Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

☁︎

The bus stop was quiet, a few kids scattered along the sidewalk, backpacks slung over shoulders. Matt hung back, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes scanning the street rather than the chatter of his classmates. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying the faint smell of damp leaves.

Matt’s gaze drifted to the houses a few streets over. Something about them always drew him in, the quiet predictability of the neighborhoods. It wasn’t fear—at least, not exactly. It was… awareness. A feeling he couldn’t quite name, the same instinct that had made him lie still for hours when he was younger, when things in his own house had gone horribly wrong.

“Hey, Matt! You spacing out again?” Nick’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Matt blinked, forcing himself back to the present. “Yeah… just watching the street,” he muttered.

When the bus finally rumbled down the street, Matt stepped forward, keeping his gaze low but his mind still moving, still observing. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything seemed ordinary. And yet, buried beneath that ordinary, he felt it—the faint, insistent pull of the memory he carried like a shadow, reminding him that the world was never as safe as it appeared.

He slid onto the bus and found a seat near the back, Chris sat down next to him, like always. 

The bus lurched forward, and Matt pressed his backpack into his lap, trying to focus on the passing street. Leaves swirled in the wind, the ordinary movement of neighbors and kids walking to school barely registering… until Chris nudged him.

“Hey, Matt,” Chris said, grinning and holding up his phone. “Did you see this? Some creep moved into Somerville. Total pedo. Neighbors are freaked out.”

Matt froze. His stomach started twisting violently. His pulse jumped, hammering in his chest, and a cold sweat prickled at his palms. He gripped the strap of his backpack so hard it bit into his fingers, trying to anchor himself.

“Uh… no, I didn’t… hear that,” he stammered, voice tight, uneven.

Chris scrolled through the screen. “Yeah, registered sex offender. Big deal in this neighborhood. People are posting online—they’re scared for the kids.”

Matt’s eyes snapped to the passing houses, every detail suddenly magnified. The tilt of a mailbox, a shadow moving behind a curtain, the angle of a front door—everything seemed charged, suspicious. His heart raced in a wild, irregular rhythm, and his hands were slick with sweat.

A memory surfaced: the creak of the floorboards in his bedroom, a hand he shouldn’t have felt, a voice he didn’t understand at the time. He had shut his eyes, shrunk small, and promised himself he’d never let anyone know. It had ended years ago, but the memory still burned, sharp and raw.

He swallowed hard, trying to calm the sudden surge of fear, anger, and memory that tightened around his chest. The mention of kids, it was like a jolt through his body. Ordinary streets, ordinary neighbors… nothing felt ordinary anymore.

Nick laughed at something Chris said, oblivious to the tension coiling in Matt’s shoulders. Matt sipped his water slowly, letting the cool liquid ground him slightly, he took deep breaths calming himself down. The last thing he needed was a panic attack on the fucking bus with a million people staring at him.

Chris was still talking, but the words blurred around him, distant and meaningless.

“Hey, the bus is pulling in,” Nick said, breaking Matt from his thoughts.

The bus slowed, rolling into the school’s lot with a soft squeal of brakes. Students shuffled out, laughing, joking, the ordinary chaos of a weekday morning. Matt followed the flow, moving quietly with the crowd.

He kept his gaze low, scanning the sidewalks, the entrances, the people moving about. Ordinary. Safe. Or so it seemed. 

"Hey dude, you okay?", Chris broke the silence.

"Uhh...I'm fine, just sleepy I guess", Matt answered, forcing a small smile. It was enough to make Chris nod, satisfied, and let it go.

Matt fell in step behind Nick and Chris, letting them chatter ahead while he lingered at the back of the crowd, eyes sharp, mind quietly cataloging the world around him.

☁︎

The house was empty when Matt walked in. He let the door shut behind him with a dull thud and dropped his backpack by the stairs. Chris and Nick hadn’t come home with him—practice ran late for both of them. That left the house in silence, except for the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

Matt went to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. His chest still felt heavy from the bus ride, the way Chris’s words had lodged inside him like splinters. Total pedo. Just two words, and suddenly Matt’s body had turned against him—heartbeat hammering, palms slick with sweat, that cold rush down his spine.

He gulped the water and set the glass down harder than he meant to. The word wouldn’t leave his head. He hadn’t thought about him in so long, and now it was like Chris had dragged the past right into his lap without knowing it.

Matt headed upstairs, his footsteps quick, like he needed to get away from something chasing him. In his room, the door shut with a soft click. He sank into the chair at his desk and just sat there, staring at the blank wall across from him.

He didn’t know why he opened his laptop. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe something darker. Either way, his fingers typed the words into the search bar before he even realized: sex offender registry Massachusetts.

The page loaded, heavy with warnings and disclaimers. His stomach twisted as he clicked through until a map spread out across his screen, dotted with small red pins. Each one was a person. Each one had a story.

He zoomed in. His neighborhood came into view. And there it was—two streets over, a single dot pulsing against the pale grid. Matt clicked.

Robert James. Multiple counts of production and distribution of child pornography.

Matt stared at the picture. The man looked ordinary. Forgettable, even. A thinning hairline, soft jaw, a plain polo shirt. He could’ve been anyone’s neighbor, anyone’s dad.

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. Matt’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. And then the memory came, unbidden: the creak of the floorboards in his old bedroom, the laughter in the kitchen he had never been able to join, the heavy hand he had learned to shrink from. His uncle. The one person who had taken advantage of him when he was eleven, the one who had made him feel small and powerless.

He shut the laptop so quickly the sound echoed in the quiet room. For a moment he just sat there, breathing hard, the past and present colliding. He told himself it didn’t matter, that it was none of his business. But deep down, he already knew this wasn’t the last time he’d look.

☁︎

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. Matt lay flat on his back, eyes open in the dark, the ceiling above him blurred from hours of staring. He hadn’t slept at all. Every time he closed his eyes, it was the same—his uncle’s hands, his uncle’s voice, his uncle in his room.

His chest tightened. He dragged a shaky hand across his face, but that only made the images sharper. His uncle’s laugh. The smell of beer. The door shutting behind them. It had been years, but tonight, after hearing Chris say that word—pedo—the memories clawed back up, raw and unrelenting.

Matt rolled onto his side, fists curling under his pillow. His palms were damp, his heart refusing to slow. He kicked off the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom.

The mirror greeted him with a stranger’s face. Hollow eyes. Pale skin, damp with sweat. He twisted the faucet and splashed water over himself, cold enough to sting. For a moment he didn’t recognize the boy staring back at him. The boy looked weak. Haunted. Like prey.

He hated it.

Matt grabbed a hoodie from his chair and pulled it over his t-shirt. His sneakers were still by the door, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was outside, the chill of the night biting at his skin.

It was almost one in the morning. The neighborhood was silent, streetlights humming, casting long, thin shadows across the pavement. His feet carried him forward without permission, and by the time he realized where he was going, it was already too late.

He stood across the street, staring at the modest, darkened house. Robert James’s house. Two streets away from his own.

The windows were dark, curtains drawn. From the outside, it looked like any other home—ordinary, harmless. But Matt’s chest ached with the memory of the man’s face on the registry, paired with that word. Children.

He clenched his fists inside his sleeves. For the first time in years, Matt felt the heat of something heavier than fear. Something he couldn’t name yet, but it burned through him, restless and alive.

Matt drifted closer, every step tightening the knot in his stomach. The street was still, no headlights, no dogs barking, just the low buzz of the streetlamp above him.

He stopped at the edge of James’s front lawn, his breath visible in the cold. He shouldn’t be here. If someone saw him, if James looked out—Matt swallowed, his throat raw—but he didn’t turn back.

His eyes landed on a patch of overgrown hedges near the living room window. His body moved before his brain caught up, crouching low, slipping into the damp cover of branches. The leaves brushed against his hoodie as he leaned forward, peering through a narrow gap in the curtains.

The living room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of a television. The flicker of images danced across the walls, casting shadows that stretched and shrank with each scene.

And there he was. Robert James.

The man sat on a recliner, a half-empty beer bottle on the side table. He looked ordinary, like someone you’d walk past at the grocery store without thinking twice. That was what made Matt’s skin crawl. 

Matt’s breath caught. His palms were still slick with sweat, gripping the branches to keep steady. His chest rose and fell faster, and for a second he wasn’t outside Robert James’s house—he was eleven again, trapped in his own bedroom, a hand pressing down on his shoulder.

Matt blinked hard, pulling himself back. His pulse thudded in his ears, too loud, too quick. James shifted in his chair, scratching his jaw, then reached for another sip of beer. Oblivious. Calm. Safe in his house, safe in this neighborhood, like nothing he had ever done mattered.

Matt’s nails dug into his palms. He hated that feeling in his stomach—the mix of fear, disgust, and something else, darker.

He shook his head, forcing himself to step back into the shadows. The branches scraped across his hoodie as he untangled himself, retreating to the sidewalk.

He turned back toward home, the glow of the streetlamps trailing after him like they were watching.

Matt’s house soon came into view, quiet and dark except for the porch light Mary Lou always left on. He slipped inside, careful not to let the door creak, and stood in the hallway for a moment, listening. The silence was heavy. Nick and Chris were upstairs, probably snoring, their lives as simple as ever.

Matt padded into the kitchen. The clock on the wall read 1:22 a.m. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, filling the stillness. He opened the fridge, not because he was hungry, but because he needed to do something. His hands shook as he grabbed an apple from the drawer, the cool skin grounding him.

He sat at the table, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. Bite after bite, he chewed without tasting, his mind replaying the glow of James’s TV, the sight of him sitting there like any other man, like he hadn’t ruined anyone’s life.

Matt’s knee bounced under the table. He stared at the half-eaten apple in his hand, his jaw tight. Why was he like this? Why did he have to carry this weight, years later, while men like James could drink their beers in peace?

Matt stayed in the kitchen until the clock ticked past 2:30, until the hum of the refrigerator started to become unbearable. He finally stood, tossing the apple core into the trash, and dragged his tired body upstairs. His feet felt like they were made of cement as he reached his room.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open. The second his sneaker caught the edge of a pile of books stacked on the floor, his balance slipped.

“Shit—”

He stumbled forward and hit the floor with a dull thud, the books scattering around him. For a second, he just lay there, winded, staring at the shadows stretching across his ceiling. His cheek pressed against the wooden floor, his arms sprawled, and something in him just… gave up.

He didn’t bother to move to the bed. What was the point? He felt heavy, hollow, his chest tight with exhaustion and something else he couldn’t name.

So he stayed there, surrounded by fallen books, his body curled on the floor like it was the only place he belonged. And after what felt like forever, the darkness finally took him.

Chapter Text

"Matt?! Why are you sleeping on the floor?!" Mary Lou stood in his doorway, her face twisted in confusion.

Matt blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t really have an explanation, so he slowly pushed himself up from the floor. When he finally stood, he met her eyes.

"Uhh... I was reading," was the best he could come up with. The scattered books across the floor gave him some backup.

"You were reading... on the floor?"

"Yeah, and I, uh... I must have fallen asleep."

She looked at him without saying anything. Matt could feel her eyes on his pale skin, the dark circles under his eyes. He forced a smile, trying to ease her worry.

"Okay... well, I’m making breakfast. Get dressed, we’re going to Grandma’s today."

Matt nodded and smiled again. Once she left and closed the door, he sighed, tugging his hoodie off. He made his way to the bathroom. The moment the hot water hit his back, his muscles loosened. Finally, he felt something close to peace. He stayed under the water, trying to scrub away the thoughts of Robert James. It was almost working, until Chris started pounding on the door.

"Dude, we have to go! Didn’t Mom tell you? We’re leaving in like fifteen minutes!" His brother’s voice was loud and insistent.

"Chris, get the fuck away! I’ll be ready when I’m ready, Jesus!"

"You’ve been in there for, like, thirty minutes. Are you jerking off or something?"

"Chris, shut up! I’m exhausted, okay? I’ll be down soon, I promise."

The obnoxious knocking finally stopped. Matt let out another sigh, turning off the water. The freezing air hit him like a bullet—like knives pricking every inch of his skin. He wrapped himself in a towel.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. The last thing he wanted was to spend the day at Grandma’s. He brushed his teeth slowly, his head filling back up with thoughts he couldn’t shake.

☁︎

Matt walked into the kitchen where the whole family was waiting. Nick looked up first.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, rolling his eyes before going back to his phone.

Matt ignored him, heading for the cabinet and grabbing a bag of Goldfish crackers for the car. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now there wasn’t time.

The drive was two hours—two hours of torture. Two hours of his family trying to talk to him, even with his headphones in. Two hours of his brothers suddenly needing to spill their entire life stories. Two hours of his mom telling him he looked "sad" and asking if he was okay every five minutes.

He wanted to die.

Matt leaned against the window, scrolling through Spotify until he hit play on one of his playlists. The music was loud, but not loud enough. Chris tapped on his shoulder. Matt ignored it. Chris tapped again, harder.

"What?" Matt snapped, yanking his headphones off.

"I don’t know, I’m bored."

"Chris, I don’t care. Leave me alone."

"Matt, be nice to your brother," his mother’s voice cut in.

Matt groaned, shoved his headphones back in, and turned away.

But even with the volume up, his family was so loud he could hear every word. Chris eventually fell asleep ,thank god, but Matt could still catch pieces of his parents’ conversation.

"I really hope your mom makes that salad again. It was incredible," Mary Lou said.

"One can hope. Oh, I forgot to tell you—"

"What?"

"Johnny’s coming. He called me this morning."

Matt froze. The car suddenly felt too small, pressing in on him. His chest tightened. His palms started to sweat, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Stop the car," he blurted.

His mom twisted in her seat. "Honey, are you okay?"

"STOP THE FUCKING CAR—I’M GONNA BE SICK!" he lied, desperate.

His dad swerved into a rest stop by some public bathrooms. Matt flung the door open and stumbled out. He locked himself in a stall, gasping for air.

Johnny was coming. His dad’s brother. His uncle.

Matt’s legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, trying to slow his breathing, but his heartbeat was racing, and sweat slicked his skin. He gagged, then threw up into the disgusting toilet.

The only thing in his head was him. The smell of beer. Cheap cologne. That heavy hand gripping his shoulder. "This is gonna be our little secret." Over and over. The creak of floorboards in the dark.

When the heaving finally stopped, Matt clutched the toilet rim, shaking. Slowly, air started to reach his lungs again. His heart calmed, just a little. He stayed kneeling until he was sure he could move without collapsing.

At the sink, he splashed water on his face, staring into the cracked, filthy mirror. His reflection looked like hell—like he’d seen a ghost. He rinsed the taste of vomit from his mouth, but it lingered.

Outside, his family was waiting by the car. Matt braced himself.

"Matt, baby, are you okay?" his mom asked as soon as she saw him.

"I’m fine, Mom... I just got sick. It’s fine."

She looked unconvinced, her eyes scanning his face. He forced a smile again.

Then before matt knew what was happening she pulled him into a hug. Matt froze, then melted into it, fighting tears. God, he just wanted to cry into her shoulder. To tell her everything. To let it all out. But she wouldn’t understand. No one would.

When she pulled away, all the warmth left with her, and Matt was back in the abyss. Cold and alone. 

Chapter Text

The car rolled slowly up the narrow street to Grandma’s house. Matt felt the tightness in his chest return, heavier than it had been all morning. He stayed quiet in the backseat, hood up, shoulders hunched. The house looked the same as it always did, small, cozy, warm light spilling through curtained windows, but tonight it pressed down on him. It wasn’t comfort. It was suffocation.

“Finally!” Chris swung the door open, stretching his arms wide. “I’m starving!”

Nick yawned, scrolling on his phone. “Two hours in this car. Not even a snack. This is torture,” he muttered. 

Matt didn’t respond. He nodded, slipped out, and followed them toward the house, boots crunching on the grass. The air was sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp leaves, and it should have been refreshing, but it did nothing to loosen the tight coil in his stomach.

Inside, the scent of baked bread and roasting vegetables hit him immediately. The house felt alive. Grandma bustling in the kitchen, voices echoing, laughter bouncing off walls, but he couldn’t breathe. He felt like a shadow moving through their warmth.

“Matt! You made it!” Grandma’s voice was bright and warm. She pulled him into a hug, arms thick with the smell of cinnamon and soap. Matt stiffened, letting her squeeze him, but not returning it fully.

The living room was crowded with voices and movement. Chris and Nick went straight for the table, joking and laughing, but Matt stayed quiet. He pulled his plate closer, poked at the food, and kept his gaze low. Every creak of the wooden floors, every faint rustle of chairs, reminded him of things he wanted to forget—of memories he had buried too deep.

Then, the doorbell rang.

The room went quiet for a brief moment. And then he saw him.

Uncle Johnny walked in, six pack in one hand, smiling like he hadn’t left a trace of discomfort wherever he went. But then he saw Matt. And he smirked.

It was just a flicker, almost imperceptible, but Matt’s stomach dropped. His pulse spiked, sweat pricking at his temples. The floor seemed to shift under his feet.

“Matt?” Grandma’s voice was gentle, oblivious. “Say hi to your uncle.”

Matt’s throat closed. He could feel the old panic bubbling up, the tightness in his chest, the flutter in his stomach. His hands gripped the table until his knuckles ached. Words stuck, lodged in the back of his throat.

He pushed back his chair. “I… uh… I need the bathroom,” he muttered.

No one questioned him. They were busy greeting Johnny, laughing, oblivious.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel. Matt’s boots clicked softly on the wood, each echo sharper than the last. He reached the bathroom and locked the door, leaning against it. His chest heaved. The panic didn’t expanded, filling his ribcage, pushing him to the floor. 

He hugged his legs tight and pressed his forehead to his knees. Tears burned, hot and sharp. He tried to make them silent, muffling quiet sobs in his hoodie sleeve. Every sound from the house, plates, laughter, the soft creak of the floors, twisted in his stomach.

He lifted his head slowly, his cheeks stained with tears, and tried to slow down his breathing. The years of fear and shame pressed down on him like a stone.

Matt’s hands trembled as he cupped his face. The memories of Johnny’s smirk, the hands that had touched him, the whispered secrets replayed, relentless. He felt small, invisible, and fragile, but a quiet, burning anger simmered underneath.

Eventually, he pushed himself upright. He wiped his face on his light blue hoodie sleeve, the tears making dark streaks on it. The noise of the family outside seemed distant now, softened by the walls. But the pressure in his chest remained. He couldn’t go back—not yet.

The back door seemed like salvation. He slipped through it quietly, closing it behind him. The night air hit his skin, sharp and biting. For the first time in hours, he could breathe.

His feet moved automatically, carrying him down the quiet streets. The lights of houses passed in a blur. He didn’t look back. The warmth of the gathering, the laughter, the smells, all of it faded behind him.

After a few blocks, he reached a small corner shop still open. Neon buzzed above, casting a pale glow on the wet asphalt. He hesitated. 

He stepped inside. The bell jingled. Rows of chips, candy, cigarettes. He shuffled nervously to the counter.

He had never smoked before. Never imagined doing it. But tonight, he needed something—anything—to hold onto.

