Tomorrow came and went for Matthew with not a sign of Gilbert. He frowned to himself, upset that he had gotten his hopes up. What reason was there for Gilbert to remember him now that he was out of the hospital? He sighed, picking at his hangnails and staring at the wall opposite him.
Lonely. That was all he felt. To anyone else, his house would seem warm and inviting. His family could be nice people very easily. In fact, Alfred was a very friendly, very popular kid. However, that didn't change the fact that he didn't remember his own brother. The house currently smelled of pot roast. Matthew figured that they were probably having potatoes with chives and some sort of vegetable with it as well. That was his favorite meal. He knew that his family was downstairs, talking and eating and having a good old time... But they had once again forgotten Matthew.
Wincing, he looked down. The spot where a hangnail had been a moment before was now bleeding profusely. Sticking his thumb into his mouth, he licked over the wound, the metallic taste of blood making its way onto his tongue. That was the most he'd have in his mouth for awhile. He didn't have the guts to go down and ask his family why they had forgotten him and get food. His personality was far too timid for that.
Sighing, he curled up on his side, ignoring the rumble in his stomach. Matthew Williams. Who was that? Did it even matter? No, of course it didn't matter. If it did, no one would forget the name. The name of this small Canadian boy didn't matter to a single soul. He was insignificant. A tiny speck of dust in the wide universe. Nothing special. Nothing worth looking at... Nothing worth taking up space and breathing air. Nothing worth living.
His thoughts were dark again. He couldn't see why Gilbert had saved him, especially since the guy didn't seem to have any interest in him any more. He had said he'd be over to visit him today and he had promised that he wouldn't forget... And yet Matthew had no other explanation than that he had forgotten. A part of him wished that he had Gilbert's number so that he could call him, but another part argued that he wouldn't have called anyway because he's a sissy and wouldn't want to seem like a whiny bitch.
Curling up on his side on the bed, he stared at the boring white walls of his room, imagining how they would look splattered with red... the red of his blood... possibly with bits of organ in there as well, if he decided a gun would be the best way to rid the world of himself. After all, he was just a waste of space.
So Matthew sat there, envisioning tons of different ways too off himself until he fell asleep, only to have dreams of himself doing that very same thing.
A few days went by like this. The first few, Matthew actually got up and got himself something to eat, but after awhile, he just stopped caring. He rarely got himself up out of bed. Another thing he found was that he relished in the pain. Whenever he would feel himself getting bored, he would poke at his arm, which hurt like hell. Of course, he didn't feel like getting up to take painkillers... though... he was pretty sure if he took the entire bottle of his prescription, that would kill him... And it wouldn't be nearly as gruesome as some of the other deaths that he'd imagined for himself.
Then again... he didn't even have the willpower to get up and go to get the pills in the first place. He sighed for the umpteenth time that day, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. When was the last time he had gotten out of bed...? He couldn't remember. When was the last time he had eaten? That too, he couldn't remember. So wasting away was the route he had chosen for his death. He would just lay in the bed. Eventually, his body would start to rot and the smell would be putrid enough that his family would have to come in and take care of the body. What would they think of him? Would they just assume that somehow some animal had gotten in, or some stranger broke into the house, or would they truly realize that it was their own flesh and blood, laying there, wasted and broken. If they did know that it was him laying there dead, would they understand why he did it? Would they know that it was their fault that he had died? Or would their consciences just tell them not to think about it so that they wouldn't have to feel the terrible guilt. Because without a doubt, his death would be their fault. They didn't think to come in and check on him to be sure that he was okay. So they could deal with his body.
Even though it hadn't been long, Matthew's body was already beginning to show the signs of wasting away. His eyes were dull and sunken in and his skin was loose. If you were to pull on it, it wouldn't have the elasticity that it should and snap right back into place, but instead it would slowly go back to its original resting place on his bones. His hair was an unkempt, tangled, greasy mass on his head. The only shine to it was from said grease. The scent of his body already wasn't the best as he hadn't bothered getting up to shower. And all he had done was lie around in his sheets, still wearing blankets even when he got hot, his sweat soaking into his clothes, sheets and mattress. If, by some miracle, you were able to get him to smile, you would see that his gums weren't the normal, healthy pink, but a slightly paler color. They would only get worse as time went on. All in all, he was a mess. A mess, and quite pitiable. Not that anyone would pity him. They don't remember him enough to do so.
He just kept wasting away... unnoticed.
Nobody said a word when he missed his therapy appointment. No one from the school called, asking when or if he'd be back in. As far as Matthew knew, not a soul came to visit him to see if he was okay, to see if he was healing, to see if he needed company. It was obvious to the poor, ever weakening boy that no one cared. No one. Not his family, not his so called friends... he didn't even care about himself any more.