have done a lot worse. For his own general health, he doesn't ask for an elaboration. Instead he introduces himself, "the name's Matt by the way."
He doesn't answer at first. But after a pause, the other boy says his name is 'Mello'. What a strange name, even if it's just a nickname; such an antithesis to his nature. Restless, Matt leaned against the barred door of their tiny space. The dull evening light in the rest of the police station filters through the bars, committing suicide on the concrete floor. Mello still watches him, calculating. Neurons firing, conclusions being made.
From the commotion earlier and the wallet he had jacked from this boy, Mello had gathered this much: Matt was seventeen-years-old and the son of Sheriff Staub. Frequent delinquent with a fake id and a shiny collection of stolen credit cards. Mello was taking in the details of this boy; marveling at the clash of looks. messy copper hair and Asian features, a stubbled chin and relaxed posture. Calm and a little too nonchalant, Matt seemed at home in this setting. And Mello says so.
But he just shrugs, planting himself on the floor against the gate. "What can I say, I'm not a saint. I've been here more then I've been in my own effing bedroom in the last four years." Matt casts a shadow of a smile. At this opportunity for conversation, he doesn't hesitate. In fact, once he begins to talk he doesn't shut up. Because Matt, as Mello soon discovers, is the type of guy that talks to anyone. "How about you? I don't think I've seen you around town before the other night—I want my wallet back by the way. You can keep the credit cards, most of them are maxed out anyways but the wallet itself was a birthday gift."
Mello's expression twitches—he doesn't know if he should be annoyed with this kid or amused. Eventually settling on the latter, he simply agrees on Matt's first guess. He wasn't from around here.
After a long lull on Mello's side, Matt starts up again. He's tracing his fingers gently across the bruise under his left eye. "So what did ya think of the live-action Jerry Springer Show earlier? Let me tell ya, it's not usually like that. Not between me and the old man, at least. What kind of jack-ass nails a punch on ya when you've got your hands cuffed though? Yeah that was a low blow even for my scum of a dad. But that's life for you, it's always gonna be kinda effed up. We're all better off just looking out for ourselves, don'tcha think?"
Mello isn't entirely listening to him. He's leaning his chin against his knee, sifting through his own thoughts and the people he's left behind. Across an ocean, on another continent, in some obscure orphanage for child prodigies, Nate and the others. Those are the people he's left behind. He can hear his voice, that albino punk, echoing in his head. 'What good is it to run away like this, Michael? This isn't what he would have wanted, you know that. Do you miss him? Miss him so much you have to run away? Don't be the rebel fighter, Michael. Don't stand alone when you don't have to.'
He grabs Mello's hand. What is that look in his eyes? A subtle change in their passive indifference. Is it sadness? Don't even start with me, Nate. Don't try to pull any emotional gimmicks now. I won't take orders from you.
No way.
Mello shoves him down and walks away. He turns his back on that stupid house, those kids, Nate.
". . . We never pick our family, you know man?"
Mello is stirred from his memories, glancing up at Matt with a hidden emotion.
We never pick our family, Michael. . .