“Uh… pack of Marlboro Reds,” he said, voice tight, shaky.

The cashier glanced at him. “ID?”

Matt’s hands were slick with sweat. “Uhh… ” 

The cashier met his eyes, mumbled a "whatever" and reached on the shelf behind him. 

The pack and a lighter were slid across the counter. He paid, muttered a “thanks,” and stepped back into the night.

Outside, the air hit him again. He leaned against a brick wall, shaking. He brought the cigarette to his lips, hands unsteady.

He struck the lighter. Flame flickered. He inhaled tentatively.

It burned.

Coughing violently, he pressed a hand to his mouth, eyes watering. His chest burned, throat scorched. The smoke felt foreign, alien, yet it was… relieving in a twisted, sharp way.

The second drag was slower, more deliberate. Still bitter, still harsh, but his chest loosened fractionally. Exhaling, the smoke curled around him. The weight in his chest eased slightly, a strange relief seeping through him.

And then it came—the vision.

It wasn’t the street anymore. It was Grandma’s kitchen. Voices were gone. Uncle Johnny sat on the couch, beer in hand, smiling. And Matt’s hands were holding something sharp. A knife. A shard of glass. He didn’t know, but the motion was happening.

He saw it—the plunge, the twist, Johnny’s face, the creaking floorboards beneath him, the sudden, silent chaos. Blood. Heat. Silence.

Matt’s knees buckled. He coughed violently, dropping the cigarette. Ember glowed briefly, then faded. He pressed his hands to his face. The vision dissolved, leaving nausea, and a strange, heavy relief.

He steadied himself burying the cigarettes and lighter in his pocket, knowing his mom would kill him if she found them and walked back. The house loomed ahead. 

Matt slipped back in through the kitchen. Nothing seemed different. He sat back down at the table, pale and trembling. He picked at his plate, nobody questioned him. Nobody even noticed he was gone. The vision, the smoke, the panic—they all lingered beneath his skin, secret and heavy.

Grandma passed him the salad, smiling. He forced a small nod, pretending to belong. No one could know. No one would ever know. Behind closed doors, he carried what no one else could see: fear, anger, and the first spark of something darker.

Chapter Text

The car ride home was thick with silence at first, the kind that made every bump in the road sound louder. Matt sat pressed against the cold glass of the window, his reflection faint in the darkness outside. His hoodie still reeked faintly of smoke, the bitter tang of his first cigarette clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go. Even his throat felt raw, like the smoke had left scratches on the inside. He tried to swallow it down, but the burn stayed.

Mary Lou broke the quiet first.
“Matt, why’ve you been so quiet all night?” she asked, her voice sharp in the confined space of the car. “You barely said a word at your grandmother’s. You looked miserable. What’s going on with you?”

Matt stiffened, eyes locked on the blur of headlights passing by. “I’m just tired,” he muttered.

Mary Lou wasn’t satisfied. “You’re always tired. You sit there with that long face, like the whole world’s on your shoulders. Do you ever think about how that looks? People notice. Your grandmother asked me if something’s wrong with you.”

His fingers curled against his knees. He thought of the cigarette, the taste still on his tongue, and the way the smoke had curled out of him like something ugly and alive. He felt guilty, caught, even though she couldn’t possibly know.

Chris, sitting in the middle seat, groaned. “Ma, maybe he just doesn’t wanna talk. Can you let him breathe?”

“Don’t talk back to me,” Mary Lou snapped.

Nick, never one to let anything slide, leaned forward from the back. “Why’re you even on Matt’s side? He is being weird. He’s always weird.”

Matt’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Shut up, Nick.”

Nick smirked. “What? Can’t take the truth?”

“Enough!” Jimmy’s voice cut through the argument, stern from the driver’s seat. “I don’t want to hear another word until we’re home. You boys can’t go one car ride without tearing into each other.”

But the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was loaded, tense. Chris shifted uncomfortably, Nick sulked, and Mary Lou muttered under her breath about respect.

Matt stayed quiet, eyes drifting back to the window. He pressed his forehead to the glass, feeling the cold seep into his skin. 

When they finally pulled into the driveway, the relief in the car was palpable. Doors slammed too hard, footsteps stomped too loud, voices rose again over nothing in particular. Matt trailed behind them, keeping his head down, letting their arguments blur into background noise.

He slipped upstairs without anyone noticing. His body moved on autopilot, heavy, restless. He dropped his hoodie on the floor of his room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark.

Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

The house eventually fell into its usual rhythm of nighttime quiet. The hum of the fridge downstairs, Nick’s muffled laughter as he trash-talked Chris over video games until Jimmy barked at them to shut it down. Then silence.

Matt lay in bed, eyes wide open in the dark. His chest felt like it was caving in every time he tried to close them. The burn of the cigarette hadn’t faded. It lingered like a phantom fire, crawling down his throat, sitting heavy in his stomach. He could still taste it, bitter and acrid, like ash clinging to his tongue.

And every time he blinked, there he was again. The smirk at grandma’s. The floorboards creaking. The shadow moving across his old bedroom years ago. His uncle’s hands where they should never have been. The memories weren’t flashes anymore—they were films, playing in real time, vivid and cruel.

Matt shoved his face into his pillow, fists pressing against his temples. He felt like he was suffocating. The room was too hot, the air too thick. He couldn’t lie there anymore.

Quietly, he pushed the blankets off and got up. His hoodie was still on the floor where he’d dropped it. He pulled it over his head, tugged the hood low, and slipped barefoot down the stairs.

The kitchen clock read 2:14 a.m. The house was still. No one stirred.

He stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, staring at the glowing numbers. He could’ve gone back to bed. He could’ve forced himself to lie still, wait for morning. But his body was already moving without his mind’s permission. His hand grabbed the back door handle, twisted it open. The cold night air slapped him in the face, sharp and biting.

He stepped outside.

The streets were empty, washed pale under streetlamps. There was no destination clear in his head. But his feet knew. They carried him down familiar streets, past corner stores, past rows of sleeping houses. He didn’t notice until he stopped at the edge of a driveway.

Robert James’ driveway.

Matt froze, heart hammering so hard it made his ribs ache. He didn’t mean to come here. He couldn’t have meant to. And yet… there it was. The small, dim-lit house, the curtains drawn tight except for a sliver of light bleeding out from the living room. He was awake. 

He crouched low behind the bushes, breath fogging in the cold. Through a narrow crack in the curtain, he saw him. Robert. Alone on the couch, TV flickering across his face, a half-empty beer bottle sweating on the table in front of him. 

Matt’s chest heaved. His nails dug crescents into his palms. He told himself he was just watching. Just looking. That was all. But when Robert shifted on the couch, glancing toward the window like he sensed something, Matt’s pulse spiked. He ducked lower, his breath caught in his throat.

He could leave. Right now. Slip away and no one would ever know he’d been here.

But his feet betrayed him. Again.

Before he even realized it, he was standing at the front door. His hand shook as it reached for the knob, every nerve screaming at him to stop. To turn around. To run.

The knob twisted easily. Unlocked.

Matt’s breath hitched. His whole body went cold.

The door creaked as it swung open, spilling faint TV light into the dark hall. Robert sat up straight, eyes narrowing at the movement. 
“What the hell—”

Something in Matt snapped. A force larger than thought, larger than fear, surged through him. He barely felt his feet moving across the kitchen floor, barely registered his hand closing around the wooden handle of a knife left on the counter, blade glinting under the dim light.

Robert stood, stumbling, confused, anger rising. “Who the fuck—”

Matt didn’t hear the rest. His vision tunneled. All he could see was his uncle. All he could feel was the years of silence, the weight of hands, the smirk at grandma’s, the cigarette burn still in his throat.

And then the knife.

It drove forward, into flesh, the resistance sharp and horrifying, the sound wet. Robert gasped, eyes wide, hands clutching at the wound. Matt pulled back, shoved forward again. And again. The world blurred around him, every movement driven by something primal, unstoppable.

By the time he stopped, Robert was slumped against the couch, beer spilled across the carpet, TV still flickering like nothing had changed. Except everything had.

Matt staggered back, the knife slipping from his hand, clattering against the tile. His chest tightened. His hands shook. He stared down at what he’d done, at the red blooming dark and wide, and for a moment he felt nothing.

Then everything.

His throat burned worse than ever.

He stumbled backwards, his eyes locked on Robert's lifeless body. There was blood all over the living room floor. This can't be real, he thought. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, wild and frantic, as though it might tear straight out of his chest.

He ran. He ran out of that house, down the street. He didn't look back, he didn't stop until he reached his house. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees in the driveway. He bent forward, gasping for air, shaking so hard he thought he might collapse entirely. 

Tears blurred his vision before he even realized he was crying. Hot streaks carved down his face, falling onto the driveway, mixing with the sweat dripping from his chin. Minutes passed in a haze of sobs and shuddering breaths until, slowly, his lungs began to steady. 

When he looked down, his stomach dropped. His hoodie, his favorite one, the one he’d worn a hundred times before, was soaked through. The entire front was stiff and dark with blood. Robert James’ blood. The man he had just killed.

The thought hit him like a punch, and his body revolted. A wave of nausea surged up his throat. He stumbled sideways, doubled over a bush, and retched until there was nothing left in him. Each gag tore through him, violent, desperate, leaving him hollow and shaking. He spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but the taste of iron still clung, the memory of it burned into his tongue.

Matt stayed hunched over for a long moment, arms braced on his knees, saliva stringing from his mouth. His chest heaved, but the sobs had dried into something else, something colder. His hoodie clung to him, heavy with blood, and the sight of it sent another jolt of panic racing through his body.

He yanked at the fabric, desperate. He ripped it off and stared at it, arms trembling. It didn’t even look like clothing anymore. It looked like evidence.

His pulse hammered in his ears as he stood there in his driveway, holding the bloodstained hoodie like it was burning his hands. 

Think. Think. Think. 

He balled it up, stuffing it under his arm, and rushed around the side of the house, hiding in the shadows. His mind ran faster than his legs—police, sirens, fingerprints, cameras—but all he could hear was his own breath and the whisper of the night around him.

The hoodie had to disappear. Tonight.

Matt’s hands shook as he crept to the back of the yard. The old rusting fire pit sat beneath the maple tree, half-buried in leaves and dirt from years of neglect. He crouched down, shoving aside twigs with frantic fingers until he found a few dry scraps of paper from the recycling bin they’d dumped back here once.

He set the hoodie on top, his throat tight. It slumped there in the pit like a corpse of its own, blood dark and sticky in the moonlight. His stomach lurched.

He flicked the lighter he’d bought earlier, along with the cigarettes. Flame sputtered, caught. He held it to the paper, watching it curl black and orange before spreading upward.

The smell made his eyes water. Not just burnt fabric, but something heavier, metallic—like the room he’d just left behind.

He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering though the flames blazed bright in front of him. There was no undoing this now. The hoodie was gone. Robert was gone.

Matt stood in the shadows until nothing was left but glowing embers. He kicked dirt over them, smothering the fire, making sure no trace remained. The night was silent again, except for the frantic beat of his own heart. 

His feet pounded the driveway, carrying him back to the house like he was being chased by something only he could see.

The front door creaked when he slipped inside, and for a split second he froze, breath caught in his throat. The house was silent, thick with the weight of sleep.

He crept up the stairs, each groan of the wood beneath him making his heart seize. It felt like the whole house could hear him, like any second his mother would swing her door open and demand to know why her son was coming home at three in the morning smelling like smoke and death.

But the doors stayed shut. The house slept on.

Matt shoved himself into his room and shut the door as carefully as he could. His hoodie was gone, but his t-shirt clung damp against his chest, reeking of sweat and fear. His hands were sticky, red. His nails had dark crescents beneath them.

He stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the dim light. For a second, he caught his reflection—the wild, glassy eyes, the pale face, his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, the blood smudged across his skin. He almost didn’t recognize himself.

With a jerk, he tore his clothes off, letting them fall into a heap on the tile. He cranked the shower on as hot as it would go, stepping under the spray before it even warmed. The water hit him sharp and stinging, but he welcomed it.

He scrubbed at himself raw, dragging soap across his arms, his chest, his face. He clawed at his skin until it was red and burning, until his lungs hurt from the steam and his throat ached from swallowing down sobs that threatened to tear him apart.

No matter how hard he scrubbed, he could still feel it—the weight of the knife in his hand, the warmth of blood splattering against him, the sound Robert had made when the blade sank in.

Matt sank down against the shower wall, curling into himself as the water pounded over him, he watched the blood go down the drain. He stayed there until his skin felt raw and his body shook with exhaustion.

When he finally turned the water off, the silence roared louder than the shower had.

He didn’t bother with clean clothes. Didn’t even dry himself. He just staggered into his room, skin still damp, hair plastered to his forehead.

He collapsed onto the mattress, naked, the sheets instantly clinging to his wet skin. The room felt cold, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t pull the blanket over himself. His body was heavy, like he’d been hollowed out and filled with lead.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind didn’t fight him. No flashbacks, no voices, no replay of footsteps or smirks or knives sinking into flesh. Just a dark, empty silence.

And in that silence, finally, Matt slept.

Chapter Text

Chris didn’t bother knocking. He never did. The door creaked open, and a slice of morning light cut across Matt’s dark room.

“Yo, rise and shine—” Chris’s voice stopped short. His eyes widened, then he immediately spun around, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my God, dude. Seriously? Naked? In the morning? What the hell?”

Matt blinked awake, slow and heavy, his body sinking into the sheets. For a split second, he didn’t know where he was. His head felt cloudy, his chest hollow. Then it slammed back into him—Robert, the knife, the blood—like being shoved underwater. 

Chris groaned dramatically, still facing the door. “Mom’s literally waiting for you downstairs.”

Matt shot upright, dragging the blanket over himself in a clumsy panic. His throat was dry. “whatever” he muttered, his voice cracking.

Chris peeked through his fingers, smirking. “You’re so gross, bro. Like, you couldn’t even put on boxers?”

Matt’s face burned hot, though not for the reason Chris thought. He scrambled off the bed, pulling open a drawer with shaking hands. He grabbed a clean pair of boxers and put them on. He looked at Chris for a second before he opened another drawer. His fingers caught on a T-shirt, and he yanked it over his head like armor, hiding skin that still felt raw from the shower. He could smell soap on himself, but underneath, he swore he could still smell the smoke from the fire, the blood on his hoodie.

Chris shrugged, leaning against the doorframe now, clearly enjoying himself. “Anyway, Mom’s flipping out because you’re the last one in bed. She told me to drag your ass down for breakfast before she comes up herself.” He grinned. “You know how she gets.”

“Yeah, I know.” His voice was low, almost swallowed.

Chris raised a brow, sensing the edge in his tone. For once, he didn’t joke. “You good?”

Matt nodded quickly, too quickly. “I’m fine.” He turned just enough to flash him a tight, fake smile. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

Chris gave him a long look, like he wanted to say something else, but instead he rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. Don’t take forever.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

Matt stood there in the silence, his chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes fixed on the spot where Chris had been standing.

Robert’s face flashed behind his eyelids. The living room. The knife. His hoodie soaked in blood.

Matt gripped the edge of his dresser until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard, but his throat still burned.

Matt dragged himself downstairs, his body felt like it was made of stone. The smell of bacon and toast hit him, but it twisted his stomach instead of settling it.

The TV blared from the living room, louder than usual. Mary Lou was perched forward on the couch, coffee in hand, while Jimmy sat in his recliner, jaw tight. Nick and Chris were already at the kitchen table.

Mary Lou glanced up at Matt just long enough to scold him. “Finally. Sit before it’s cold.”

He sank into a chair, the seat creaking under his weight. He hadn’t even picked up a fork when the news anchor’s voice cut through the room.

“We’re following breaking news out of Somerville this morning. Police have confirmed the death of Robert James, forty-two years old, who was found stabbed to death inside his home on Willow Street. James, a registered sex offender, was discovered by his parole officer after failing to appear at a scheduled check-in earlier today.”

The screen switched to grainy footage of the crime scene—yellow police tape strung across the small street, neighbors gathered on sidewalks in coats and slippers, whispering to one another.

Matt’s chest tightened. His fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against the plate.

“Holy shit,” Chris said, chewing loudly. “That’s like, right near us.”

Nick smirked, stabbing at his bacon. “Yeah. Guess Somerville finally has some excitement.”

“Not funny,” Mary Lou snapped, eyes still glued to the TV. “That poor man.”

Jimmy scoffed from his chair. “Poor man? He was a goddamn pedophile. Everyone knew what he was. Should’ve been locked up for life.”

“Still,” Mary Lou said sharply, “no one deserves to be butchered in their own living room.”

The anchor kept talking: “Police are urging residents to remain calm, calling this an isolated incident. At this time, no suspects have been identified.”

Matt’s pulse thudded so hard it drowned the words. No suspects. His hoodie—burned. His skin—scrubbed raw. And his family, just feet away, sat eating breakfast, laughing at dumb jokes, while his crime played out like another Sunday headline.

Mary Lou set her coffee down and looked straight at Matt, her voice soft but firm.

“Matthew… you’ve been so quiet lately. You barely talk. I can’t tell what’s going on with you, and it worries me.”

Matt froze, spoon hovering over his bowl. He could feel all eyes shift toward him.

Chris, never one to let a serious moment slide, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Ma, don’t worry. He’s fine. He’s just locked up in his room every night, y’know—” He made a jerking-off motion, exaggerated and obnoxious. “That’s why he’s so tired all the time.”

Nick burst out laughing.

“Christopher!” Mary Lou snapped, horrified. But then, to Matt’s horror, her face shifted into concern again. “Wait. Is… is that it?” She lowered her voice like she was trying to be delicate. “Matthew, sweetheart… if you’re spending too much time on that… it can make young men withdrawn. Even depressed.”

Matt’s jaw dropped. “What? No!” His face flushed crimson. “That’s not it!”

Mary Lou frowned, undeterred. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s normal. But it can get unhealthy if—”

“Mom!” Matt cut her off, mortified. “I swear, that’s not what’s wrong with me!”

Chris was practically falling out of his chair, laughing so hard he wheezed. “Oh my god, this is amazing,” he choked out between gasps.

Mary Lou shot him a glare, but he just kept laughing, wiping tears from his eyes.

Matt wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Mary Lou folded her hands, leaning closer across the table. “Matthew, I’m your mother. If you’re… you know… struggling with urges or habits, I want you to feel like you can talk to me.”

Matt’s stomach turned. “Mom, please stop.”

Chris snorted. “He doesn’t need to talk about it, Ma. We already know what he’s doing in there. Probably burning through tissues faster than CVS can stock them.” 

Nick choked on his cereal.

“Christopher!” Mary Lou swatted his arm, but her eyes were still locked on Matt with genuine concern. “Honey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But sometimes boys your age—”

“Mom!” Matt’s voice cracked, desperate. His face felt like it was on fire. “It’s not that! I swear it’s not that!”

