Matt stared down at the simple spiral notebook that had been placed on his bedside table.
Supposedly, inside the red cover, there were 250 pages. He glanced back up at the small, pale teenager in front of him.
"You do not have to begin to recall anything specific. However, Saitou-sensei suggests that it may help you to reconstruct your goals."
Not even Matt, who had conditioned himself to refute anything and everything that he thought to be truth, could deny that the small childlike boy in front of him was unnerving to the core.
Use it, my ass. Never going to happen, pajama boy.
Mat didn't articulate his thoughts, preferring to redirect the conversation back to where it had come to a dead end the previous day.
"I want my laptop, Marcus."
End of the conversation.
Near looked at Matt with an unreadable look before turning and walking out of the room. Matt sighed and lay back on the sanitized hospital bed.
He was almost positive he was in the psyche ward, but no one would tell him. They skipped the details, by either telling him the name of the hospital, responding back with a different question, or ignoring him completely.
If anyone had bothered to ask; he could have told them that there were exactly 2,345,762 black specks on the ceiling tiles above his head, and there were 128 whole concrete blocks that made up the room. But no one ever bothered to ask the red head whose hair was slowly starting to fade back into its natural brunette tone.
July 27, 2010
I'm not quite sure how to go about this.
The shrink says that I should write to whomever makes me feel the most comfortable, but how can you write to someone who has been stolen from you?
How can you correspond with a martyr that chose to end His life just as he had lived it; as an anonymous ghost?
I don't have anyone else, not after that fucking case. They all died, or don't trust me on my own.
Fuck, I can't even get cleared to leave the hospital yet. It's been almost three fucking months...and I...and it still hurts.
Everything hurts.
The holes where the bullets pierced my skin, my mind from where nothing even started to make sense any more.
Everything.
Marcus still hasn't given me my computer back, or fuck, it doesn't even need to be mine anymore. All of the files that I had stored on my laptop are obsolete, useless.
Not to mention; probably gone.
I doubt Marcus and the NPA and the FBI and pretty much anyone else on the case would have let the files survive. The files that solved the fucking case for them, the ones I wrote down, are probably destroyed now.
I don't even know why I'm still doing this; it's not like anything I can do is going to bring Him back to me. The shrink Marcus got me said that I have anger issues.
Maybe he's right, but he doesn't know anything if he thinks my issues are serious.
He was so much worse than me.
If anything, He's the reason I ever get angry.
I used to be so calm, almost as placate as Marcus, only I had more characteristics.
Like eating, walking in the sunlight, being able to acquire a skin shade darker than 'porcelain'.
He used to call me crazy when I told him why Marcus got ahead of Him.
He was right; He's always right.
I remember the day in the orphanage when I gave Him the rosary that was the only reminder of my parents.
That was the day I made a score higher than Him, and He was so fucking angry at me.
I plucked the rosary out of the small box I kept under my bed that had what was left of my parents things and handed Him the rosary.
He never took it off after that, and He wasn't angry with me anymore.
I don't really remember my parents all that well.
Actually, I only remember my mother holding my hand during a church service one morning.
I don't remember much, except that she was crying and clutching that rosary in her hands, the skin around it turning white. Everything was really dark, and her thin spider veined hand was clutching onto mine.
The pastor was talking about someone who was really great, but I had just wanted to go home to play on the Nintendo that I had gotten for my birthday.
When I think back to that memory now, I'm not so sure that it was my mother, although it's not going to change anything if it wasn't.
Marcus offered me a job working for him so that I could "pay the rent" as he put it.
I don't need a job. I need for them to stop crowding around me like I was a small child, and I need for the past four years to have been a dream.
Fuck, I need just the past six months to have been a dream. I need to wake up with Him wrapped in my arms again, and I need to hear His voice talking, even if He was just yelling at me. I need to have back what I had when I found Him in that bar in L.A.
I just noticed that I'm writing in paragraph form. It's really weird.
Maybe I'll start
to write this in poetic form
just to fuck with that overpaid shrink
who thinks that he knows
everything about me
when in fact he knows nothing
Marcus can go fuck himself
because that's better than nothing.
I'm such a child sometimes. Everyone always told me that. Especially Him after we had an argument.
I would sit there and pout, and eventually a smile would spread itself across His face, and
He'd smack me across the back of my head and tell me that I needed to grow up; to become a man, but I'd seen what 'growing up' had done to Him, and I never wanted to grow up if I was going to be the same.
Not that I'd had a choice this time, though.
He needed my help, again, though I had told him time and time again that I wasn't good for anything. He never listened to all of my self loathing bullshit though, so what made me think that He was going to that time.
My shrink is probably going to make me read this. Probably aloud to him..
Fucking creep.
Or read it to Marcus.
Actually, Marcus probably was going to send one of his people to sneak in here later after the drugs knock me out to read through and make sure I written down anything incriminting.
You know, I can't even fucking sleep on my own anymore.
He haunts my dreams when I do, but the pills make the dreams go away, they make everything stop until the morning, and I don't know that I'm ever going to want to be with out them.
They make me forget the pain of losing my entire world, of losing everything that meant anything.
The sun had long since dropped below the skyline when a nurse came in to check on Mat and to inform him that he would not be receiving his dosage of Ambien, instead, she handed him a half capsule that resembled Zaleplon and a glass of water.
What the hell? She has to be fucking kidding.
"Mr. Jones, I would like to be sure that you take your medication. I do not want to be forced to add it to the list of medicines that have to be taken intravenously."
"I'll take my real medicine, thank you." Mat replied, his Japanese every bit as smooth and flawless as hers.
The petite nurse glared at him for a second before writing something on her clipboard and shaking her head slightly, an irritated expression on her face.
"Bliad," * Mat muttered under his breath.
This was not happening.
There was no way that Near was going to let them take away the sleeping pills.
Take the morphine, take whatever else was running through that I.V., but don't fucking let them steal the Ambien away from him.
Never mind, leave the morphine; Mat needed all the drugs he could get his hands on. The doctors couldn't take away the numb.
Not yet.
Not when Mat thought he was so close to getting out.
*Pronunciation of whore in Russian. Written as Блиaд