AN: Hi, sorry this is so dark, I wrote it a year ago for an English assignment but forgot to post it, sorry. Let me know what you think. I will try to type up some of the other fics I wrote, and finish all the pieces that I never got to finish. Oh and unfortunately, I don't own this fabulous show or any of the actors :(
Why, why would he do this to me dammit or better yet how, could Matty look me, his big brother in the eyes and turn his back on me, how could he turn his back on ma and pop, or our sisters, our poor baby sisters why would he leave like this, with me to clean up his shit, dammit, I have to call ma and pop eventually, before they hear it from someone else, I have to let them know their youngest son is a fugitive—how to you even start that conversation, how can I possibly tell them that he gave me two choices, shot him or say goodbye I'm a fucking cop for heaven's sake, and hell, how do I tell Grace, my baby girl is going to be crushed when she learns her favorite uncle isn't coming back, I'll tell her when I pick her up for school tomorrow, and drop her off at Rachel's, but seeing Rachel in that huge house, that platinum ring on her finger, it kills me knowing that Stan can give her everything that I never could on a cop's salary, knowing that he one ups me in every department, whatever, he can go to hell with that plastic looking tan, but then again, Stan wasn't here last night when Matty treated me and Grace and Rachel to a family dinner, she seemed really happy then, like it was before things went to total hell, before she got fed up with my long hours and the perils of my job, before we'd start fighting over nothing, in front of Grace no less, hell, even Grace doesn't need me anymore, I can't afford to give her things like Stan, I only get to see her twice a week and then I drop her off at that huge gate and watch as she goes back to Rachel, Grace doesn't need me, Rachel doesn't want to be with me, Matty doesn't want my help, I have nothing see it was Matty who, after Rach left me, sat with me, every night for six months, beer in hand, never glancing at his watch, falling asleep in chairs then going into work, which apparently was stealing people's life savings, that bastard talked me down from the ledge every single night, now who'll talk me down, or better yet convince me there is no ledge at all, grabbing my service weapon, placing it against my temple like a pen to paper, I decide to finally write, after all, the whys will never be answered— —