Mary Lou tilted her head, unconvinced. “Then why are you so quiet? Why are you always shutting yourself in your room? You don’t talk to me anymore, Matthew.” Her voice softened, the worry breaking through. “I just… I don’t want you slipping away from me.”

Chris leaned back, grinning ear to ear. “He’s not slipping away, Ma. He’s just slipping into his sock collection.”

That did it — Nick and Matt both groaned.

“Jesus Christ,” Matt muttered, burying his face in his hands.

“Matt, I’m only saying this because I care. If you are struggling, if you feel… addicted, or ashamed, or depressed because of it—”

Matt shot up from his chair, chair legs screeching against the floor. “I’M NOT DEPRESSED BECAUSE OF PORN!” His voice cracked again, making it somehow even worse.

Chris actually fell out of his chair, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Nick was slapping the table choking in laughter. Jimmy was watching the conversation staying quiet. 

Matt turned and sped off, making his way to the stairs. His face was beet red, his cheeks were burning. 

"Matt! Don't go", Mary Lou, stood up from her chair chasing him down the hall. He climbed the stairs fast and yanked his bedroom door open, slipping inside and slamming it behind him. 

She stopped at the top of the stairs, realizing she couldn't get him to talk right now. She walked back downstairs, defeated. 

She joined the rest of the family on the kitchen table. 

"I really don't know what's going on with him", she muttered. 

Chris could tell that she was actually worried. 

"I'm sure he's okay, mom", he put his hand on top of hers. "he'll talk when he's ready". 

A couple of hours passed, matt still hadn't left his room. Mary Lou tried to appear calm but she was worrying sick. She kept wondering if she pushed him too far. She just wanted to help. 

Chris couldn't help but notice how unsettled his mother looked. He slipped away from the living room and made his way to the stairs. He knocked on matt's door. 

"Matt? Can I come in?" 

No answer. 

“Matt… I’m sorry I made Mom think you were addicted to porn,” he added, stifling a laugh.

The door creaked open, and Matt appeared, pale but forcing a small smile. He let out a short, nervous laugh at Chris’s comment. “Yeah, well… thanks for clearing that up,” he said, his voice light but strained.

Chris grinned. “No problem, man. Just making sure everyone’s misinformed.”

Matt gave a faint chuckle, feeling slightly lighter despite the unease lingering behind his eyes.

Matt leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m… tired,” he muttered, avoiding Chris’s gaze.

Chris huffed. “Tired? That’s all you’re gonna tell me? You’ve been locked in your room for hours, and that’s it?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. That’s it. Can I go back to bed now?”

“No, you can’t just keep hiding! I’m sick of you shutting everyone out!” Chris’s voice rose, frustration clear in every word.

“I’m not hiding!” Matt snapped, stepping back, his own temper flaring. “I just… need space, okay? Is that so hard to understand?”

Chris threw up his hands. “Space?! You call this space? Locking yourself away, staring at the walls, acting like nothing exists outside your room?”

Matt’s face burned with anger and humiliation. “You think you know everything about me? You don’t! Just… just leave me alone!”

Chris took a step closer, his voice sharp. “No, I’m not leaving you alone, Matt. You can’t just shut people out every time something’s wrong!”

Matt’s chest heaved. “You don’t get it, Chris! You never do!”

Chris’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a tense whisper. “Then maybe you need to start talking instead of pretending we’re all idiots.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the faint creak of the floorboards beneath them.

Matt tried to close his bedroom door, but Chris shoved it open before he could.

“What the fuck do you do here all day?!” Chris yelled, eyes wide as he started frantically scanning the room.

Matt backed up, hands raised. “Chris! Get out! I’m serious!”

“I’m just trying to figure it out!” Chris snapped, moving toward the bed. He kneeled, peering underneath. “You’re always so secretive, man! What is it you’re hiding?”

“Nothing! Just leave me alone!” Matt’s voice cracked, panic and frustration blending together.

Chris’s gaze fell to the floor, landing on a crumpled pair of jeans he recognized—the ones Matt had worn at Grandma’s the day before. He bent down and picked them up.

A small pack of cigarettes slipped from the pocket, clattering to the floor. Chris froze, holding them up.

“What the… what the fuck is this?” he demanded, eyes locked on the pack.

Matt’s face went pale. “I… I—It’s… it’s nothing, okay? Just… just leave it alone!”

Chris’s eyebrows shot up. “Nothing? You’ve never smoked before! Where the hell did you even get these?”

Matt stepped back, clutching at his hoodie like it could shield him. “I just… I needed to… it doesn’t matter, okay? Just put them down!”

Chris held the cigarette pack in his hands, eyes wide. “Matt! Are you kidding me?! Smoking?! Are you crazy?!" 

Matt lunged forward, grabbing Chris’s arm. “Shut up! Shut up, Chris! Mom will hear you!”

Chris froze for a second, but then his frustration bubbled over again. “I don’t care! I just—how long have you been—”

“Shhh!” Matt hissed,covering Chris' lips with his hand. “If Mom hears about this, it’ll be a disaster. Just put it down, now!”

Matt’s hands trembled slightly as he snatched the pack from Chris and shoved it into his hoodie pocket. “I didn’t want anyone to know. Just… leave it, okay? Please.”

Chris raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue further, sensing how serious Matt sounded. Still, the disbelief and frustration lingered in his eyes.

 "Look, Matt… I’m worried about you, okay?"

Matt’s stomach tightened. “I said leave it alone, Chris…”

“No, I’m not leaving it alone,” Chris snapped, his voice softening slightly but still firm. “You’re hurting yourself, and I don’t know why. The cigarettes… that’s just one sign. What else are you hiding from us?”

Matt swallowed hard, avoiding Chris’s eyes. “I… it’s nothing, okay? Just… leave me alone.”

Chris stepped closer, his tone gentler now. “I get it, you want privacy. But this? Smoking, hiding stuff… it’s not normal. I don’t want to see you spiral, man. I’m telling you because I care.”

Matt’s hands tightened around the hoodie strings. “I know… I just… I can’t… it’s complicated, alright?”

Chris let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned and walked toward the door, muttering something under his breath. Matt stood frozen, watching his brother’s back disappear into the hall.

The door clicked shut. Silence filled the room again.

Matt sank onto the edge of his bed, jaw clenched, heart pounding with everything left unsaid.

Chapter Text

Matt lay awake, once again the flashbacks were keeping him from sleep. He kept thinking about the night before, the blood, Robert's dead body, the fact that he slept for the first time in days. His room was suffocating him, his covers were too hot, his headache was killing him. 

He shoved his sheets off himself and got out of bed. He rushed to the cigarette pack, still in his hoodie's pocket on the floor. He grabbed one and made his way to the window, opening it. He leaned against the wall and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag. He could feel his lungs finally opening as he inhaled. He held the smoke in his body for a couple of seconds before he exhaled out the window. 

Matt took another drag, his fingers shaking. That's when his bedroom door creaked open. Matt froze, with one frantic motion he threw the half smoked cigarette out the window, fanning his hand trying to get the smoke to disappear. 

"Matt?" Jimmy's voice 

Matt turned, forcing himself to look casual, like he hadn’t just been doing something that would get him grounded until graduation. 

Jimmy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You awake?”

Matt nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ve been a bit off lately,” Jimmy said, his voice lower than usual. “Quieter than normal. Your mom’s worried sick.”

Matt’s stomach twisted. He shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. “I’m fine.”

Jimmy let out a short laugh, one that wasn’t amused at all. “You always say that. But I know when something’s eating at you. And you’re not fine, Matt. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Matt shrugged, not really knowing what to say. 

Jimmy sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not good at this… talking thing. But you can tell me if something’s wrong. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Matt forced a thin smile, his voice low. “Nothing’s wrong, Dad. I’m just tired.”

Jimmy smiled. "Okay then... goodnight kiddo". He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Matt waited a second making sure that his dad had fully gone away before slipping into his desk and turning on his laptop. 

The glow of the laptop screen washed over Matt’s pale face. He scrolled past the headlines and into the meat of the article, his pulse picking up with every word.

The victim, Robert James, 42, was discovered in his Somerville residence early Sunday morning after failing to attend his scheduled parole check-in. His parole officer entered the home and found James unresponsive in the living room. Authorities confirmed the cause of death as multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. The murder weapon, a kitchen knife, was found on the floor near the body.

Matt swallowed hard. He could see it all over again, the knife slipping from his own hand, clattering against the tile, Robert’s body twitching before going still.

He scrolled further. Blood spatter covered the living room floor and furniture, suggesting a violent struggle. Neighbors reported hearing nothing unusual. Investigators have not yet identified any suspects but believe the attack was targeted, given James’s criminal history and the lack of forced entry.

His chest tightened. Targeted. The word stuck to him like glue.

He leaned closer to the screen, scanning the part that laid out Robert’s past: James had been accused of child pornography distribution and production. He was then convicted and served twelve years before being released on parole, where he continued to be monitored due to concerns about potential reoffense. Some neighbors expressed fear, calling him a danger to the community.

Matt sat frozen in the dim blue light of his laptop. His heart hammered against his ribs, faster with every detail of Robert’s death he read. The knife. The blood. The word targeted.

He pushed the laptop shut for half a second, pressing his palms into his eyes until stars danced in the darkness. But when he opened them, he flipped it back open again, like he couldn’t help himself. His fingers were trembling when he typed.

Massachusetts sex offender registry.

The page loaded slow, each second stretching thin and unbearable. When it finally appeared, rows of names and faces filled the screen. The same ones he’d stared at before. But now—now they didn’t look like pixels on a government site. They looked real. They looked alive. And they looked wrong. He clicked on the map feature again. 

A grid of Somerville lit up, little red pins scattered like drops of blood. His eyes darted across the screen, scanning, hunting. Then one caught him, a pin not far from his street. Practically walking distance.

He zoomed in. A name popped up.

Name: Daniel R. Martin.

Age: 51.

Convicted: Child molestation.

Address: Highland Avenue, Somerville.

The room went silent except for his ragged breathing. His throat dried out instantly, his palms slick against the keyboard. He could see the man’s mugshot, a smug half-smile frozen on his stupid face, like he didn’t regret a thing.

And then the flashbacks hit him hard, no warning.

The floorboards creaking. That voice, sharp and low, playing on loop in his head. The same half-smile, that stupid smirk—his uncle’s smirk.

Matt’s chest tightened like a fist had closed around it. His throat burned, his eyes stung. He could see it, clear as day, his uncle’s shadow standing in the doorway, that sick look in his eyes, the air so heavy he couldn’t breathe.

His breathing picked up. His knee bounced uncontrollably under the desk. 

He pushed away from the desk, nearly knocking the chair over. He paced, grabbing at his hair, squeezing his skull like he could crush the memories out of it. His chest felt like it was caving in.

“Stop. Stop. STOP!” he hissed under his breath, but the images of Robert’s body were stitched together now with Daniel Martin’s face. It was like the universe was laying the next step right in front of him.

He turned back to the laptop. Stared at that red pin. At the short walking distance highlighted on the map. He could already picture it. The walk. The knife. The silence.

His fingers hovered over the trackpad, shaking, before he slammed the laptop shut so hard it rattled. His breaths came in uneven bursts, like he’d just sprinted a mile.

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. And for a split second, he wanted it again.

Wanted it.

His chest heaved, his palms were sweating, and the craving crawling through his body was worse than nicotine, worse than anything.

He wanted to kill again.

Chapter Text

Matt walked closely behind Chris and Nick through the school gates, his head pounding. Last night had been horrible; the flashbacks of the blood and the picture of Daniel Martin kept him awake for hours. He had ended up chain-smoking by his window. The pack he bought was running out, only two cigarettes left. He needed to buy more.

Chris’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I can’t believe you have English first period. That’s like a perfect nap session. I’m so jealous.”

Matt forced a tight smile and nodded. “You have PE. That’s torture.” But secretly, he wished he had PE. Running sounded almost cathartic.

Nick waved goodbye when he spotted his friends and went off with them, leaving Matt with Chris, who was far too energetic for eight in the morning.

“Did you even sleep? You look like shit, Matt.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“You know what I mean. You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Chris stared at Matt’s hair. It was messy, tangled, falling into his eyes. His eyes themselves looked dead, hollow. The dark circles under them made him look like something out of a Tim Burton movie. Chris gave him a sympathetic, almost sad, look. “You’re not fine,” was the last thing he said before turning away toward his PE class.

The words stung more than Matt expected. For a second, it almost felt like Chris could see through him, and that scared him. He shoved the thought away, sighing as he headed for English. He pulled his hoodie up over his head as much as possible. His backpack felt heavy. The hallways felt tighter. People kept bumping into him, talking too loud.

He finally made it to the classroom and sat down near the back, alone as usual. He dropped his backpack on the floor beside the desk and cupped his face for a moment, trying to block out the fluorescent lights. Mrs. Brown walked in.

“Well, good morning everyone. I hope you all had a nice weekend,” she said, setting her bag on the desk and pulling out a book along with a handful of markers.

Matt sighed and laid his head down on the desk. Around him, students started talking again, their voices blending into a constant hum that pressed against his nerves.

Mrs. Brown scribbled across the board. Macbeth. Great. They were going to read some Shakespeare bullshit. Matt, still slouched low, stared at the word lazily until his eyes accidentally met hers. She shot him a look. Without a word, he understood and sat up straighter.

Standing in front of the class, book in hand, she waited until most of the chatter died down. A few students gave her half their attention; the rest faked it well enough. Then she started reading.

Matt’s body begged for sleep.

Mrs. Brown’s voice carried over the room, steady and clear as she read from the worn copy in her hands.

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”

She lowered the book, scanning the rows of blank or restless faces. “Macbeth can’t escape what he’s done. He feels stained forever, like no matter how much he scrubs, the guilt won’t leave him.”

A couple of kids shifted in their seats. Someone behind Matt muttered, “Dude’s a little dramatic,” and a ripple of laughter followed. But Matt didn’t laugh. His head dipped lower, eyes fixed on the desk. Mrs. Brown’s words slid under his skin, sharp and unbearable.

The image slammed into him without warning, the hot water burning his skin, red swirls of blood spiraling down the drain. His ragged breath caught in his throat. For a second, he swore he could smell it again, metallic and sour, clinging to him no matter how hard he scrubbed.

He dug his nails into his palms under the desk, forcing his body still. His heart pounded in his ears. He wanted to bolt, to run, but he stayed frozen, pretending to follow along.

He closed his eyes, fighting to steady his breathing, but the memory clung too vividly.

Mrs. Brown’s voice kept reading, but the words no longer reached him. The classroom chatter, the scraping of chairs, even the hum of the lights, everything blurred into silence.

All he could hear was the beat of his heart. He pressed his hands against his face. The lights were too bright. The air too thin. He felt like he was suffocating. He started to steady his breathing and slowly let his face breathe, putting his hands into his hoodie's front pocket. He then saw Mrs Brown staring at him, he felt her concerned eyes as she fumbled over the words in the book in front. She apologized briefly for getting confused and turned her attention back to the book, but Matt couldn't forget the way she looked at him. 

The rest of the period passed fairly quickly, Matt just stared ahead without paying attention, he just couldn't focus. The bell rang and Matt rushed to pick up his things so he could get out to breathe but Mrs Brown stopped him with a single sentence. 

"Matt, could you please stay for a bit?" 

Some students turned to look at him, others couldn't care less, getting out as soon as they could, talking to their friends. Matt wanted to die. He nodded, sighed, and walked to the teacher's desk slowly. He stayed silent, waiting for Mrs Brown to speak first. 

"Is everything okay matt? Is there anything you might want to talk about? Remember, I'm here to help you, this is a safe space." 

Matt could feel his throat closing, his lungs becoming smaller. 

"Uhh...I don't understand what this is about", he lied. He wanted the conversation to end. 

"I saw you zoning out earlier, looking... panicked. I'm worried about you, Matt" 

"I'm fine", Matt said, too fast, too rehearsed. It's become his catchphrase. 

"I disagree", she smiled sympathetically. 

"I'm sorry for not paying attention" 

"This is not about my lesson Matt, this is about you." 

He could feel himself start to choke up, he wanted to cry. Matt’s nails dug into the strap of his backpack. He stared at the edge of her desk, afraid to meet her eyes.

“I don’t really have anything to say,” he muttered.

Mrs. Brown’s voice softened. “You don’t have to tell me everything. But… if something is hurting you, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

His chest tightened. The words hit him harder than he expected. For a second, he actually pictured it, telling her everything. The nights, the memories, the things done to him when he was eleven. He almost opened his mouth. He almost trusted her.

But the thought of her face twisting into disgust stopped him cold. No one would ever believe him. No one could ever know.

“I’m fine,” he said again, quieter this time, his voice breaking on the last word.

Mrs. Brown tilted her head, studying him. “If you ever change your mind, my door is always open. During class, after school, it doesn’t matter. I just… I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this.”

He blinked fast, his vision blurring. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, forcing the tears back.

“Thanks,” he whispered, already backing away.

She let him go, though her eyes followed him with a look that made his chest ache.

Matt rushed out of the classroom, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. His eyes were burning, filling with tears. His chest felt tight, like it was collapsing in on itself. He needed to smoke. Now.

He yanked open the boys’ bathroom door and shoved himself into the last stall. Locking it, he pressed his back against the wall. The tears came hot and quiet, slipping down his cheeks as his hands shook. He dug through his bag, frantic, until his fingers closed around the cigarette pack.

Two left.

He pulled one out and struggled with the lighter, his thumb slipping until finally the flame caught. The first drag hit his lungs, harsh and bitter, but his body relaxed with that familiar burn in his throat. He hated that he was a smoker now. Hated the smell, the taste, all of it. But the craving always won. The cigarette gave him something he couldn’t find anywhere else, control.

Mrs. Brown’s voice echoed in his head. I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this. His throat tightened and fresh tears rolled down his face. He almost told her. He almost told her everything.

He pressed his fist against his teeth to stop himself from sobbing out loud. He inhaled again, smoke curling in his lungs. Then, without warning, Daniel Martin’s mugshot flashed in his mind.

Matt blinked hard, trying to force it away, but it wouldn’t go. The face clung to him, burned into his brain. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality.

He was going insane.

Chapter Text

The words still wouldn’t leave him. “You’re not alone in this.” They clung to him like static. Mrs. Brown’s voice, her eyes. The bathroom stall, the smoke in his lungs, the tears on his face. He had scrubbed at them with his sleeve but it didn’t matter. He still felt marked.

He sat across from Nick and Chris, his tray untouched. Fries, burger, bread—just the smell made his stomach twist. He hadn’t eaten breakfast either. He didn’t care.

Nick was laughing, running his mouth about something that happened in math class, chewing too loud. Chris barely reacted, just sipping his soda, staring at Matt every few seconds like he was studying him.

Matt kept his head down tracing circles in a puddle of mayo with a fry he would never eat. If he didn’t look up, maybe Chris would stop. 

Then Chris leaned in, voice low but sharp. “You’re burning through those packs fast.”

Matt froze. His grip on the fry went slack. His chest locked up.

Nick frowned. “Packs? What packs?”

