Sometimes Matt wondered how the hell he even made it to this age. He wasn't talking about the multiple suicide attempts, or the times he got mugged or bashed up, or the particular aggressive anti-homosexual protester who'd tried to stake him with their uncreative 'GOD HATES FAGS' sign.

Since Matt had always had a very dark sense of humour, he'd thought he should at least be polite and given the guy suggestions. Because if he was gonna deal with this bullshit, they should at least have put some effort into these things. Sure, not everybody could rock that Leonardo da Vinci shit, but he knew toddlers who could decorate better than that.

Just sayin', a little paint and glitter could do wonders.

But that was beside the point.

Matt still thought it was a miracle he'd managed to get this far. Between his…alternative… lifestyle, wimpy 'beat me up I'm a nerd no one cares about' body and his general incompetence at doing anything right, he was somewhat shocked his heart hadn't ceased beating out of sheer pity for his patheticness. Matt-Matt! It would scold. Hell are you doing wit' yo life?!

He wasn't quite sure why it called him that. He was more focussed on the fact that he assigned personalities to his body parts and wondering if he should just walk to the local mental asylum (very convenient that it was located so closed to the prison and Matt's place) and hand himself in for the good of society.

Are you even listenin', Matt-Matt? His heart demanded. Look here, you lazy ass. All I be wantin' is some good work these days. Not all this wallowin' around in bed like yo legs have gone on strike!

Why did his heart have an accent?

Stop wit' that self-pitying shit! Give me a good rhythm pumpin', maybe hunt down that nice piece of ass you were ooglin' a while back. Why haven't you given him a call?

"Because I lost his number!" Matt whined pathetically, whimpering.

And wasn't that the truth.

All his excitement and hope (and potential booty, his lower regions whispered slyly even as Matt shut it down ruthlessly) had flown out the window and been hit by a car. Because Matt was such a terrible excuse for a human being that he'd managed to lose the one thing he'd wanted.

Idiot! The entirety of his body whispered in synchronisation.

…He really should remember to take his pills.

Matt felt terrible for ignoring all his calls and texts. He was being an ass. Deliberately difficult. Horribly impossible to deal with. Shirking his duties to others, and for what? Because he couldn't even find the energy to get out of bed?

Francis had been hovering around him these last few weeks (and Arthur had joined in, even as the two glared daggers at each other.) Witness the downfall of the most ungrateful brat in the world! He thought.

He'd gotten Arthur and Francis oh so worried, and for what?

Little ol' Matt?

Beep beep.

He knew what he was doing to himself, and couldn't find it in himself to care.

Let them hate me, he thought.

They couldn't hate him as much as he hated himself right now. How pathetic was he? How pathetic was he that he finally had my binder and everything and his goddamn uncle had risen from the dead like the fabulous drag queen he was (rising up from the stage with a bang) and he still wasn't happy?

He cocooned himself under his blankets. It was warm and safe and he'd suffocate down here and this time he wouldn't give a damn.

Maybe she should grab a permanent marker and write his grave message on his maple-leaf covers.

He actually thought seriously about what he should write, and if that wasn't an indicator of his deteriorating mental health nothing else was.

Here lies Matt, he is dead,

Died because he wouldn't get out of bed.

There was a reason why Matt had dropped English literature.

Matt rolled over unintentionally onto his phone.

"You have 15 missed calls, 34 new messages and 7 voicemails." His phone reported.

"Shrtdup." Matt groaned muffledly into his pillow.

"Matthew!" Francis' voice cries suddenly from underneath him. Matthew startled, falling off his bed and knocking his lampshade onto the floor, breaking the bulb.

Well. There goes his best friend.

"Matthew, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Francis –"

"I haven't heard from you in the week or so!" Francis' voice interrupted without any indication he'd heard Matthew. Oh. He'd been replying to a voicemail.

His body was a choir. Idiooooooooot! They sung to him. They'd already gotten different harmonising and shit done.

Yeaaaah. His prescription was out, but Matt couldn't bare the idea of leaving his bed let alone going to the doctor's office. He felt so tired, and weak, and shaky -

"I even swallowed my pride and spoke to that Arthur man! That silly Englishman! And he didn't even bother gloating in my face because he was so worried about you too. So we're coming over to find you, you hear me?"

They were? They'd managed to put aside their differences for him?

"And you know we don't get along well, but we've made a temporary truce. So you better be okay, Matthew!" Francis scolded as he babbled, though hints of secret fears bled through. In the background now that he bothered to listen properly Matt could hear the sounds of a car engine and Arthur going "I don't think he's listening to your messages, Francis. I told you, he's probably just lost his phone again."

"Then why would his phone still have battery?! You even said he's not been turning up to work!" Francis said, unusually agitated. "What if-!"

"He's. Probably. Just. Sick." Arthur gritted out. "There's no use worrying your pretty little head until we actually see there's something to worry about. So do shut up." He said, exasperated and on edge whilst hiding his own hint of fear in his voice.

"Call back, Matthew," was all Francis said before the voicemail ended.

Matthew stared up at his ceiling before he turned his phone off. God, he was a dick. And he didn't actually have a dick, so the magical ability for his body to compensate for such was stunning. Thank you, Brain, he whispered sarcastically.

Don't be a smartarse, his brain replied.

.

..

…

He should call them before they came to get his ungrateful ass.

So why couldn't he summon the energy to do something so little?

.

He closed his eyes.