Matt awoke to muffled screams from the next room. The noise rose and fell, like waves, carried through the vents, through the cheap plaster walls. He sighed, rolling over onto his side.
Near was at it again. The boy was like an alarm clock; at the same time every day he would start his fits. It was enough to drive anyone crazy. (Well, Matt thought with a dry laugh, crazier.)
There was the sudden sound of footsteps outside his door and Matt sat up in bed, glancing toward the only exit. There was the sound of a lock being turned and his door swung open, revealing one of the so-called nurses.
This one looked to be about forty, her graying hair tied in a messy bun behind her head, as if she hadn't bothered to look into a mirror. "Breakfast time," was all she said as she ushered him with her eyes out the door.
Matt got up, thanking the Lord that he had fallen asleep in his clothes from yesterday. Some days the nurses would stay and watch him pull on his boxers with a kind of hunger that made his stomach drop to his knees in shame.
As he made his way down the long hallway with doors on both sides where he knew others like him lived, he couldn't help but be aware of the sounds of anguish that radiated through the very air. Moans and cries penetrated the silence and, even though Matt knew he was considered one of them, it still made his skin crawl.
He took his place at his usual table in the corner. It was a place where he could be alone, while watching the others. He liked to watch the others eat; it was one of his few forms of entertainment here. As the other patients trickled in, Matt played with what passed here as soup, watching them with a curious eye.
Mello awoke to the sound of voices. They echoed off the walls, flew past him, surrounded him. He raised his head wearily, glancing around before sitting up in the pew.
At first he was confused—how did he get here, and where was here anyway? But then he remembered the night before; the client, the money, and the long trek back to the Church where he'd been sleeping.
He wasn't supposed to be here; in fact he was quite sure it wasn't legal. But he had yet to be caught, so he figured it was alright. As if mocking his last thoughts, a man dressed in black, the Father, Mello presumed, walked up to him, a tight look on his face.
"Good morning, my son. What brings you here this fine day?" Mello, still paralyzed from the night before, took a moment to answer.
"Uh, praying, Father. Isn't that what one does in a Church?" The man smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Of course. What I meant was aren't you just a bit too young to be at church alone?" Mello shook his head, dirty blonde strands falling into his eyes. God, he must look awful, he thought, stomach sinking.
"I'm just…"
But at that moment he heard sirens outside. His eyes widened in realization. He had heard two men before, which meant one of them could have called the…Panic flooded through him as he jumped to his feet. The Father tried to grab his arm, but Mello bolted, running through the church.
Somewhere behind him he could hear the Father's booming voice asking him to wait, but he didn't listen, he couldn't. He knew where they would send him if he was caught, and he wasn't going back there, not ever. He'd slit his wrists before he let them drag him back.
He burst through the back room where the Father's office was, looked around wildly, found a door, and kept going. Even when he miraculously found the street again, he didn't stop running. Even when his lungs burned and his feet ached, he never stopped running.