Chris smirked harder, leaning back in his chair like it was a joke only he understood. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Matt’s hand twitched under the table. He wanted to slam his fist into Chris’s face. Instead, he sat still, teeth clenched so tight his jaw hurt.

But his stomach betrayed him. It growled loud enough that Nick heard it. Nick laughed, nudging him. “Dude,you should eat. You must be starving.”

Matt shoved the tray away like it disgusted him. “Not hungry.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “You didn’t eat breakfast either. What’s wrong with you lately?”

Chris didn’t say anything at first, just watched. His eyes dragged over Matt’s thin frame, the shadows under his eyes, the way his hoodie hung off his shoulders like it didn’t fit anymore. Chris tilted his head, smirk fading into something sharper.

“You’re fine, right?” Chris said, low. The words gutted him. Mrs. Brown’s voice. The stall. The tears. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t tell if Chris knew everything or nothing at all.

“Shut the fuck up,” Matt hissed.

Nick blinked. “What the fuck? Dude, what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem!” His voice cracked loud across the table. Heads turned. People looked. Matt’s skin crawled.

Nick shot back, voice rising too. “You’re yelling at us for no reason!”

Chris cut in, sharper, louder. “Yeah, what the fuck is going on?”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Matt slammed his fist on the table, rattling the trays. The whole cafeteria turned now. Dozens of eyes on him. Heat roared up his neck, burning his ears. He felt naked, exposed, caught.

Nick muttered, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That did it. Matt shoved his chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stay. The walls were closing in. He stormed out, every eye following him, his chest burning.

Behind him, Nick sat frowning, confused, while Chris stayed quiet, his eyes trailing Matt.

He rushed down the hall, fists shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, head low. His pulse wouldn’t slow down. The words still clawed at him “You’re fine, right?” like Chris had ripped his chest open in front of everyone.

By the time the bell rang, Matt forced himself into his next class. He slid into a desk near the back, pulling his hood up even though it was against the rules. He thought if he just sat there, quiet, invisible, it would pass.

But it didn’t.

He felt it immediately—the stares. Whispering. The shifting of eyes in his direction. He caught two girls turning to look at him, then jerk their heads away with smirks. A guy across the aisle nudged his friend and mouthed cafeteria.

Matt’s chest tightened. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He could still hear the echo of his own voice from lunch, too loud, too cracked. He imagined everyone replaying it in their heads, mocking him, dissecting him.

“Matt,” the teacher’s voice snapped, pulling him back. “Hood down.”

Slowly, he tugged it off, his skin crawling under the fluorescent lights. His ears burned as more eyes turned. He felt like he was on display, every weakness shining through.

A laugh broke out somewhere in the room. It wasn’t even about him—he knew that—but his brain twisted it, aimed it right at his chest.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit here, couldn’t let them stare holes through him.

Before the teacher even started the lesson, Matt grabbed his bag and stood. The chair scraped loud against the tile.

“Where are you going?” the teacher demanded.

“Bathroom,” Matt muttered, but his voice was tight, shaky. He didn’t wait for permission. He shoved his way out, the door banging shut behind him.

☁︎

The bus groaned as it pulled up, brakes screeching. He had skipped the last two periods, hiding in the bathroom listening to music. Matt climbed on behind his brothers, keeping his hood up again, ignoring the driver’s glance. He slid into a seat by the window, pressing his shoulder against the foggy glass. Nick plopped down next to him, Chris across the aisle.

Nick started talking right away about some stupid story from gym, his voice filling the space. Matt barely heard it, staring out at the blur of houses rolling by. His reflection looked hollow in the glass, his eyes ringed dark.

After a minute, Chris leaned forward, resting his elbow on the top of their seat. His voice was low, sharp enough for Matt to hear but quiet enough to keep it between them.
“You skipped last period.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “So what?”

“We had math together,” Chris shot back. “You weren’t there.”

Nick blinked, looking between them. “Wait… you skipped?”

“Shut up, Nick,” Matt snapped, too quick. His voice came out rough, and Nick’s mouth fell shut.

Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on with you? First the cafeteria, now this—”

“Drop it,” Matt hissed, shifting in his seat. He could feel the heat of other kids’ voices a few rows down. Were they listening? Watching? His stomach turned.

Chris leaned in closer, lowering his voice even more. “You think I don’t notice? You’re not fine, Matt. Stop pretending.”

Matt’s throat burned. He whipped his head toward Chris, his voice breaking as he whispered back, “You don’t know anything about me.”

Nick frowned. “Guys, seriously, what’s happening? Why are you—”

“I said drop it,” Matt snapped again, but softer this time, controlled, almost strangled. He turned back to the window, his reflection blurring with the passing trees. His fists pressed into his knees to stop the shaking.

Nick sat in stunned silence, chewing at his lip. Chris sat back, crossing his arms, his jaw tight. The air between them felt split, raw, like one wrong word could tip it all over again.

The bus rattled on, but the silence in their row was heavier than all the noise around them. Chris leaned closer again, his voice sharp now. “I don’t get it, Matt. You skip class, you barely eat, and then you just sit there like nothing’s wrong. What the hell is going on with you?”

“I said leave it alone,” he muttered, his voice low but tense.

Chris slammed his hand on the seat between them, leaning in. “Leave it alone? You think I’m stupid? You’re hiding something, man. I know you’re not fine!”

Matt’s chest tightened. The sudden intensity made his head spin. He yanked his headphones from his bag, slammed them over his ears, and hit play on a Mac Miller track. The bass throbbed through him, drowning out Chris’s voice, the dull hum of the bus, even Nick’s confused questions.

Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously? Music? That’s it? You’re just gonna sit there and ignore me?”

Matt turned toward the window, jaw tight, eyes burning. He didn’t answer. Every word felt like it would crack him open. He let the music swallow him, letting Mac Miller anchor him while everything else faded to nothing.

Nick looked between them, unsure. “Matt… you okay?”

Matt didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the glass, hollow and sharp, wishing he could disappear. Chris’s frustrated, angry gaze lingered on him, but Matt didn’t care. All that mattered was the music, the pulse of the bass, and getting through the rest of the ride without exploding. 

The bus hissed to a stop near their neighborhood. Students spilled onto the sidewalk, chatting and laughing, but Matt barely noticed. His hoodie hung low, and he kept his eyes to the ground, one cigarette left in his pocket.

As soon as their feet hit the pavement, Chris’s patience snapped. “Matt, what the hell? You’ve been acting so fucking weird, you need to explain yourself!”

Matt started walking, head down, ignoring both Chris and Nick.

“Matt! Don’t just walk off!” Chris yelled, grabbing his arm.

Nick stepped in, voice shaky. “Yeah, seriously! You can’t just—”

“I said leave me alone!” Matt shouted, jerking his arm free.

Chris stepped closer, blocking his path. “No, I’m not letting you walk off like this!”

Matt’s hands shook at his sides. “I don’t have to explain anything to you!”

Chris’s voice rose, frustrated and dangerous. “Yes, you do! We’re your family, Matt! You’re acting insane!”

Nick tried to intervene, “Guys, calm down—”

But Matt had had enough. His face flushed, adrenaline spiking, and he yanked his headphones out of his pocket. “I’m done talking!” he yelled. 

Matt’s chest heaved, his vision narrowing. Chris took a step closer, voice sharp and relentless. Without thinking, Matt swung his fist, hitting Chris squarely in the face.

As Chris stumbled back, clutching his cheek, Matt’s mind betrayed him. In an instant, he saw Robert stumbling back the night he had killed him, the blood, the panic, the fear in his eyes. The image was so vivid it made his stomach twist. He could feel the blood on his own hands again, the metallic tang, the same horrifying pulse in his veins.

Chris blinked, startled. “What the—Matt! Are you insane?!”

Nick froze, staring in horror. “Dude… what the hell, Matt?!”

Matt’s blood ran cold as he realized what he’d just done. His fists dropped to his sides, shaking. The anger that had consumed him evaporated instantly, leaving only shame and panic.

“I… I didn’t mean” Matt stammered, backing away, his hoodie trembling as if it could shield him from their stares.

Chris rubbed his face. “You just hit me?! Are you out of your mind?”

Nick’s face was pale, his confusion turning into fear. “Matt?”

Matt’s heart hammered in his ears. The street felt smaller, the sun too bright. He felt trapped, exposed, and the weight of his actions hit him like a ton of bricks. The echo of Robert’s gasp still rattled inside his head. Without another word, he spun on his heel and started walking, fast, away from both of them, from everything.

Chris called after him, his voice cracking with frustration and concern, but Matt ignored it. Nick’s quiet mutter followed him, “Dude… seriously…”

Matt didn’t stop. He just kept walking, desperate to escape the mess he’d made and the storm brewing inside himself. 

Matt’s legs carried him without thought, away from Chris and Nick, away from the judgment in their eyes. He pushed the door of a convenience store open, the little bell jingling. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of chips and old soda. He walked to the counter, eyes locked on the cigarettes and the small bottles of vodka behind the glass. His fingers itched to grab the pack, but he couldn’t, everything was behind the clerk.

The clerk, a bored-looking man wiping down the register, noticed him staring. “What do you want?” he asked, voice flat.

Matt hesitated, then pointed to a pack of cigarettes. “Uh…that one,” he mumbled.

The clerk grabbed it from behind the counter and set it on the glass. Then Matt’s gaze shifted to the vodka. His chest tightened. Just a small bottle, he thought, just to feel something else. He pointed to it.

“You sure, kid?” the clerk asked, raising an eyebrow.

Matt nodded, almost automatically. The clerk didn’t say anything else. He rang up the cigarettes and the vodka, sliding them across the counter. Matt’s fingers trembled as he took the change.

He walked out. The bottle felt heavy in his backpack, heavier than it should have. He took a long drag, smoke curling from his lips and nostrils, and for a few seconds, the world quieted.

☁︎

Dinner started with the usual clatter of forks and plates, but Matt wasn’t eating. He hadn’t eaten all day, and now the sight of food made his stomach twist. He pushed chicken around with his fork, head low, ribs pressing against the edge of the table.

Nick was trying, as always. “So, uh… we had this game in gym today. Coach made us run laps, but—”

Chris cut him off, sharp. “Are we seriously just pretending everything’s normal?”

Mary Lou looked up from her plate. “What do you mean?”

Chris didn’t break eye contact with Matt. “You know exactly what I mean. He’s been off all week. Skipping, storming off—”

Matt’s fork clattered down. “Shut up.”

Mary Lou frowned. “Chris. Don’t.”

But Chris didn’t stop. “You think we don’t notice? You think we’re blind?”

Matt’s chest went hot. “I said shut up.”

“Don’t talk to your brother like that,” Mary Lou snapped.

Matt ignored her, leaned forward, voice low and shaking. “You don’t know anything.”

“Then say something,” Chris shot back, louder. “For once, admit you’re not fine. Everyone sees it but you.”

The air around the table felt like it was buzzing. Nick shifted in his seat, eyes wide. “Guys—”

“Stay out of it,” Chris barked.

Mary Lou’s voice cut through, sharp. “Enough.”

But neither listened.

Matt’s voice cracked. “Drop it, Chris.”

Chris’s hands slammed the table, rattling plates. “Why? You gonna hit me again?”

The room froze.

Mary Lou blinked. “What?”

Matt felt the words punch through his chest. “Shut your mouth.”

Mary Lou’s chair scraped back. “Are you kidding me? You laid your hands on your brother?”

Matt stood up so fast his chair tipped. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Like what?” Mary Lou’s voice was rising now, shaking. She slammed her palm against the table. “You hit your brother, Matthew!”

Chris’s face was red, jaw tight. “Tell her. Go on, tell her what you did.”

Matt’s throat burned. Everyone was staring, everyone knew. His skin crawled under it.

Mary Lou’s voice cracked, too loud for the small kitchen. “You want me to believe you’re fine? Then explain this!”

Matt couldn’t breathe. He shoved past his chair, storming down the hall as their voices exploded behind him, all on top of each other, louder and louder until it was just noise.

He slammed his bedroom door, chest heaving, fists clenched.

☁︎

The house had gone quiet hours ago, but Matt couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, eyes open in the dark, chest pounding like he was still at the table. Every time he blinked he saw Chris’s face. The way he stumbled back. The way Robert had, too. The overlap made his stomach turn.

He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, but it didn’t help. His skin itched, his muscles wouldn’t sit still. Every second stretched, heavier than the last.

The mirror on the dresser caught him when he stood. He turned the lamp on, too bright, and stared. His hair was damp from the shower earlier, sticking to his forehead. His ribs pushed sharp against his skin, collarbones jutting out. He dragged his fingers across them like proof they were real.

For a second, the reflection wavered. Blood smeared on his face. He blinked hard, heart slamming, but it was still there. His throat tightened. He pressed his palm to the glass, like he could steady himself, like the cold surface would remind him he was actually there.

But the image didn’t fade.

He yanked his hand back, pacing again. The walls felt close, suffocating. His stomach growled, loud in the silence, but food made him sick. Matt pressed his palms to his face. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop seeing blood. By the time the clock hit past midnight, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He pulled on a hoodie, tugged the hood up, and grabbed the now half-empty cigarette pack. His hands shook as he slid the window open, the cool air hitting his face. He climbed out, his converse hitting the ground without a sound.

The streets were empty, washed in the yellow glow of streetlights. Every step echoed too loud in his head, even though the neighborhood slept. Matt lit another cigarette, the flame snapping in the wind, and pulled deep. The smoke hit his lungs, hot and sharp, but it didn’t calm him. His hands still shook.

He shoved the pack in his hoodie pocket, pulling it tighter around his face. The night air was cold, and it cleared his head just enough to sting. He watched his shoes hit the sidewalk, one after the other, trying to focus on that instead of the blur of blood in his mind. Every shadow looked like someone watching him, every passing car a spotlight. He hunched lower.

By the time he reached the corner, the cigarette was down to the filter. He flicked it into the gutter and dug his nails into his palm. Daniel’s street was quieter than the rest, too quiet. He knew the house from the map, from the picture burned into his head. Matt stood at the edge of the block for a long moment, hood up, staring. His chest was pounding so loud he swore it would wake the whole neighborhood. His lips tightened into something close to a smile.

He was ready now. 

He crossed the street slowly, watching the house like it might move if he blinked. Every light inside was off. No TV glow, no music. Just the dull shape of a two-story box, blinds pulled tight.

Matt cut across the front lawn. He tugged his hood lower and wrapped his sleeve over his hand before trying the knob. Cold metal. Locked.

His stomach dropped, but only for a second. He knew it wouldn’t be easy forever.

Matt slipped to the side of the house, crouched by the kitchen door. He could see the glow of the stove clock through the glass pane. A little square of red numbers pulsing in the dark. His breath fogged against the window when he leaned closer.

He pulled his sleeve over his fist and drove it into the glass. The crack was sharp but short, swallowed by the night. Shards rained down into the grass. His knuckles stung, but he shoved his hand through the gap, feeling blindly until his fingers wrapped the lock. One twist.

The door gave way.

Matt froze, listening. Nothing stirred inside. No footsteps. Just his own heart thudding in his ears.

He slipped in, the glass crunching under his shoes as he stepped into the kitchen. He shut the door behind him softly, trying not to make any noise.

Then he reached for the first drawer by the counter. His fingers brushed against metal. Cold, heavy. A knife.

He closed his fist around it.

The knife felt heavy, awkward in his grip, but he held onto it anyway as he moved up the stairs. Each step creaked under him. He froze every time, waiting, but the house stayed quiet.

At the top, he found the door. Daniel’s. Matt stood there for a second, breathing hard, then twisted the knob and slipped inside. 

He crept closer, the knife shaking in his hand. Daniel was right there, breathing heavy, not a clue what was coming.

Matt lifted the knife higher.

Then his foot caught on something. A backpack. His ankle twisted and he lurched forward. He slammed into the nightstand, jaw first. The corner smashed into bone, a hot pain shooting through his face. For a second his vision blurred.

The lamp wobbled and fell, hitting the carpet with a dull thud before rolling. A glass of water tipped, spilling across the floor, running under Matt’s hand as he tried to push himself up.

The knife clattered against the wood. His teeth ached, his whole jaw throbbing. Blood leaked inside his mouth—copper taste, sticky on his tongue.

The noise was enough.

Daniel jerked awake, eyes wide, head snapping toward the movement. He saw Matt, hooded, crouched on the floor with a knife. Confusion snapped straight into fear.

Daniel scrambled up as fast as he could. He was quick to hit Matt square in the eyebrow. Warm blood now trickling into his eye. Matt stumbled back, vision blurring, but he swung the knife out blindly.

Daniel ducked and punched him in the side. Matt yelped, spinning, tripping over the edge of the bed.

They were both on their feet again in seconds, grappling, punching, slamming into furniture. Daniel threw another punch that cracked against Matt’s jaw. Matt felt his hand shake, adrenaline rushing, but he lunged, stabbing once, twice. Daniel stumbled but kept swinging, trying to fight back.

The room was chaotic, blood on his hands, bruises forming, everything noisy and sharp. Finally, after the third hit later, Daniel went down.

Matt stood over him, chest heaving, arms trembling, blood dripping from his own eyebrow. His vision blurred, stomach twisting. For a second, the world was quiet except for his rapid heartbeat, and an insane, strange calm settled over him.

Chapter Text

Matt bolted out of the bedroom, leaving the knife where it clattered against the floorboards. His chest was heaving, his eyebrow stung, and all he could hear was the sound of his shoes slapping against the hallway as he tore down the stairs. The house felt louder now, like every creak and groan of the wood was screaming his name.

He yanked the back door open, glass crunching under his sneakers from where he’d broken it earlier. Cold air hit him in the face, stinging the fresh cut above his eye. His hoodie clung to him, damp with sweat and blood, his and Daniel’s. He didn’t care. He just ran.

The street outside was dead silent. He half-expected a light to flip on, a neighbor to poke their head out, someone to yell. Nothing. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, forcing himself to slow down even though his body was begging him to keep sprinting. Running drew attention. He knew that. He walked past a fast food and for the first time in days the thought of food didn’t repulse him.

Matt stumbled into the glow of the fast food place, the bell above the door rattling too loud in his ears. His hoodie was damp, sticking to him, the front smeared with blood. He felt the sting of his eyebrow every time he blinked, blood still dripping slowly into his lashes, mixing with the cut at the corner of his mouth. He probably looked insane.

But his stomach twisted and growled so hard it almost doubled him over. He hadn’t been able to eat in days, not really, but now, after the chaos, after Daniel, he was starving. The hunger came on like fire.

The cashier looked up from the register, freezing for a second. His eyes dragged over Matt’s hoodie, then his face, lingering on the blood.

Matt coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and forced himself forward. “Uh… double cheeseburger. Fries. Large Coke.”

The cashier blinked. “…You okay, man?”

Matt stared back, eyes sharp, breath uneven. “Yeah. Just hurry up.”

The guy hesitated, but rang it up anyway. Matt shoved a crumpled bill across the counter, hands shaking, blood drying under his nails.

