Matthew pushed the door open and let it bang against the wall before he turned and slammed it shut. The house shook with the force of it. He kicked off his shoes and ran towards his room, dropping his bag on the floor along the way. He screamed in anger as he ran through the house, and slammed his bedroom door closed when he finally reached it. Francis stepped out of the kitchen, looking after his younger son in concern. It was unlike Matthew to behave this way…
Francis set down his dishtowel and slipped the apron off over his head. He laid them both over a kitchen chair and headed for his son's room. He knocked quietly on the door.
"Mathieu? Vous sont bien?" he asked. He pressed his ear against the door.
"Partir, Papa. Laissez-moi la paix," Matthew replied in broken French. Francis put his hand on the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn.
"Mathieu, faites-moi entrer, mon fils," Francis said.
"Non!" The word ended on a sob, and Francis tried the door again in concern.
"Mathieu, s'il vous plait, open the door."
"Non, Papa!" Matthew was openly crying now. Francis left for a moment and returned with the key to the door. It slid into the knob and easily turned. He carefully opened the door onto a darkened room. The light from the hallway revealed Matthew sitting in the middle of the floor, his head bowed over his hands in his lap. He had his back to the door, so Francis couldn't see at first what he was doing.
"Mathieu…" Francis stepped forward and gasped as he saw over his shoulder. Matthew raised his tear-filled eyes to look at him. The thin metal blade was buried deep in his wrist, his stark red blood flowing over his pale white skin.
"Papa." Matthew raised his uninjured hand toward Francis. Francis turned and ran from the room. Matthew dropped his hand and let his chin fall against his chest, his shoulders shaking. A moment later, Francis's arms went securely around his waist. Francis dialed a quick number on the phone he had grabbed and held it to his own ear, waiting anxiously until someone on the other end answered.
"Hello?"
"Arthur! Allé à la maison rapide! Mathieu! Il est mort!"
"Hold on Francis, I don't understand you when you talk like that. Try using English," Arthur encouraged calmly.
"Papa, je ne suis pas mort," Matthew said softly.
"Who's not dead?" Arthur asked, more able to understand Matthew's calm voice than Francis's hysterical one.
"It is Mathieu!" Francis cried into the phone. "Arthur, il est—he is cutting himself! With a razor! There is blood everywhere!"
"Have you called a hospital?" Arthur asked.
"Non! I cannot, ils ne comprendront pas!" Francis cried.
"Alright, just calm down, I'll be there soon." Arthur hung up, and Francis dropped the phone. He put both arms around the boy's waist and rocked back and forth, sobbing into his shoulder as he held him tightly.
"It will be alright, Papa," Matthew said, patting his hands. Francis raised his head to look down at his son. Matthew gave him a weak smile. "Soon I'll die. Try not to miss me too much, okay? I know no one else will." Francis stared at him in horror.
"What about your friends?" he asked. Matthew's eyes welled up with tears again.
"I don't have friends, Papa. Do friends forget your birthday? It was today, and they all forgot. All of them forgot. Even Alfred." Matthew leaned into Francis's arm and cried. "They all forgot me! I was standing right there and they didn't even see me! Do friends do that, Papa? Do they?" Francis could not answer, and instead just hugged his son tightly. Soon he heard the door open down the hall.
"Francis?"
"Arthur, here!" Francis called. Quick footsteps echoed down the hall towards them. A shadow fell over them as Arthur stood in the doorway, then he came and knelt next to them, taking Matthew's hand in his own two.
Time seemed to blur for the boy as Arthur called an ambulance while trying to stop the blood flow, Francis holding tightly to him all the while. He blacked out for a while, and then he was being lifted onto a stretcher, the ceiling spinning above him. He felt his Papa's firm grip on his uninjured hand.
Matthew was taken outside to the ambulance, and he felt Francis's fingers slid away from his. He tried to sit up, scanning the faces over him frantically.
"Papa? Papa!" he cried out.
"Calm down, Matthew," a paramedic said, trying to calm him.
"PAPA!" Matthew screamed, thrashing against the straps holding him in place. Francis jumped up into the ambulance and grabbed his hand.
"C'est bien, Mathieu, je suis ici," Francis said, brushing Matthew's hair out of his eyes. He pressed a hand to his son's clammy forehead and met his violet eyes. Matthew gave him a weak smile.
"Merci, Papa," he said, just before the world went black.
Okay so this is my first published fanfiction, and I know it's a little dark, for some reason lots of my stories turn out that way. There is a happy ending in store though, you'd have to wait for the next chapter. When I finish it I will try to put it up as soon as possible, but I had to wait an hour for my faulty internet connection to even put this one up.
Translations(roughly):
Vous sont bien? = Are you okay?
Partir, Papa. Laissez-moi la paix = Go away, Papa. Leave me alone.
faites-moi entrer, mon fils = let me come in, my son
Allé à la maison rapide! Mathieu! Il est mort! = Come to the house quickly! Matthew! He is dead! (I did it on purpose, he's exaggerating because he's getting hysterical)
je ne suis pas mort = I am not dead
ils ne comprendront pas = they won't understand
C'est bien, Mathieu, je suis ici = It's okay, Matthew, I am here
Also, Happy Canada Day! We do love you, Mattie. Really.
Please review!