He stood at the bus stop by the school, and waited for the number 72 bus to come and take him home. It didn't take long, but he found the wait unbearable.
He couldn't stop shaking. It wasn't cold out—in fact, it wasn't even raining, for once; it felt as if the cold was coming from within him, from that dark and empty hole near his heart. It was that place that called to him like death, that reached for him with chilling and grasping fingers and threatened to pull him under, and that was the source of his shaking. It smelled like fear and it felt like winter, and he couldn't escape it because it was inside of him, because it was part of him.
It was that part of him where Josh had once lived, and it was much bigger than he thought it would be, infinitely bigger, and he thought it was so sad how you never knew how much someone was a part of you until they weren't there any longer.
Maybe if he had realized sooner, before it was far too late, he would have been able to help; he would have seen what was right in front of his eyes instead of ignoring it, he would have seen his best friend descending into a place of darkness without a guiding light.
He remembered how angry he had been at Josh when he had started pulling away, when he had started skipping school and when he had shown up it was with lank hair and dark circles under his eyes. He remembered how he had let that separation happen, how he had allowed their band and their dreams to fall apart, because he was hurt and he was determined not to let Josh see just how hurt he was.
And now he was still hurt and he would always be hurting, and now Josh would never see how hurt he was.
A strange, choking sob escaped him and he sank to the ground, his feet in the gutter and his pressed suit crumpling beneath him. He wished it would rain; he thought that rain might help put out the pain that was burning inside of him.
He heard the bus coming before he saw it, and he pulled his feet away from the edge of the sidewalk just as it pulled to a stop in front of him. Wiping at his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his jacket, he climbed aboard.
"You okay?" the bus driver asked him as he dropped a handful of change into the coin box.
What was he supposed to say to that? Keeping his head lowered, Matt shook his head, and walked quickly towards the back of the bus before the driver could ask any more questions.
My best friend's dead and it's my fault.
By the time he got off the bus ten minutes later, a light drizzle had started, and while it felt cool on his face, it did nothing to make him feel better. He walked quickly, not to escape the rain, but because he had very little time.
The house was empty, as he had expected—as he had been counting on. He ran up the stairs to his bedroom and pulled the duffel bag he had packed the night before out from beneath his bed. Hastily he took off the tuxedo—now soiled and wet—and exchanged it for a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt. He threw on a jacket and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder before running back downstairs and stopping hesitantly in the kitchen.
First he rummaged through the cupboard and the fridge for food to take with him, and threw that on top of the clothes in his bag; it wouldn't last long, he knew, but he'd be able to find food elsewhere. He'd be okay.
When it came to stealing his parents' change jar, the decision wasn't so easy. On the one hand, Matt didn't steal; Matt was a good kid.
But good kids didn't run away, either.
He took the jar and shoved it in his bag before he had time to feel guilty.
He thought about leaving a note, but couldn't think of anything to say; in the end, he left a piece of paper with two words scribbled across it sitting on the kitchen table:
I'm sorry.
A couple of blocks from his house he got on another bus. He didn't know where this one was going, but it didn't really matter; it would take him somewhere. That was all he wanted.
He sat in the very back with his knees pulled up to his chest and his forehead leaning against the cool glass, watching the world through the rain-streaked window, blinking to stop the tears from coming to his eyes.
And he fell asleep like that, because it had been a long exhausting day and it got to the point where when he blinked, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He hadn't slept much the night before, or the night before that; he hadn't slept much at all over the past week and the whine of the bus and rain pattering off the roof and the gentle motion beneath him lulled him into the rest he so desperately needed.
Sleep was good. Sleep was less painful. Sleep was an escape.
When he awoke, it was to a hand shaking him by the shoulder and a concerned face leaning over him. To his surprise, he saw that the bus's overhead lights had come on and it was dark outside. Hours had passed while he had travelled in circles around the city.
"Son, you have to get off now. I need to get the bus back to the shop."
"Oh." Matt looked out the window, and saw that they were in the city's core, recognizable by the bright lights and tall buildings and people, even though it was late. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"I can take you home, if you'd like, before turning in for the night."
"No, that's okay. Right here's fine."
"Are you sure?" With a single glance the bus driver took in his small stature, his disheveled hair, the duffel bag on the seat next to him.
"Yeah. This was where I wanted to end up, anyway." It wasn't really a lie, not since he hadn't really had a destination in mind.
"Alright." The bus driver looked uncertain, but let him make his way up the aisle and toward the doors. "Have a good night."
Matt waved once, and watched as the bus drove off into the night, leaving him well and truly alone on the streets of downtown Vancouver.
What was he going to do now?
Where was there for a fifteen year old boy to go?
It was well past midnight, and dark out, and the air was damp, the streets were busy, and he was alone, and he couldn't help feeling a little afraid. He stood indecisively on the street corner for a moment, almost wishing that he had taken the bus driver's offer and gone back home, before swallowing his fear.
Determinedly, he turned his feet down the street and began to walk.