When the tray slid toward him, greasy and steaming, Matt grabbed it with both hands like it might vanish. He slid into a corner booth, his jeans sticking to the vinyl seat. And then he ate.

Biting into the burger, the salt, grease, and heat hit him like nothing else. It was the first time in forever that food didn’t taste like cardboard. He devoured it, chewing fast, swallowing hard, fries disappearing by the handful. The soda burned down his throat.

Every bite made his stomach scream for more, like the kill had unlocked something in him. He couldn’t stop.

The cashier kept glancing over, probably thinking Matt had gotten jumped or something, but he didn’t say a word. And Matt didn’t care. For the first time in days, he wasn’t empty.

By the time Matt turned onto his street, the night felt heavier than usual. The houses sat dark and still, blinds drawn, everyone asleep inside. His shoes scuffed against the sidewalk, his stomach full for the first time in days, the taste of grease and salt still in the back of his throat. The blood on his hoodie had stiffened, pulling tight at the fabric when he moved. His eyebrow was still bleeding, a slow trickle running down the side of his face, drying at the corner of his mouth.

The porch light was off when he reached the house. He moved quietly, crossing the yard heading straight for the backyard, hoodie clutched in one hand like it was toxic.

The dirt patch waited for him. Same spot as last time. He dropped the hoodie down, the thud muffled in the grass, and dropped to his knees. His hands went to work without thinking, clawing at the earth, scooping it out in chunks. His nails split dirt, cold mud grinding under them, his breath coming fast and shallow. The hole grew quick, messy, just deep enough.

The lighter flared in his hand. One flick, and the fabric caught, flames spreading fast across the blood-soaked cotton. The fire spat smoke into the cool air, glowing orange against his pale face. He crouched there, staring hard at it, until the hoodie was nothing but curling ash. Only then did he smear the dirt back over, his palms black and raw.

Inside, he stripped everything else off before stepping into the shower. Water blasted hot, running red at first as blood washed from his eyebrow, his mouth, the lines where it had dried on his skin. He tilted his head, watching it swirl down the drain, until nothing was left but water and steam. His ribs jutted sharp, collarbones cutting clear under his skin, his stomach nearly hollow. He scrubbed until his skin stung, until it felt like the night could be erased if he tried hard enough.

When the water shut off, silence hit hard. He walked to his room naked, dripping, tossed the towel on the floor, and dropped into bed without pulling on clothes. His body melted into the mattress, sheets sticking to his damp skin. And for the first time in days, he slept. Heavy. Silent. Like something inside him had finally unclenched.

☁︎

Matt woke up sprawled across the mattress, skin cold against the sheets. Naked again. The smell of smoke still clung to his hands even though he’d scrubbed them raw the night before. He stared up at the ceiling, the blur of Daniel’s face flashing in and out of his head. Matt squeezed his eyes shut, but it stayed there, stuck like film burned into his eyelids.

He finally dragged himself out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt and putting on his Converse without looking.

At the kitchen table, Nick was already eating cereal, spoon clinking the bowl. Chris sat across from him, head tilted, the purple bruise along his cheekbone standing out ugly under the light. Matt’s stomach knotted. He dropped into his chair and reached for toast he didn’t want.

It was Nick who noticed first. His spoon froze mid-air.
“Uh… Matt?” He pointed, hesitating. “Your shoes…”

Matt followed his eyes. The Converse. Brown dirt caked on the rubber, but worse, dark stains smeared across the toe tip and the outer sole. Red. His throat locked up. For a second he couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

“What about them?” he snapped too quickly, kicking one foot back under the table.

Nick frowned. “That looks like… blood.”

Matt forced a laugh, sharp and fake. “Yeah, I tripped last night, busted my eyebrow. It dripped down. It’s nothing.”

That’s when Mary Lou turned from the counter, eyes narrowing. “Your eyebrow?” Her voice cut through the room. She stepped closer, and Matt felt her stare digging into him. The cut above his eye was raw, swollen, a little dried blood at the corner.

“What happened to you now?” she demanded.

Matt’s jaw tightened. “I told you, I fell.”

“And your shoes just happened to land in it too?” Her voice was rising, sharp with suspicion. “First you punch your brother in the face, and now this? Look at Chris, Matthew. Look at him. Do you think I don’t notice what’s happening?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Matt’s eyes. The bruise on his cheek said enough.

Matt gripped the edge of the table, pulse hammering. Every nerve felt exposed. He could feel Nick staring, Chris staring, Mary Lou tearing into him. His face burned hot.

“I said I fell,” he muttered, low, his voice flat.

Mary Lou crossed her arms, staring at him like she could see straight through him. “You’ve been lying more and more, Matthew. You think I don’t see it?”

“I’m fine.” The words came out too sharp, like a blade slipping.

Chris finally looked up, the bruise on his cheek already turning yellow at the edges. “No, you’re not.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “And you’re dragging everyone down with you.”

Matt’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. The kitchen went quiet except for the ticking clock on the wall. Nick shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Enough,” Mary Lou cut in, grabbing her coffee. “We don’t have time for this. Eat your breakfast or don’t, but you’re all going to school.”

Matt could feel Chris’s eyes on him the whole time, feel Nick sneaking glances at his stained shoes, like both of them were waiting for him to snap again.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

The three of them walked out together, the air between them heavy and silent. The morning sun made everything too bright, too exposed. Matt shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket, the cut on his eyebrow stinging in the light.

☁︎

By the time they got to school, Matt already felt the weight of eyes on him. It started in the parking lot, whispers sliding between kids leaning against cars, half-hidden laughs that stopped when he walked by.

Inside, it only got worse. His eyebrow was split open, a crust of dried blood still around it, and Chris’s cheek was swollen purple. Matt could feel people staring as he moved through the hall. Every whisper seemed louder than it really was, every glance sharper. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to keep walking, shoulders tight, hoodie pulled low.

Nick stuck close to him, quiet, but his eyes kept dropping to Matt’s shoes. The dirt, the brown stains on the white rubber. Matt had tried not to think about them all morning. He told himself they looked like mud. But Nick wasn’t stupid.

“Matt,” Nick said under his breath, like he didn’t want Chris to hear. “That’s not-”

“Don’t.” Matt cut him off fast, sharper than he meant to. He didn’t even look at him, just pushed forward through the crowd.

Chris didn’t bother hiding it. He walked a step behind them, jaw clenched, not saying a word but Matt could feel the silence pressing harder than if he’d started yelling again.

When Matt finally sat down in his first class, people didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. Heads turned. Kids whispered behind their hands. Someone even muttered, “That’s him,” like he was a freak show.

Matt’s pen trembled against the page. He stared down at the notebook but didn’t write a single word. His chest felt too tight, his ears buzzing. All he could think was: they know.

He grabbed his bag and stormed out before the bell even rang, slamming the door behind him.

Matt’s footsteps echoed down the hall as he shoved his hands deep in his hoodie pocket, trying to steady his breathing. His jaw still ached from where Daniel had hit him, and his eyebrow throbbed with every heartbeat. He didn’t care where he was going , anywhere away from those stares.

“Matt?”

His chest locked up. Mrs. Brown was standing at the end of the hall, a stack of folders in her arms. She looked at him the same way she had in that classroom, like she already knew too much.

“What are you doing out of class?” she asked, stepping closer.

“I… bathroom,” Matt muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. His voice came out clipped, defensive.

Her gaze flicked over him, slow and heavy. The bruise on his brother’s face, the split eyebrow, now him storming through the hall , she was putting things together. Matt felt it.

“You don’t look okay,” she said softly. “Is something going on?”

He froze. The words from their conversation slammed back into his head, how close he’d come to cracking in front of her before. His throat felt raw.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. Too loud, his voice bouncing against the lockers. A couple of kids down the hall turned to look, and his stomach dropped. Exposed again.

Mrs. Brown’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push. Not yet. “Matt, you can’t keep—”

But he was already walking, practically shoving past her. He couldn’t listen. Not now. Not with his heart racing and Daniel’s face flashing in his head.

Matt quickened his steps, eyes locked on the floor, but he heard her shoes behind him.

“Matt, wait,” Mrs. Brown called, sharper than usual.

He tugged his hood higher, pulling the strings tight, but she caught up anyway, sliding in front of him, blocking his way down the empty hall.

“You can’t keep running every time someone tries to talk to you,” she said, steady, eyes searching his face.

“I’m not running.” His voice cracked halfway through. He clenched his fists, hating how weak he sounded.

Mrs. Brown tilted her head, scanning him , the split eyebrow, the swelling, the dark bags under his eyes. “You’re hurting. I see it, Matt. This is more than a fight with your brothers. This is something that’s been eating at you for a long time.”

The words landed like a gut punch. His stomach twisted. He swallowed hard, and for a second he thought about saying it. The nights. The locked doors. His uncle’s hands. He almost saw the words leaving his mouth, raw and ugly in the open air.

“I—” His throat closed. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “You don’t… you don’t get it.”

“Then make me,” she said, softer now. “You don’t have to give me everything. Just… something. You don’t have to keep this to yourself anymore.”

The pressure broke. His chest heaved, breath stuttering, eyes burning. He bit his lip hard, but the tear still slid hot down his cheek.

“Matt.” Her voice gentled, almost a whisper.

He turned away, shoulders curling in, shame crushing him. He could feel it bubbling up, almost spilling: He touched me. He did things. I was a kid. But the words stayed locked in his throat, like his body refused to let them out.

Mrs. Brown glanced around the deserted hall, then quickly grabbed her lanyard. She unlocked the janitor’s closet and pushed the door open. “Come on. Just for a minute.”

The little room was cramped and smelled like bleach, the single bulb flickering faintly above. She guided him inside with a hand on his shoulder.

“No one can see you here,” she murmured.

Matt leaned against the wall, pressing his hands over his face. His breathing was all jagged, uneven, until finally the tears broke through. They ran hot down his cheeks, wetting his hands.

Mrs. Brown didn’t crowd him. She stayed close but calm. “Whatever it is, Matt… it’s not your fault. I can tell you that much already. It’s not.”

He let his hands drop, his face a mess , red eyes, trembling lips. The words balanced on the edge of his tongue, choking him. He hurt me. He ruined everything. But instead, all that came out was a hoarse, “I can’t.”

For a moment, he thought she knew. That somehow, she could read the truth in his face, in the way his body shook. The silence pressed in, his sobs the only sound.

Matt’s breath came in short bursts, the tears spilling faster now. His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, all the air gone, and the words were slipping out before he could stop them.

“He—” his voice cracked, sharp and broken. “He… used to—”

The rest was strangled in his throat. His body convulsed with the effort, like his own mind was clawing to shut him down.

Mrs. Brown stayed silent, leaning against the doorframe, her face tense, unsure if she should speak or give him space. She could see how close he was to spilling something immense, the way his shoulders shook, the wild, desperate look in his eyes.

Matt’s head fell into his hands, tears sliding down the sides of his face. “He… he did… things… when I was… I… I tried to tell, but… I can’t…” His words stumbled out in fragments, the sentences collapsing into sobs.

Mrs. Brown’s stomach knotted. She didn’t know what exactly he was saying, but the weight in his voice, the fear, the way he curled into himself, it was bad . Worse than she’d imagined.

“Matt,” she whispered cautiously. “It’s okay… you can tell me… I’m here…”

He jerked his head up, wild, terrified. “No! You don’t understand!”

He buried his face in his hands again, sobs rattling from his chest like a storm. “I tried to… I tried to stop it… I couldn’t… I—”

His voice faltered, choking on the words. The confession teetered on the edge of reality, brushing against truth, then pulling back like a tide.

Mrs. Brown swallowed hard. Her heart ached for him, but the details were unclear. Who? What? She didn’t know. All she had were the fragments, the terror, the panic, the hints in his voice that this was something no child should ever face.

“I… I hate it… I hate him… I hate everything…” His words cracked, each one punctuated by a sob. “I can’t… I can’t… I can’t…”

He slid down the wall fully now, knees tucked against his chest. Every breath came hard, shallow, desperate. Mrs. Brown stepped a little closer but didn’t touch him. Her voice stayed calm, gentle, careful. “Matt… it’s okay. I’m not going to force you to say anything. You’re safe 

Matt’s sobs rattled his chest, loud and desperate, his hands trembling as he gripped his knees. “He… he did things… to me… when I was… I was… eleven,” he choked out, voice breaking, almost a whisper, almost a scream. “I tried… I tried to stop it… I… I couldn’t…”

Mrs. Brown froze, the words catching in her throat. Her eyes widened, her chest tightening. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She felt the room shrink, the air thickening with the weight of what he’d just said. The panic in his eyes, the tears streaming down his face, the raw pain, it hit her like a physical blow.

Matt’s voice wavered, shaking. “I wanted… I wanted to tell someone… I wanted to… but I couldn’t… I couldn’t… it was him… my uncle…”

The words cut through the silence, sharper than any blade. Mrs. Brown’s hand went instinctively to her mouth, and for a moment, she felt tears welling up in her own eyes. She had never expected to hear anything this… this personal, this heavy. She felt her heart break for him, for the child he once was, for the teen he was now, unraveling in front of her.

Matt’s sobs grew louder, body trembling, the rawness of his confession spilling out in broken gasps. “I… I couldn’t… I wanted… I can’t… I hate it… I hate him… I hate everything…”

Mrs. Brown stepped closer, cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Matt… shhh… it’s okay… it’s okay… you’re safe,” she whispered, voice trembling slightly. She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him further. Her own tears threatened to spill, but she stayed strong for him.

He curled in on himself, rocking slightly, sobbing into his arms. “I tried… I tried to fight… I tried… I…” His words fell into silence, broken by his ragged breathing.

Mrs. Brown knelt down slightly, keeping her distance, voice soft but firm. “I’m here… I’m listening… I’m not going anywhere… you can tell me anything.”

Matt shook his head violently, tears blurring his vision. “No! You don’t understand! You can’t… nobody… nobody can…”

She stayed, letting him wail, letting him collapse into the storm of his emotions, wanting to cry herself but holding it back for him. Her chest ached with empathy, with horror, with the desire to take away his pain.

After what felt like hours, his sobs began to quiet, still shaky but slower, more ragged. He pressed his face into his knees, rocking gently. Mrs. Brown stayed nearby, her hand hovering as if to reach for him, unsure if he would let her.

Finally, he whispered, almost inaudibly, “I just… I just wanted it to stop…”

Mrs. Brown’s voice cracked as she responded, soft and urgent. “It’s okay… it’s going to be okay…”

He stayed curled up, letting her words wash over him, the storm inside him still raging but slightly quieter. And for the first time, maybe, he felt like he wasn’t completely alone.

Matt’s sobs had quieted to soft, uneven breaths. He lifted his head slowly, eyes red and glassy, and before either of them realized it, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Mrs. Brown. His grip was tight, desperate, as if holding onto her could somehow steady the storm inside him.

Tears still rolled down his cheeks, leaving streaks across his pale skin, but the sobbing was gone. He pressed his face into her shoulder, silent except for the occasional hitch of his breathing. His body trembled, not from crying, but from the shock of what he had just done.

He couldn’t believe he had actually said it, the secret he had carried for years, locked away deep inside him, had finally spilled out. And now it was real. Vulnerable. Terrifying.

Mrs. Brown’s arms went around him carefully, holding him without words. Her own chest was tight, her heart heavy, but she let him lean on her, knowing that for this moment, her presence was all he needed. She whispered softly, “It’s okay, Matt. You said it. You’re safe now. You’re not alone.”

He stayed there, clinging, letting the reality of his confession sink in, the weight of it pressing down but somehow lighter for being shared. For the first time in years, he had let someone see the truth of what he had endured, and though it terrified him, a small part of him felt a strange relief.

Matt stayed in Mrs. Brown’s arms longer than he realized, the warmth and the small pressure of her hand on his back almost grounding him. He could feel her shaking slightly, like she was holding herself together for him. It was strange, realizing that someone outside his family actually cared this much. He buried his face against her shoulder, tears still rolling down his cheeks, but his sobs had quieted. He couldn’t believe he had actually said it, the thing he’d carried alone for years.

Mrs. Brown whispered softly, “It’s okay, Matt. You’re safe now. I’m here.” She didn’t ask questions, didn’t press, didn’t push. Just those words were enough to make him feel like he could breathe for the first time in days. He hugged her tighter.

Finally, he pulled back slightly, wiping at his cheeks. “I… I just…” His chest heaved as he tried to calm his breathing. 

Mrs. Brown gave him a small nod. “I know. And you don’t have to right now. You just… talk to me whenever you’re ready. No pressure.”

Matt stayed frozen for a moment, letting the words sink in. Safe. No pressure. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. Then, as if realizing he had stayed in the closet too long, he straightened up and pulled back. Mrs. Brown gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before letting him go, her eyes still soft and worried.

He opened the door slowly, stepping out into the empty hallway. The fluorescent lights were harsh, the silence almost deafening. He moved to the lockers, running a hand through his hair, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. But the hallway felt smaller, tighter, suffocating. The memory of what he had just said weighed on him, heavy in his chest. Mrs Brown stood next to him, giving him one last glance before turning away, making her way to her office. 

Matt’s fingers brushed against his backpack, and he remembered the cigarette pack inside. His pulse quickened at the thought. He needed it. He needed the burn, the control, the focus it brought him. Sliding into a stall in the boy’s bathroom, he locked the door behind him, fumbled for the pack, and pulled out a cigarette.

Lighting it took a few tries. His hands were shaking, still damp from his tears. Finally, the smoke filled his lungs, and for a few seconds, he felt a strange calm. The burn in his throat, the acrid taste of tobacco, grounded him in the moment.

But it didn’t last. As he exhaled, the memories started creeping back—the blood, the fight, Daniel Martin’s face, the metallic smell lingering in his mind. His chest tightened. He could still see his uncle’s half-smile, feel the creak of the floorboards in the old house. The images of what had happened, what he had done, and what he’d lived through twisted together in a spiral he couldn’t escape.

He pressed the cigarette to his lips again, trying to force the calm back, but the spiral was already taking hold. He imagined the knife in his hand, the thrill of control, the adrenaline. His body remembered it, even when his mind tried to push it away. He wanted it. He hated that he wanted it.

His vision blurred as the smoke curled around him. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his chest, trying to slow his heart, trying to ignore the craving building beneath the surface. It was almost too much.

The bathroom door rattled slightly, and Matt jumped, almost dropping the cigarette. He cursed under his breath and quickly flicked it in the toilet, letting the smoke swirl up before it died out. For a moment, he stood still, breathing heavily, and realized how alone he was.

His mind drifted back to the map. The amount of red dots. The urge. His heartbeat picked up at the thought. He imagined slipping out into the night, the knife in his hand, the anticipation, the adrenaline. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. It was everything.

Matt exhaled slowly, letting the last smoke escape. He stuffed the cigarette pack into his hoodie and left the bathroom. The hallways were still empty. He walked faster, his backpack bouncing against his shoulder. Every step, every echo of his shoes on the tile, made his pulse quicken. He had to plan. He had to think. And he had to survive the rest of the day until night fell. 

