Chapter 4: Matthew's POV

The door shut behind Tino and I sighed softly, unable to resist the soft smile that sprang to my face. I wasn't used to that feeling. The feeling of not being told to just talk already, the feeling of actually being noticed. What had happened with the other man, Roderich—that was normal. Not many—or, really, any—people noticed me right off the bat, and yet Gilbert had. Only one other person had done that and it had turned out to be the worst encounter of my life. Yes, that made me a little weary, but it had still made a warmth that I hadn't felt in a long, long time blossom in my chest when Gilbert had been obviously mad when his friend hadn't noticed me. The ice cream had been nice, too; it had been years since I had had the luxury of food that wasn't absolutely necessary to keep me alive. It was nice that he simply hadn't cared. He hadn't cared that I didn't like talking, at least not until I trusted him a lot more. He hadn't cared that he had had to bandage my arms and watch over me when I passed out and scratched my arms to the point that they bled. He had even gone so far as to be kind to me. That wasn't something I was used to. No one had found it necessary to be anywhere near considerate to me like Gilbert was for what felt like lifetimes. Of course, I knew it had only been a few years, but still… when time seemed to be held in place by chains of pain and fear, it was easy to forget it was there like most people forgot about me. Time had barely passed for me for quite a while, and I hadn't had it in me to care. At that point, all that I had had the ability to spare thoughts for was when it would end. When the pain would stop. When I wouldn't have to live in constant fear. When the glint of metal, whether from a car or a wheelchair or a knife, would stop sending me into panic attacks. When I would be able to eat like a normal person because my body had stopped being so malnourished that it would survive by practically digesting itself. When the color red would once again just be another color, not a symbol of my suffering. When dark hair and a twisted Spanish accent wouldn't signal the start of my journey through the next circle of hell. I never bothered with numbers; I always lost track around thirty. I found it interesting how enough animalistic terror could make everything else flee with its tail between its legs like a frightened rabbit.

Then again, I didn't think that many people experienced that kind of pure instinct. At least, I hoped not. What I had been through I did not wish on anyone, so I felt sorry for those who had been through even similar experiences. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if Gilbert could put me back together. I knew I was broken and shattered to the point of being useless; that was why Alfred had dumped me there. I didn't blame him, though; I could understand not wanting to take care of me. I knew that I would just be a burden, and it hurt, but I had accepted it. After all, being a deadweight was what had landed me in my situation in the first place. I had hated it, but I knew deep down that I had deserved it. I knew that I couldn't be fixed, even if I had been freed. It was just a matter of time until Gilbert got tired of me and sent me off to some other therapist because he didn't want to deal with my baggage anymore. I wondered if that would be how I spent the rest of my pitiful life; being tossed from therapist to therapist like a soccer ball.

A sharp pain in my arm drew me out of my thoughts. I looked down and my heart sunk through the floor when I found that my nails had dug into a small space of skin between the bandages and ripped open my arm. Blood was staining the white and I quickly averted my sight to avoid another panic attack. The last thing I needed was to bother Gilbert again with the news that I had freaked out yet again. I already felt like enough of a burden with the two—well, one and a half, since Gilbert had somehow managed to pull me out of the second one before it really got underway—that I had already had. I didn't want to speed up the inevitable process of Gilbert getting tired of me. I knew that it was going to happen; everyone would get tired of taking care of me eventually. I was betting against myself; giving it at most two weeks before Gilbert dumped me on someone else.

I sighed shakily and sat on the bed, surprised at how nice they were. The blankets were soft and warm, and I could tell that I would at least be comfortable as I watched the shadows move and hoped that none of my demons would pop out of the darkness. Still, maybe I would be able to get some sleep.

I took my shoes off, smiling ever so slightly as I set them on the floor. I found that I was right as I laid down and pulled the blankest up to my shoulders; the mattress was soft and springy and the pure warmth almost sent me to sleep. I hadn't been truly warm in a long time; the concrete and metal that had surrounded me for so long had always been cold. My body heat hadn't warmed it up, and it seemed to leech the heat out of the red that splashed and stained darkly against the red. According to Alfred, I had been suffering from almost life-threatening hypothermia by the time that he had found me. Some days, I wished that the cold had taken me, and that way I wouldn't have been able to poison anyone else's lives. Alfred wouldn't be dealing with my hospital bills—which I was certain were for monumental amounts of money that he just didn't have. Gilbert would be able to be helping someone else who he actually had a chance of fixing. The police wouldn't have to be dealing with figuring out what to do with me if, by some miracle, I could be taped together just enough to be sent back into society. Everyone would just be better off if I had died. If one of those knives had cut just a bit too deep. If Alfred had found me just a few days later. If I had lost just a little more blood.

A quiet voice in the back of my mind said that I was wrong. That I wouldn't be better off dead; that Gilbert could help me if I gave him the chance. That voice sounded vaguely like me; like it was my own thoughts instead of the other ones that Alfred told me were part of my schizophrenia. It was quickly drowned out, though, by a much louder, more violent voice telling me that I was useless, worthless, a waste of everyone's space and time. That one was deep and carried that hellish accent.

I whimpered, covering my ears and shaking my head as if I could hide from the words echoing through my own my own head. "No! No, I'm not!"

Yes, you are, you little bitch. You should just finish what I started. One shadow in the corner of the room seemed to move and I flinched, pressing my back against the wall.

"No! I won't! I won't, I won't, I won't! I won't listen to you!" I moaned miserably, curling in on myself.

Another shadow shifted and my eyes flicked back and forth frantically, my nails digging into the soft flesh around my ears as if I could physically tear my living nightmare from my head.

I will find you, you know. There's no hiding.

I made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a whine as I saw the flash of metal from the corner of my eyes. Suddenly my wrists and ankles felt heavy and sore, pain searing through them every time I moved. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I was just imagining it, that it was all in my head, but that didn't make it any less terrifying.

I sat there until I passed out, my throat raw from crying, my muscles sore from constant tension, tears drying on my face, my head aching from the intensity of the voices, and my eyes burning because I hadn't dared blink. As I collapsed on the pillows, I knew one thing for certain.

No matter how much Gilbert tried, no matter how close to success he got, the voices' attacks on me would just shatter me all over again.