☁︎

Matt trudged onto the bus, the weight of his confession still pressing against his chest. He found an empty seat near the back and slumped into it. He pulled his hoodie tighter, hiding the cut on his eyebrow.

Chris sat a few rows ahead, deliberately leaving space between them, arms crossed, a scowl carved into his face. He stared out the window, but Matt knew the silence was heavy with judgment.

Nick slid into the seat next to Matt, backpack clutched nervously in his lap. “Matt… you okay?” His voice was quieter, gentler than Chris’s, but it carried a worry Matt didn’t want to face.

Matt shrugged, staring out the window, avoiding Nick’s eyes. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

Nick frowned, unconvinced. “You don’t look fine. Your eyebrow—” he hesitated, glancing at the dried blood crusting over Matt’s cut. “And your shoes… what happened.., realy?”

Matt’s stomach twisted. He clenched his fists in his hoodie pocket, fighting the urge to snap. “It’s nothing. I told you… just some stupid accident,” he muttered.

Nick studied him, eyes searching, as if he could see past the excuses. “You’re not gonna talk about it?”

Matt let out a short, bitter laugh. “Talk? About what? It’s nothing you can do anything about anyway.”

Nick’s gaze dropped, but he didn’t push further. “Alright… just… if you need to… I’m here, okay?”

Matt nodded stiffly, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Thanks.”

The bus rumbled on, rocking slightly with each bump in the road. Matt’s thoughts drifted, uncontrolled. Daniel Martin. The knife. The blood. The map. His heart pounded. The urge burned sharper than it had in hours.

Nick glanced at him again, smaller, tentative. “Matt… I mean it. You can tell me stuff. You don’t have to go through everything alone.”

Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words got stuck in his throat. He shook his head, feeling the panic and the craving collide. “I’m fine,” he said again, softer this time, almost hollow.

The bus approached their stop. Nick shifted nervously, but didn’t say anything more. Chris was still staring out the window, silent, but Matt felt his gaze prickling the back of his neck like a warning.

When the bus finally screeched to a halt, the three of them stood. Matt moved quickly, keeping a step ahead, backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t want to hear the questions, the whispers, the judgment. He only wanted out, and the cigarette waiting in his hoodie pocket.

When they finally got home, Matt didn’t say a word. He moved past the kitchen and living room, past the lingering smell of whatever Mary Lou had been cooking, straight to his room. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding into place. He leaned against it for a second, breathing heavy, then dropped onto his bed, hoodie still pulled over his head.

Downstairs, Nick sat on the edge of the couch, his stomach knotting. He couldn’t stop thinking about Matt’s shoes, the cut on his eyebrow, the way he stormed off this morning. He wanted to follow him, check if he was okay, but something about the way Matt had shut himself in made him freeze. Nick felt small, scared, confused. He hated seeing Matt like this, so distant and… untouchable. He rubbed his hands over his face.

Chris, meanwhile, was pacing near the front door, his jaw tight, fists clenched. He was angry, furious even, but it wasn’t the usual frustration. This was deeper, something about the way Matt had lashed out at him, the quiet intensity behind his silence. Nick finally sighed, standing up. “Chris… I don’t think Matt’s okay,” he said softly, almost pleading.

Chris snapped his head toward him. “I don’t care if he’s okay. He punched me. He’s losing it.” His voice was low, but the heat in it made Nick shrink back.

Minutes passed. Nick sat again, chewing on his lip, unsure what to do. The tension in the house thickened.

Nick stood up unable to take it anymore and climbed up the stairs. He knocked on Matt’s door.

“Matt?” Nick called gently. “Can I come in?”

Matt didn’t answer at first. Then he heard Nick’s quiet, trembling voice again, “I’m… I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening… Matt please”

Nick’s words broke off in a shaky sob. Matt’s chest tightened. Slowly, he pushed himself up, he opened the door a crack, enough to see Nick’s pale, tear-streaked face.

He stepped closer, letting Nick fall into him. “It’s okay…”

Nick clung to him, shaking. “I… I don’t know what to do… I’m scared… I don’t understand anything…”

Matt wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. “I’m sorry,” was all he could choke out. His voice cracked. Every shudder from Nick felt like a punch to his chest, and he hated himself for it. His own hell, his spiraling, was spilling over onto his brother. He wanted to fix it, wanted to make it right, but he couldn’t. He felt trapped in the weight of his own mistakes, the chaos of his mind pressing down like a physical thing.

He thought of Mrs. Brown, of the janitor’s closet and the words he had finally forced out. She was the only one who knew. Not about the murders—no one could ever know—but about his uncle. About the pain he had carried alone for years. And yet here he was, failing again, letting that pain ripple out and hurt the people he cared about most.

He buried his face in Nick’s hair, letting the tears he hadn’t allowed himself to shed slide down anyway. He hated that he couldn’t shield him from this. He hated that he had to be the reason Nick felt small and scared in their own home. His heart hammered with guilt, each beat a reminder that he was failing, that his secret and his spiral were poisoning the people he loved.

Outside the door, Chris stood frozen, shoulders stiff. He could hear the sobs, the soft murmurs, but neither of them noticed him. His chest ached with a mix of guilt and fear, watching from the hallway, wishing he could fix it but knowing he couldn’t.

Inside, Matt held Nick until the shaking slowed, until the sobs turned into hiccuping gasps, until Nick finally leaned back slightly, resting his forehead against Matt’s chest

Chapter Text

Matt jolted awake, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. His sheets were twisted around his body, soaked with sweat, and his chest heaved like he’d just been dragged up from the bottom of a lake. For a few seconds, the dream still clung to him, sticky and real.

It had started the same way it had happened yesterday, the janitor’s closet, Mrs. Brown’s soft voice, her hand steady on his shoulder while he cried. But in the dream, something shifted. Her touch lingered too long. Her words changed.

“You can trust me, Matt.” she whispered, stepping closer, too close. Her hands slid down his arms, pinning him against the wall. His body went stiff, panic flooding his veins.

He tried to move, tried to shove her away, but in the nightmare his strength was gone, swallowed whole. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear, murmuring, “You told me about him… now let me show you what you wanted.”

Matt twisted, choked on a plea, but she didn’t stop. Her hand hovered near his waistband, her lips brushing his neck. The shame was unbearable, the same poison he’d felt with his uncle, replaying all over again. His lungs burned, his stomach turned. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight, couldn’t escape.

The terror was what yanked him awake. The weight of her body, her voice in his ear, the hand unzipping his jeans. He sat there in the dark, shaking, bile rising in his throat, struggling to convince himself it wasn’t real. Mrs. Brown hadn’t done that. She’d held him while he cried, told him he was safe. She’d cared. But his brain wouldn’t let it go, warping kindness into something rotten.

His hands trembled as he wiped sweat off his face. He hated how real it had felt. How close.

His dresser popped into his mind. The bottom drawer. The bottle.

He got up and pulled it open, fingers brushing the cold glass. Vodka. He didn’t even know why he’d bought it. He’d never had a drink in his life, but part of him wanted to tear the cap off and drown in it, anything to silence the nightmares. Anything to erase the way his uncle’s shadow still lived in his skin.

But Nick’s face flashed in his mind, Nick clinging to him last night, crying, shaking, whispering he was scared. Chris pacing outside the door, fists clenched, silent but furious. His family was breaking under the weight of him.

Matt slammed the drawer shut, shoving the bottle back into the dark, and turned away. No. Not yet. Not that way.

His shoes sat near his bed, spotless now. He’d spent nearly an hour last night hunched over them, scrubbing until his hands were raw, bleach stinging his nose. Every trace of blood was gone. At least on the outside.

By the time he came downstairs, he had the mask ready.

“Morning,” Matt said, his voice almost cheerful as he slid into his chair at the table. His split eyebrow, his red-rimmed eyes, he carried them all with a grin that didn’t fit his face.

Chris froze mid-bite, staring at him like he’d just grown another head. His dad’s brow furrowed, suspicious. His mom paused, watching him too carefully. But Nick, Nick’s shoulders dropped with relief.

Matt laughed lightly, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “Man, you guys look like a funeral. Relax. It’s just breakfast.”

Nick smiled back, almost shyly, like the sun breaking through clouds. The bruised shadows under his eyes seemed softer already.

But Chris’s fork clattered against his plate, his jaw tightening. He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. His mom exchanged a glance with their dad, neither of them saying anything, but Matt could feel it. The skepticism. The doubt.

The smell of eggs and toast curled through the kitchen, heavy, suffocating. He picked up his fork and forced a bite into his mouth.

It tasted like cardboard. Dry, flavorless, wrong. His stomach rolled instantly, threatening to send it back up. He chewed slowly, mechanical, pretending, but every swallow felt like he was choking. The only time food had gone down smooth, the only time he’d actually craved it, was that night, blood still dripping from his eyebrow, hoodie still stained, burger grease mixing with the taste of smoke in his mouth. After Daniel.

The thought sent a shiver through him. He pushed it away, clinging to the act.

“So,” he said suddenly, too bright, too casual, “what’s everyone got going on today?” He looked around the table, like a sitcom dad playing his part.

Nick’s head lifted, his eyes searching Matt’s face. Relief flickered there. He even smiled a little. “Just school. Same as always.” His voice was soft, careful, but lighter than it had been last night.

Mary Lou gave Matt a long look before answering. “I’ve got a meeting at work.” Her tone was cautious, testing.

Their dad just sipped his coffee, eyebrows raised like he didn’t buy the act for a second.

Chris, though, didn’t bother hiding it. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, the bruise still purple across his cheek. “What’s with you?” he asked flatly. “You’re acting like everything’s fine all of a sudden.”

Matt chuckled, though it came out forced. “Maybe it is.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Yesterday you were storming out of classes, punching me in the face, and now you’re Mister Sunshine? Doesn’t make sense.”

Nick shifted uncomfortably, glancing between them. “Chris, just… maybe don’t—”

But Matt cut in first, his smile widening, his tone almost manic. “What, I’m not allowed to have a good day? You’d rather I sit here moping and dragging everyone down?”

Chris’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but the glare didn’t drop.

Mary Lou sighed, setting her fork down. “Matt, we just want to understand. This sudden… shift”

Matt forced another bite into his mouth, gagging slightly as it hit his throat. He swallowed hard, stomach twisting, smile never faltering. “I’m fine,” he said. “Better than fine, actually.”

Nick’s smile lingered, small but real, like he was clinging to the hope that maybe Matt was telling the truth this time.

Chris, though, muttered under his breath, “Yeah, right,” before stabbing at his food.

The tension settled over the table, thick and heavy, Matt’s fake grin stretched tight while inside, his gut churned, his head buzzing with the memory of greasy fries, blood on his hoodie, and how easy it had been to eat then, when someone else’s life had just ended.

Matt shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth, swallowing it down like gravel, and pushed back from the table. “Bus’ll be here soon,” he said, too chipper, grabbing his bag off the floor.

Nick stood quickly, almost eager to match his energy. He looked lighter, even if his eyes were still puffy from the night before. He pulled his jacket on and followed Matt to the door.

Chris dragged his feet, muttering something under his breath as he slung his bag over his shoulder. His bruise looked worse in the morning light, blooming deep purple across his cheek. He caught Matt’s grin and scoffed.

The three of them stood at the curb as the bus rumbled up. Matt shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like nothing was wrong. Nick glanced at him a couple times, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, like he wanted to believe it. Chris, though, kept his eyes on the ground, jaw tight.

When they climbed onto the bus, Chris didn’t even hesitate, he slid into a seat by himself, headphones already in. Nick hesitated before sitting next to Matt, almost like he was choosing sides.

“You seem… better,” Nick said carefully, voice low.

Matt smirked, leaning back against the seat. “Told you. Just a new day.”

Nick nodded slowly, though his brow furrowed. “Good,” he murmured. He wanted to believe it. Needed to.

The ride was loud, kids talking, laughing, but Matt kept his gaze locked in place, eyes straight ahead. He could feel Chris’s glare burning into the back of his head from a few rows back. The bruise on Chris’s cheek was a reminder every kid on that bus had probably already noticed. The stares from breakfast were nothing compared to this.

By the time they stepped off at school, Matt’s jaw ached from clenching it so tight. Nick walked close beside him, hopeful. Chris trailed behind, silent, watching.

And inside, Matt’s stomach twisted again, empty and sick, the taste of cardboard still lingering on his tongue.

The halls buzzed with whispers, sneakers squeaking on tile, lockers slamming. Matt kept his head down, hoodie pulled low, forcing his steps to stay steady. He could feel it, though, the eyes on him, the murmurs about Chris’s face, about his busted eyebrow. He wanted to snap, to shove someone, to make them all shut up. But he didn’t. Not today.

Chris lingered nearby, tense like he was waiting for Matt to blow up again, fists half-clenched, shoulders stiff. Every glance from Chris felt like bait, like he wanted Matt to do it, to prove everyone right. But Matt just shoved his hands into his pockets and walked into class without a word.

English. Of course. His chest tightened as soon as he stepped in, like the walls themselves were smirking at him. Mrs. Brown was already at her desk, flipping through papers. She looked up, her face softening when her eyes landed on him.

For a second, Matt froze mid-step. The nightmare came rushing back, her hand pressing down on his crotch, the zipper tugged open while he sat there frozen, powerless. His stomach lurched. 

He blinked hard, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt. No. That wasn’t real. That wasn’t her. He forced himself to remember the way she had actually looked at him in the janitor’s closet: eyes wide, breaking with sadness, pulling him into a hug when he shattered. She cared. She was the only one who cared.

Matt swallowed and moved to the back of the room, sliding into his usual seat. He pulled his hood tighter around his face, dropping his bag on the floor with a heavy thud. The class went on around him, kids whispering, stealing glances, but he didn’t storm out, didn’t slam his desk, didn’t skip like last time. He just sat there, still, his pen tapping quietly against the desk, pretending to take notes, pretending he didn’t feel like crawling out of his skin.

Mrs. Brown’s voice filled the room, steady and deliberate, reading aloud from the book propped open on her desk. Each time her eyes flicked toward him, Matt stiffened, the nightmare threatening to bleed back in. He shoved it down, over and over. He couldn’t afford to lose it. Not here. Not again.

It was another passage about justice, about truth, about consequences. The kind of thing that should’ve sounded distant and boring, but every word clung to Matt like it was aimed directly at him.

He sat still, hood shadowing his face, pen dragging meaninglessly across the page of his notebook. He wasn’t writing anything, not really. Just lines, shapes, scratches. His stomach twisted as the nightmare crept at the edges of his mind, her hands, her fingers on his jeans, the slow sound of a zipper sliding down. He blinked hard and gripped the pen tighter, pressing it into the paper until the tip almost tore through.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t storm out. He forced himself to breathe, to stare at the words on the board and let them wash over him. His head throbbed, but he stayed. For the whole class.

When the bell finally rang, chairs scraped back and chatter filled the air as students filed out. Matt packed slowly, deliberately, waiting until the room emptied. But when he slung his bag over his shoulder and moved for the door, Mrs. Brown’s voice stopped him.

“Matt? Can we talk for a minute?”

His chest tightened instantly. The nightmare slammed back into him like a punch, her hands tugging at him, the disgust pooling in his stomach, the helplessness. He froze in the doorway, blood roaring in his ears. His palms went clammy, and suddenly he was back in that dream, not here, not in this classroom.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look at her. Every step she took closer made the feeling worse, her presence pressing against his ribs like a weight. The nightmare wouldn’t let go this time, it was all he could see, all he could feel. The brush of her fingers, the zipper,  the heat in his face.

Mrs. Brown tilted her head, her voice low and soft. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… want to check in on you.”

But to Matt it didn’t matter. Her words blurred, drowned out by the nightmare playing on repeat. The hug in the janitor’s closet felt like a lie now, twisted into something else.

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, trying not to flinch when she stepped closer.

Matt’s throat closed up. He wanted to move, to run, but his feet felt nailed to the floor. Mrs. Brown’s voice pressed into him, gentle but firm.

“Matt, please. I know you’re hurting. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Her words should’ve been comforting. But as she stepped closer, the air around him warped. The classroom lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they did in his nightmare. His chest heaved, hands trembling at his sides.

Her hand under his shirt, touching his stomach, the zipper tugging down. His stomach lurched.

This is gonna be our secret.

The whisper burned in his ear, only it wasn’t Mrs. Brown’s voice anymore. It was his uncle’s. That deep, scratchy murmur that had haunted him for years. The floorboards creaking. The smell of cigarettes and sweat. He couldn’t pull them apart, the nightmare or the memory. They were crashing together, suffocating him.

Mrs. Brown’s hand reached out, not touching him, not yet, but close enough that Matt flinched like she had. The images ripped through him, flickering so fast he couldn’t tell what was real. Her face blurred with his uncle’s. The dream blurred with the memory.

His breathing turned ragged. He pressed his fists to his temples, shaking his head. No, no, no…

“Matt?” Mrs. Brown’s voice cracked with concern now. She was leaning forward, confused, scared even. 

But her hand hovering in the air was all he could see.

The whispers crawled back again. This is gonna be our secret. No one will believe you.

He staggered back, hitting the edge of a desk with his hip. His knees felt weak, body coiled like he might collapse

Mrs. Brown froze as she saw him flinch. Her brow furrowed. “Matt… what—?”

He shook his head violently, muttering, “I… I can’t…”

The classroom felt smaller, the lights too bright, the whispers in his head too loud.

“I can’t pretend I’m fine!” he shouted, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”

His voice cracked, broken and desperate. Mrs. Brown’s confusion deepened. She had no idea about the pretense he put on around his family, the way he forced smiles and laughter to cover the guilt and spiraling chaos inside him. All she could see was this raw, unraveling boy before her.

She stepped closer slowly, voice gentle. “Matt… it’s okay.”

He sank to the floor, sliding down the wall. Her hand hovered near him, hesitating, and for a second he thought maybe she’d touch him to comfort him. That tiny possibility made his chest seize, and the flashbacks hit like a hammer: the hand in his jeans, the creak of floorboards, the whispers. His vision blurred with the nightmare and the memory.

“No! Don’t—don’t touch me!” he cried, flinching violently. Mrs. Brown froze, stunned, unsure. Her eyes were wide, heart pounding, as Matt’s sobs tore through the quiet classroom. 

The air felt thick, suffocating. Matt’s body shook with the effort of holding back the memories, the guilt, the panic. He buried his face in his knees, tears soaking his sleeves, fighting against the flood inside him.

Mrs. Brown knelt down carefully, her own voice soft but steady. “Matt… breathe. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay to let it out.”

He shook his head, but the sound of her voice, the calm in her presence, started to cut through the storm. Still, every time her hand twitched toward him, the nightmare surged back, vivid and suffocating.

“I… I don’t know what to do”

The sobs wracked him again, tearing from his chest. Mrs. Brown stayed near, just letting him cry, letting him shake, letting the guilt and fear pour out without judgment.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. Matt’s sobs started to quiet, shifting into ragged, uneven breaths. He stayed on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. The panic didn’t vanish, it lingered, a sharp ache behind his eyes, but the storm had lost a fraction of its intensity.

Mrs. Brown stayed kneeling a short distance away, her voice soft, careful. “You’re safe, Matt. You’re not alone.”

He peeked up through the strands of wet hair plastered to his forehead. The images of that night, the whispers, the hand, the floorboards, they still flickered at the edge of his mind, but her presence anchored him slightly.

“I… I just…” he whispered, voice cracking again, “…I can’t make it stop.”

She nodded slowly, letting him speak at his own pace. “I know. And you don’t have to right now. Just breathe with me.”

Matt tried. He drew in a shaky breath, counting in his mind. One… two… three… slowly out. He repeated it, letting the rhythm settle his heartbeat just enough to feel the floor beneath him, the walls around him, the quiet presence of someone who wasn’t going to hurt him.

His tears slowed. His hands still trembled, but the raw panic began to dull into exhaustion. He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see her face too close, but he felt the edge of trust, however thin, stretching outward.

Mrs. Brown stayed silent, just letting him find a foothold in reality. “It’s okay to feel this way,” she said gently. “It doesn’t make you weak. You’re surviving. That’s important.”

Matt said nothing, but the slight nod he gave her was the first sign of acknowledgment. He pressed his face into his knees again, shivering, but no longer flailing or trying to run. 

Matt lifted his head slowly, eyes still red and glassy. “I… I need air,” he muttered, voice small, shaky.

Mrs. Brown gave a gentle nod. “Okay. Go. Just… take care of yourself, alright?”

He stood, brushing his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the tears. His hoodie pulled up over his head, he moved toward the door, each step heavy, yet desperate to get away from the lingering panic.

He pushed the classroom door open and stepped into the hall, blinking against the bright fluorescent lights. He thought about slipping out the main doors, skipping the next class entirely. Anywhere but here.

But as he reached the exit, he froze. Nick was standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide, looking like he’d been searching the halls for him. Relief and worry warred across Nick’s face.

“Matt?” Nick asked softly, voice full of concern. “Where were you?”

Matt’s chest tightened. He couldn’t leave him. Not like this. Not after last night. He shook his head slightly, swallowing hard. “I… umm… a teacher asked me to stay after class for a bit.” 

Nick looked at him. “Okay… let’s walk together, I have math.”

They walked together down the hall, the tension between them almost palpable, though unspoken. Matt’s hoodie hung low over his eyes, hands shoved deep into the pocket, trying to calm the storm in his chest.

“Matt… you good… right?” Nick asked softly, glancing up at him.

Matt gave a tight nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

The hall stretched ahead, and soon their paths diverged. Nick’s math classroom was a few doors down to the left, while Matt’s biology class was closer to the right. They stopped at the end of the hall.

“See you after?” Nick asked, worry etched in his expression.

Matt’s hands clenched in his pockets, then released. “Yeah… see you.” He gave a nod, trying to keep his voice even.

Nick turned and headed toward his classroom, glancing back once before slipping inside. Matt watched him go, chest tight, the small pang of guilt in his stomach gnawing at him. Then he turned toward his own class, forcing himself to take steady steps. Biology awaited.

Matt slid into his seat at the back of the biology classroom, dropping his backpack onto the floor. He rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the low chatter of his classmates fading into the background. Before he realized it, his head tilted forward, cheek resting on his folded arms. The room blurred around him. The steady ticking of the clock, the scratch of pens on paper, it all melted away. He fell asleep.

And then, as if pulled back into the dark, twisted echo of last night, the nightmare returned. The same suffocating fear, the same cold realization that he had no control. He felt hands where they shouldn’t be, a voice whispering that it would always be a secret. The edges of his dream twisted, merging with his memory, until he wasn’t sure which was real.

A sharp voice cut through the haze.

“Matt! Eyes up here!”

He jolted upright, heart pounding, blinking at the bright classroom lights. The biology teacher’s face was twisted in frustration, leaning over his desk. Matt’s books were scattered, his pencil rolling across the floor. The hum of the classroom rushed back, along with the murmurs of his classmates.

“I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. His hands shook as he tried to gather his notes, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like a cold fog.

The teacher huffed, shaking her head. “Pay attention!”

Matt nodded numbly, eyes downcast, trying to force the nightmare to the back of his mind. But the memory lingered at the edges, making his stomach twist. He gripped his desk tightly, pretending to focus, but the room felt unreal, distant, like he was only partly there.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur. Matt barely remembered the lessons, the teachers’ voices blending together into meaningless noise. Before he knew it, he was standing outside with Nick and Chris, waiting at the bus stop. The air felt heavy, everyone quiet.

When the bus pulled up with a screech, Matt climbed on first without saying anything, slipping into a seat by himself near the middle. He kept his hood up, staring out the window, ready for Nick to slide in beside him.

But instead, Chris followed right after and sat down next to him.

Matt froze, eyes flicking over in disbelief. Nick did too, still standing in the aisle for a second, eyebrows raised. Chris hadn’t willingly sat next to Matt since… before the punch, before the cafeteria blow-up, before everything.

Chris leaned back stiffly, arms crossed, not looking at him. Matt’s stomach knotted. He didn’t know if this was about to be a fight, or something else entirely. Nick sat across from them, watching carefully, like he was bracing for whatever was about to happen.

The ride was quiet at first, the usual hum of the bus filling the silence. Matt kept waiting for Chris to say something, to start another fight, but he didn’t. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, jaw tight.

After a few minutes, Matt sighed and dug into his hoodie pocket, pulling out his wired headphones. He shoved one in and tapped play, letting Dominic Fike drown out the noise of the bus. It didn’t take long before he felt movement beside him. Chris had leaned over, eyes on the dangling headphone. Without asking, he took it and slid it into his ear.

Matt turned, eyebrows raised. Chris just met his gaze for a second, then looked away, like it was nothing. Like it was a truce.

Matt didn’t say a word. He just let the music play, the beat filling the small space between them. It wasn’t forgiveness, not even close. But it was something.

The music filled the silence between him and Chris. Matt almost expected Chris to make some smart comment, something sharp to drag him back into another fight. But instead, Chris stayed quiet. His arms were crossed loosely, one foot tapping against the floor in rhythm with the song, like he actually cared about what was playing.

Matt kept sneaking glances, trying to read him. Chris’s cheekbone was still bruised where he’d punched him. Every time Matt looked at it, guilt twisted in his gut. He had expected more anger, maybe even for Chris to shove him away or call him out right there on the bus. But instead, Chris just… listened.

The bus rattled down the street, brakes squealing as it slowed for another stop. A couple kids pushed past them, laughing loud, the sound echoing down the aisle before fading into the outside air. Around Matt and Chris, though, everything felt heavy, like the world had narrowed to just their small stretch of vinyl seat.

Matt was trying to focus on anything except the fact that Chris hadn’t moved away, hadn’t said a single word. But then, almost out of nowhere, Chris shifted. His arm brushed Matt’s, his breath catching before he finally muttered, low and rough:

“You scare the hell outta me, you know that?”

Matt’s chest tightened. He turned, but Chris wouldn’t look at him, his jaw locked.

“You act like nothing’s wrong,” Chris said, voice quieter this time, but shaking, “like you can just flip a switch and be fine. But I know you’re not fine. And I hate it, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

That’s when Matt noticed it, the shine in Chris’s eyes, the way his lips pressed tight, like he was fighting to keep himself together. For a second, it looked like Chris was actually gonna cry.

Before Matt could think of a response, the song ended. The silence hit sharp, but then a new track bled in, Funny papers by Mac Miller, low and aching, sad enough to scrape at Matt’s ribs. The words blurred into the hum of the bus, but the weight of them made the moment feel even heavier.

Matt stared at his brother, at the fragile line between anger and hurt etched on his face. His stomach twisted. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. The bass from the song thumped faintly in Matt’s ear, a low heartbeat that somehow made the silence between them worse. He shifted in his seat, his palms damp against his jeans, eyes flicking to Chris. His brother still wouldn’t meet his gaze, still staring hard at his lap, but Matt could see the glassiness in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. It killed him. Chris never looked like that, not him, not the one who always bit back, always barked louder than anyone else in the room.

“Chris…” Matt’s voice cracked before he could even steady it. Chris didn’t move, didn’t even blink, but Matt pushed on, words tumbling out in uneven bursts.

“I’m just,” He stopped, digging his nails into his palms. “I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like if I start, if I tell you everything, it’ll just make things worse. And I don’t wanna drag you into it. I don’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

He caught his breath, chest heaving, the song’s melancholy beat filling the pause. For the first time, Chris turned his head, just slightly, enough that Matt could see his eyes. Wet. A faint smile trembled at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t happy, it was broken, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or finally let the tears fall.

The bus lurched around a corner, and Matt steadied himself against the seat in front of them. He swallowed hard, forcing out the last thing before the words could choke him back down.

“I’m trying, Chris.”

The bus rocked gently as it rattled down the road, kids’ voices buzzing faint in the background. Chris sat stiff, silent, bruised face lit pale from the light coming in from the window. For a moment, Matt thought this fragile quiet between them almost felt… safe.

Then everything shifted.

It was like his mind slipped sideways, and suddenly he wasn’t on the bus anymore. He was still sitting, yes, but Chris wasn’t upright beside him. He was slumped against Matt’s shoulder, dead weight, his head tilted wrong, lifeless. Blood. Thick, dark blood, soaking his shirt, dripping down onto Matt’s jeans, pooling between their shoes. Matt looked down at his own hands, trembling, and there it was, steel glinting, the handle of a knife pressed into his palm. His knuckles tight around it. His breath stuttered. He could see himself jerking the blade forward, hear the wet sound of it sinking into Chris’s chest. Again. And again. The same way he had done Robert. The same way he had done Daniel.

The bus noise was gone now, replaced with choking silence. His ears rang. He watched in horror as Chris’s mouth moved, no sound coming out, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. Matt couldn’t breathe. He wanted to scream.

Then, snap.

The bus jolted over a pothole, and Matt’s eyes shot open. His chest heaved, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. Chris was there, alive, breathing, staring out the window like nothing happened. Matt’s throat closed. He couldn’t bear the sight of him sitting there like that, oblivious, unscarred. Without thinking, he reached out and pulled Chris into him, hugging him so tight it startled them both.

Chris froze for a second, stiff in Matt’s arms. He didn’t say anything, just let out a quiet, shaky breath and leaned the smallest bit into the hug.

Matt buried his face against his brother’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Relief poured through him, but so did something worse, something darker. Because in that moment, he realized the vision didn’t come from nowhere. It wasn’t just fear. It was craving. The part of him that twitched at the thought of killing, that lit up with appetite after Daniel’s blood. The part of him that made food taste like cardboard unless he fed it the right way.

He wanted it. He needed it.

And now he was terrified, not just of hurting strangers, but of what might happen if that hunger ever turned toward the people he loved.

They stayed like that longer than either of them expected, the bus rattling on, the voices of other kids fading into background static. Matt held on tighter, not wanting to let go. He could feel Chris’s heartbeat against his chest, steady, alive. Proof that the vision hadn’t swallowed him whole.

Matt’s throat burned. He eventually he loosened his grip, forcing himself to pull back. Chris glanced at him, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything, he just went back to staring at the window.

Matt slumped against the seat, jaw clenched, pretending to look calm. But his thoughts were anything but. The craving still buzzed under his skin, the ghost of the knife handle still pressing into his palm. The hug hadn’t erased it. If anything, it made it worse. He shoved the thought down, hard, almost choking on it. He couldn’t let that side win. Not here. Not with Chris.

The bus rattled along, kids shouting and laughing in the back rows, but between Matt and Chris it was quiet. Matt’s headphones buzzed with low music, he kept his eyes forward.

But then Chris shifted slightly, his voice low enough to be buried under the engine’s growl. “You’re still smoking, aren’t you?”

Matt’s stomach dropped. He didn’t answer, didn’t even flinch, but his grip on the headphone cord tightened until the wire dug into his palm. He knew what Chris meant. The pack. The lighter. That night when Chris had found them in his jeans. Chris leaned a little closer, tone sharper this time but still quiet so Nick wouldn’t hear. “You reek of it some days. I didn’t say anything, but… it’s not going away, is it?”

Matt swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep breathing evenly. The cigarette smoke in his memory burned hotter than the real thing ever did. He wanted to lie, to say he’d stopped, but Chris’s eyes pinned him down, sharp and searching.

Finally, Matt exhaled, muttering just loud enough for Chris to hear, “I never said I would quit.” His voice cracked halfway through, rough like gravel.

Chris’s jaw tightened. For a second it looked like he was going to snap, maybe start another fight right there on the bus. But then his face softened, just a little. His eyes flicked to Nick up ahead, then back to Matt. He shook his head, quiet and bitter. “You’re gonna kill yourself one way or another, huh?”

The words cut deep, sharper than yelling ever could. Matt turned his head toward the window, but he couldn’t unhear them.

“You act like it doesn’t matter,” Chris said, voice low and steady, his words threading under the music in Matt’s ear. “Like none of this matters. But I see you, Matt. You think you’re hiding it, but you’re not.”

“Hiding what?”

Chris leaned closer, his tone sharp but quiet, the kind of whisper that carried more weight than shouting. “The… the way you look at people, like you’re not even here. You scare me.” 

Matt’s chest tightened. He forced a shrug, his eyes on the scratched-up bus window. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Chris snapped, a little louder this time before reining himself in, glancing toward Nick. His voice dropped again, tense. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re falling apart, and you think lighting up a cigarette is gonna fix it? That’s not fixing anything. That’s just… that’s just proof you don’t care about yourself anymore.”

He wanted to argue, to push Chris away with another sharp reply, but all he could see in his head was the lighter flame, the smoke filling his lungs, that rush of control he clung to when everything else was slipping.

Chris’s voice broke, just barely, but Matt caught it. “You’re my brother, Matt. I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself. I already… ” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, like the rest was too much to admit.

Matt turned his head, finally meeting his eyes. Chris looked exhausted, his usual anger hollowed out by something rawer, fear. His eyes were glassy. Matt had never seen him this close to crying, not in years.

Something twisted in Matt’s chest. He wanted to tell Chris the truth, that it wasn’t the cigarettes that were killing him, it was what he craved, what he couldn’t stop thinking about. But the words stayed locked in his throat, heavy and dangerous.

So instead he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Chris stared at him, searching his face for something real, then looked away quickly, like if he didn’t he’d lose it completely.

The bus hissed to a stop, and the three of them shuffled off together. The cold air hit Matt’s face, making the cut on his eyebrow sting. He shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, keeping his eyes down as they started walking.

For a minute, no one spoke. Their sneakers scuffed against the pavement in uneven rhythm, the sound louder than it should’ve been. Chris walked just a step behind Matt, jaw tight but quiet. Nick kept glancing between them, his eyes darting nervously, like he was waiting for one of them to explode again.

But it didn’t come.

Matt felt it, the weight in Chris’s silence, the things unsaid, but for once, Chris didn’t push. He didn’t snap. He just walked, breathing hard, like holding himself back took all his energy.

Nick finally let out a shaky sigh, shoulders dropping a little in relief. The tension wasn’t gone, but it had shifted, settled into something calmer, thinner, like a thread that could snap at any second.

Matt risked a glance at Chris. His brother’s eyes were still sharp, still carrying all the anger and questions, but underneath there was something else. Worry. Fear. He wasn’t ready to admit it out loud, but Matt could see it plain as day.

Chris caught him looking and looked away fast, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

Matt exhaled slowly, tugging his hood lower. They weren’t okay, not by a long shot. But for right now, at least, neither of them had the strength to fight anymore.

It was a truce. A fragile, unspoken one, but still a truce.

☁︎

The bathroom was cold, Matt leaned over the sink, toothbrush scraping against his teeth in a dull rhythm. Then he saw it. Not in the mirror, not really, but reflected in the silvered glass, his mind conjured it anyway. Chris, lying sprawled on the floor, blood everywhere, eyes wide and terrified. Matt’s own hands, red and slick, hovering over him with a knife he didn’t want to put down. His breath hitched, teeth grinding as his heart pounded in his ears. The sink was suddenly red, his hands dripping into the porcelain.

He gagged, almost retching. His fingers were trembling so violently he dropped the toothbrush, it clattered to the tile. He splashed water on his face, trying to shake it off, but the vision only sharpened, slicing through the fog of the mirror. His own reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed, a stranger trapped in his own skin.

Matt bolted from the bathroom, the door slamming behind him. His chest heaved, every step frantic. He needed… something. Anything. His gaze fell on the bottom drawer of his dresser. The vodka. Never before had he drunk, never before had he sought escape in anything so potent, but tonight, the pull was undeniable.

The first sip burned like fire down his throat, but it was electric, a rush igniting in his veins that made his limbs feel lighter, sharper. He staggered to his desk, the laptop glowing in the dim light, the registry open. Names and addresses lined the screen like a roadmap, red dots lighting up in his mind, one after the other. He clicked through again and again, scanning faces, calculating, remembering. His pulse thudded so hard he thought it might burst through his chest.

Matt’s hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling. The thought clawed at him, sharper than any other tonight. He had to do it. He couldn’t stop. The hunger in his chest, the fire in his veins, demanded release. He remembered Daniel, the rush of control, the relief, and the quiet satisfaction afterward. He needed that again. He wanted it. He craved it.

And then, there it was. Mrs. Brown’s face, her hand again, the nightmare sliding in over reality like smoke. The fear, the shame, the helplessness. He blinked. Breathing in sharp, jagged gasps, he clicked, scanned, and then chose. The next dot. He sat back, bottle in one hand, the other hovering over the mouse, and felt it, the twisted, undeniable craving for power, control, and the release of violence. He wanted it, and he knew it.

The night stretched around him, heavy and silent except for his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the laptop. Every instinct screamed at him to act, every rational thought drowned in the vodka and visions, in the need that had already begun to dominate him. 

Matt swallowed hard, gripping the bottle tightly, his mind racing. The world outside his window seemed distant, muted, irrelevant. There was only the next move, the next victim, the inevitable act waiting just beyond the edge of reason. His chest tightened, a mixture of fear, anticipation, and an almost intoxicating clarity.

He knew he couldn’t stop. And deep down, he didn’t want to.

Matt’s fingers hovered over the mouse, trembling as he stared at the glowing red dot closest to him. The name blinked back at him: Ethan Keller. He had raped a teenage girl. The report said he had stalked her until looking at her wasn’t enough. For a long moment, Matt just sat, staring at the screen. He tried not to think about the last two, Daniel, Robert, the chaos, the blood, the fear. But his mind betrayed him, images flashing unbidden, lips pressed to the smell of iron, hands sticky, adrenaline thrumming in his chest. His stomach churned, but he ignored it. Hunger, craving, nothing else mattered.

He opened a new tab and typed Daniel Martin’s name, almost on autopilot. He needed to see it, needed to confirm what he already knew.  His eyes scanned quickly until he found the newest piece.

“Authorities Tie Daniel Martin’s and Robert James’ Murders Together—Suspect Believed to Be a Young Vigilante” .

Matt’s pulse spiked. The article described Daniel and Robert’s criminal histories, the pattern forming, the suspicion that someone had taken justice into their own hands. The reporter speculated about the killer being a young vigilante, a shadow in the city preying on criminals who’d slipped through the cracks. Matt’s chest tightened, a strange mix of pride and terror burning through him.

Matt opened the registry again, hovering over Ethan Keller’s information. The red dot burned bright in his mind. 

Matt grabbed his hoodie, pulling it over his head. The vodka buzz still throbbed in his veins, warm and reckless, making his pulse sharp and his hands jittery. He paused at the doorway of his room, listening. The house was quiet. His family was asleep, the faint hum of the refrigerator being the only sound.

He slipped down the stairs barefoot, careful to avoid any squeaky steps he remembered from the last time, and eased the door open. The cold night hit him immediately, he wore his converse on the porch. He took a long, shivering breath and lit a cigarette, the lighter flaring briefly in the darkness.

The first drag was fire in his throat, grounding him, pushing the nightmare flashes back for a second, though they still lingered in the corners of his mind. He inhaled again, letting the smoke curl around him like a shield, and started walking. Step by step, he moved through the empty streets, heart hammering, eyes darting to every shadow.

Each puff of smoke sharpened the adrenaline, made his senses hyperaware. The world was quiet, too quiet, but it made the red dot on his mental map burn brighter, Ethan Keller’s house closer, attainable. He imagined Ethan sleeping, unaware, just like Daniel had been, and the rush coiled tighter in his chest.

The chain-smoking became a rhythm, each cigarette grounding him, filling the void, pushing the nausea and fear away. The vodka still lingered in his veins, mixing with the nicotine, sharpening the focus and the mania in equal measure.

By the time he reached the street near Ethan’s house, he felt the familiar tremor of anticipation and dread. The shadows seemed thicker here, the houses darker, and he ducked behind a tree to hide, lighting another cigarette. The night stretched endlessly, but he felt alive, craving, ready. 

The back door was locked, just like Daniel’s had been, but Matt already knew what to do. He raised his fist and smashed the glass panel with a sharp crack that made him flinch, shards scattering across the floor. His hoodie flapped as he slid the door open and stepped inside, stepping on the shards.

The kitchen was quiet, too quiet. He rifled through the drawers for a moment, finally grabbing a big, polished knife. It felt good in his hands, heavy and sharp, like it belonged there.

The living room was empty. No signs of movement, no lights on. He crouched slightly, moving through the shadows, scanning the floor, the furniture, every corner. He knew Ethan had to be upstairs.

He thought about Daniel, Robert, the rush, the burn, and then Ethan, just a dot on the map but now a real, breathing target. Step by step, he crept toward the staircase, eyes flicking to the hall, imagining the moment he would confront him. His grip tightened on the knife, fingers slick with sweat, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. He paused at the top of the stairs. Ethan’s room was just ahead. He swallowed hard. 

Matt’s chest throbbed, heart pounding. He raised the knife, standing right outside the door. He opened it softly, creeping his way in. Ethan was sleeping on his back, unaware. 

“You…” Matt hissed, voice low at first, then rising as the fury inside him built. “You think you can get away with it? You think you can take advantage and nobody sees?”

Ethan jerked awake, confusion and fear flashing across his face. “What the hell—?”

“You disgusting piece of shit!” Matt yelled, voice cracking, raw with anger and hatred. Ethan’s eyes followed the knife as he scrambled, words stuttering out, “I—I didn’t—”

“You think you’re safe in your little house? You think I won’t find you?” Matt’s voice snapped. “I know. I know what you’ve done!”

Matt’s hand shook on the knife, but only for a second. He lunged, knife slicing through the air. Ethan barely had time to scream. The first strike hit, and Matt’s chest slammed with the rush he had come to crave, the blood blooming on Ethan’s shirt, the metallic smell filling his nostrils.The second strike followed almost immediately. By the third, Matt was shaking, sweat dripping from his temples. Ethan slumped against the bedframe, eyes blank, the life he’d taken cementing itself in the pit of Matt’s stomach. And for the first time in minutes, Matt stopped moving. He looked down at the mess, the blood coating the knife, the dark red on the white sheets, and his own breathing came in ragged, heavy bursts.

He dropped the knife with a metallic clang, backing away, hands trembling. For a moment, the house felt still, alive only with the aftermath of what he had done. He stared at the body, feeling the familiar surge, the guilt, the exhilaration, the obsessive need for control, all mingled into a dizzying storm.

Matt realized, as he stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow, that he had craved this. Not just the control, but the act itself, the way the world seemed to sharpen around him, how alive he felt in the chaos. And with that realization came the panic: how far would this go? How much farther could he push before it destroyed him entirely?

Chapter Text

Matt ran out of Ethan’s house, his chest heaving, adrenaline still burning through him like fire. The knife was gone, left where it had fallen. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. His shoes slapped the pavement as he cut through the dark streets. His body begged him to stop and breathe but he kept running. By the time he reached home, the sky was a heavy black, the neighborhood silent in that strange hour when even the night seemed exhausted. He slipped through to the backyard, hoodie sticking to his back with sweat, blood splattered across the fabric. Without hesitating, he yanked it over his head, the cold air hitting his bare arms. He pulled his lighter out and put it to the hem of his hoodie, watching as the flames licked up the cotton, orange light flashing across his face. He dropped it in the same patch of dirt he’d burned his other hoodies. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the burning hoodie until it collapsed into ash.

Inside, the house was dead quiet. It was 2 a.m. The kitchen felt hollow as he flicked on the light, his stomach twisting. He moved frantically, yanking open cabinets, pulling leftovers out of the fridge, his hands shaking as he grabbed fistfuls of whatever he could find. Cold chicken, bread, fruit, anything. He was starving, his appetite had finally come back. 

Matt stumbled upstairs, the house still as silent as a tomb. He pushed into the bathroom, stripping off the rest of his clothes, throwing them into the corner without looking at them. The mirror showed him his own hollow-eyed reflection, his skin pale and flushed. He turned away quickly, shutting his eyes and stepping under the hot spray of the shower.

He scrubbed until his skin burned, fingernails dragging harshly, trying to scrape away the blood, the sweat, the smoke that clung to him. But no matter how hard he washed, he still felt it. He pressed his forehead against the tile, hot water running down his back, his chest heaving with every shaky breath. Finally, when his skin was raw and his muscles ached from the effort, Matt shut off the water. He dried off quickly, dragging the towel over trembling limbs and stumbled into his room. He pulled back the blanket and slid into bed naked, the sheets cool against his skin. His body was exhausted, but his mind spun restlessly, flashes of fire, blood, and Mrs. Brown’s hands from the nightmare colliding with the image of Ethan’s lifeless body.

☁︎

The knock on the door came sharp and sudden, snapping Matt out of the dead sleep he’d collapsed into. His eyes cracked open against the dull ache in his body, head pounding faintly. The sheets clung to his bare skin, and when the door cracked open, he barely had time to sit up.

“Jesus, Matt… ” Chris’s voice, low but annoyed. He froze in the doorway, then quickly looked away. “Seriously? Is this like your new thing? Flashing me every time I come to wake you up?”

He swung his legs out of bed, bones heavy, and dragged on the first clean t-shirt he could find. His hoodie was gone, burned to ash in the backyard hours ago.

By the time they shuffled into the kitchen, the house smelled of toast and coffee. Their parents sat at the table, Nick already halfway through a bowl of cereal. Matt plastered a grin onto his face, too wide. He felt it strain against his skin, but he kept it there.

“Morning,” he said, dropping into a chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Nick looked up at him and blinked, hesitant, then actually smiled a little. “Morning,” he said quietly.

Chris, though, just stared. Matt could feel it even without looking, the weight of his brother’s eyes dragging up and down his frame. He finally turned his head and caught Chris’s gaze fixed on his arms. Red streaks stood out faintly against the pale skin, rubbed raw from the scrubbing in the shower.

“What?” Matt asked, still smiling, grabbing for a piece of toast he didn’t want. His voice was a little too sharp.

Chris didn’t answer. He only looked away, jaw tight, his cereal spoon clinking too loud against the bowl.

Matt forced himself to take a bite of toast. It turned to cardboard in his mouth, dry and heavy. His stomach flipped immediately, nausea burning up the back of his throat. He wanted to throw up.

The TV hummed from the living room, voices cutting through the quiet kitchen. Matt half-listened until the words pulled his head up.

“…breaking news this morning. Police have confirmed a third death, following the murders of Robert James and Daniel Martin. The victim, identified as Ethan Keller, was found in his home early this morning. Investigators have not released details of the scene, but sources suggest the case is being linked to the two previous killings. All three men had extensive criminal records…”

Matt’s fork froze in midair. His throat closed up. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just listened as the anchor’s voice droned on.

“…police are calling this the work of a possible vigilante. Given the victims’ violent pasts, authorities are warning the public not to speculate, but rumors are already spreading across town. This morning, the words ‘the Avenger’ were trending online, referring to the unknown killer…”

Matt pretended he didn’t listen, shoving the rest of his toast into his mouth and chewing like he wasn’t choking on ashes.

The ride to school was heavy, the kind of quiet that pressed down on Matt’s shoulders no matter how much he tried to keep the smile stuck to his face. The bus rumbled along, the gray morning sliding past the windows, kids talking too loud in the back, but in their row, the silence felt like it had teeth.

Nick sat across the aisle, earbuds in, trying to shrink into himself. He kept glancing at Matt like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Not with Chris sitting right next to him.

Chris leaned against the window, arms crossed. He hadn’t said a word since breakfast, but Matt could feel it coming, that inevitable moment where Chris wouldn’t be able to hold back. Sure enough, halfway down the main road, Chris shifted and muttered low:

 “So… what’s with the whole sleeping naked thing?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You starting some kind of new lifestyle? Want me to buy you silk sheets or something?”

Matt’s head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Shut up.”

Chris smirked, leaning back like he’d scored a point. “Seriously though, what’s the deal? Nobody else does that. Not me, not Nick. But you? Twice now. First time I thought I was seeing things, but nope, full-on bare-ass in the morning sunlight today.” He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Trying to make a statement?”

Matt rolled his eyes hard, turning back to the window. “Yeah, Chris. That’s it. I’m staging a protest against pajamas. Groundbreaking, really.”

“You’re so full of shit. You’re acting like a freak lately. First you’re screaming, punching people, then you’re suddenly ‘all good,’ walking around like you’re some enlightened monk or whatever. Now this. Sleeping naked like you’re… I don’t even know.”

His eyes flicked to Matt’s sleeves, shoved up just enough to catch the angry red streaks along his forearms. 

“Ohhh, and what’s this?” Chris tilted his head. “Decided to take up self-tanning with sandpaper? Or is this some new exfoliation trend I don’t know about?”

Matt yanked his sleeves down, jaw tight. “Drop it.”

Chris snorted. “You always say that. ‘Drop it.’ You realize that makes it about ten times more obvious, right?” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice just enough that Nick in the next row couldn’t hear. “Seriously, man… What the hell are you doing to yourself? You look like you wrestled a cheese grater.”

Matt’s stomach twisted. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what I did. Had to fight dinner prep last night. You should’ve seen the cutting board.”

“You think you’re funny, but you’re not. You’re acting insane, Matt. You think Nick doesn’t notice? He’s not dumb. He’s just pretend-.” 

The brakes screeched, cutting him off. The bus jolted to a stop outside school, and kids were already crowding the aisle. Nick got up first, throwing them both a look over his shoulder.

Chris stared at Matt a second longer, then he stood, muttering under his breath, “Fine. Whatever.”

Matt trudged off the bus, shoulders hunched, hoodie tugged low. He wanted nothing more than to split away from Chris and Nick, disappear down a different hallway, but then it hit him, math first period…  With Chris.

His stomach twisted.

Nick veered off toward his own class, throwing them a glance before disappearing into the crowd. Matt slowed, dragging his feet, almost ready to fake sick, but then Chris cut him off with a sharp look. No words, just that stare that pinned him in place.

Matt clenched his jaw, shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket, and followed Chris into the math room.

Matt dropped into the seat beside Chris, dragging his chair out louder than he meant to, which earned him a look from the teacher immediately. He slouched low, pulling his hood forward. Chris didn’t say anything, but Matt could feel the weight of his brother’s presence, like a spotlight shining on him.

“Homework out,” the teacher barked, already moving between rows of desks, muttering about laziness.

Matt didn’t move. His stomach clenched. The worksheet was stuffed, untouched, somewhere in his bag, crumpled under god knows what. He hadn’t even looked at it.

Chris slid his own paper onto the desk, crisp and finished, glancing sideways without moving his head. Matt could feel the silent judgment, the tension humming between them.

“Matt Sturniolo.”

The teacher’s voice cracked sharp across the room. Heads turned. Matt froze.

“You don’t have it?”

Matt kept his eyes down, hands still buried in his hoodie pocket. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper.

“No,” he muttered.

“No? You’ve skipped the last assignment too. Do you think this is optional? Do you think you’re above doing the work?” The teacher’s voice was loud now, theatrical, making sure everyone in the room heard.

A laugh bubbled from somewhere in the back row. Heat crawled up Matt’s neck, spreading across his face. He could feel every pair of eyes stabbing into him, even Chris’s.

“Eyes on the board, hoodie off,” the teacher snapped. “You’re doing double the work to make this up.”

Matt pulled his hood back reluctantly, jaw clenched. He didn’t dare meet Chris’s eyes, but he saw it in his peripheral vision anyway, the mix of frustration and pity Chris tried to hide.

The rest of class blurred. Numbers on the board swam, the droning explanations slid in one ear and out the other. Matt’s pencil scratched nothing but meaningless lines into his notebook. 

The bell hadn’t even finished ringing before Matt shoved his notebook into his bag, not bothering to close it. He just wanted out. He kept his head down, pushing past the bodies, but Chris was right behind him.

“Wait,” Chris said sharply, catching Matt’s arm just as they cleared the door into the hallway. His voice was low enough not to draw stares. “What was that in there? Seriously, what the hell are you doing?”

Matt yanked his arm free, his jaw tight.

“You’re just—” Chris cut himself off, shaking his head. “You’re making everything harder for yourself. For us.”

Matt finally met his eyes. “Us?” His voice came out harsher than he intended. “Since when are you the one suffering?”

Chris’s face twisted, jaw tight, and before either of them could think, his fist shot out. It connected sharply with Matt’s cheek. Matt stumbled back, mouth open, surprised, and a small ripple of gasps ran through the students nearby.

“Chris!” the math teacher barked, rushing from her desk at the front of the room. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Chris froze for a split second, the weight of his action hitting him, then muttered under his breath, “He—he… I—”

But Matt didn’t wait for an explanation. He spun away from Chris, hoodie pulled tight, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The teacher reached out as he slipped past, yelling after him, calling his name, but he was already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the swarm of students. Around them, whispers erupted, and students turned to stare. The tension in the room was suffocating.

Matt didn’t even glance back. His chest pounded, each inhale sharp and desperate. He slid the door to the boys’ bathroom open and ducked inside, shutting it behind him with a quiet click. Locking the stall, he sank against the cold steel wall. The pack of cigarettes felt heavy in his pocket. He fumbled one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs.

But the calm didn’t last. His mind was already spinning. Ethan’s face flashed behind his eyelids, the cold weight of the knife in his hand. He could still see the blood, smell it, feel the sick thrill curling through him like fire. And then Robert, then Daniel, all the red dots on the map he’d memorized. His fingers itched, his body craving that control, that rush.

Chris, his family, Nick’s innocent worry, all of it swirled in the same dark storm. He realized, with a cold, sinking clarity, that he didn’t just kill; he needed it. He was a serial killer, a predator hiding in plain sight, and no one, not even Mrs. Brown, could touch the truth.

Matt exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself, but the memory of his reflection in the mirror after killing Ethan was enough. His own eyes, bloodshot and hollow, staring back. He was alone in every sense, a monster in his own life.

Chapter Text

He closed his eyes, and immediately Ethan’s face came back. Not the way he looked sleeping, peaceful, vulnerable, but the way he looked when Matt’s blade carved across him. The guilt came crashing in just as fast. His family’s faces flashing one after the other. Nick’s tears. Chris’s fury. Mom’s tired eyes. Dad’s heavy silence. They didn’t know they were living under the same roof as a murderer. Worse, a serial killer.

Another drag, another shaky exhale. He felt insane. He thought about the registry, the pulsing red dots, the power of knowing who deserved to die. He thought about Chris’s face in that vision on the bus, the knife in his hand, the blood on the seat.

Matt wanted it again. The blood. The rush. And that terrified him more than anything. Because no matter how much he scrubbed his arms raw, no matter how many showers or how many cigarettes, he couldn’t wash that part out of him.

He splashed cold water on his face at the sink, and walked out. His cheek was stinging. His hands reeked of smoke. He shoved them in his pockets anyway and joined the stream of students, pretending like nothing had happened.

But the truth was still there, crawling under his skin. He was a killer. And he couldn’t stop.

The cafeteria was its usual chaos, but at their table it felt like a storm barely held together by silence. Matt slid into his seat last, hood pulled low, tray clattering in front of him. He didn’t touch the food. He didn’t even look at it. His stomach turned just smelling it.

Nick frowned, tilting his head at Matt. “What happened to your face?”

Matt’s brows knit. “What?”

“Your cheek,” Nick said, pointing. “It’s red. Like… bruised or something.”

Matt’s jaw flexed, and before he could answer, Chris muttered, “Don’t worry about it.”

Nick turned on him immediately. “What do you mean don’t worry about it? Did you hit him?” His voice was louder now, drawing a glance from another table.

Chris shot him a glare. “Drop it, Nick.”

Nick’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. His eyes flicked between them, Matt slouched deep in his hoodie, Chris bristling with tension. “Why are you guys like this lately?”

“It’s Nothing” Matt snapped, sharper than he meant. 

Nick leaned back, fork clattering on his tray. He looked like he wanted to cry again, but instead he forced a brittle laugh, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever. Forget it.”

Silence settled, heavy and awkward. Then, as if desperate to fill it, Nick blurted, “Did you guys see the news? About that… that killer? The cops think it’s the same guy, all three of them. Robert, Daniel, now that new guy.” His voice was hushed, but the words still seemed to echo.

Matt froze. His pulse slammed against his ribs, breath catching in his throat. Chris just stared at him.

“Three guys, all criminals, all murdered in their houses,” Nick continued, shoving food around his tray. “People are saying it’s some kind of vigilante, like… like a kid, even. Isn’t that crazy?”

Matt forced himself to scoff, eyes down. “Sounds like bullshit.”

But his hands were trembling under the table. 

Nick leaned forward, lowering his voice even more. “It’s not bullshit. It’s all over the news. They said the houses were broken into the same way, except for the first one. Glass smashed in the back doors. Same kind of weapon, too. A knife.”

Chris finally spoke, quiet but sharp. “Sounds like someone with issues.”

Matt’s fork scraped against the tray though he wasn’t eating. “Sounds like someone doing the city a favor.”

That made Nick blink. “A favor? Matt, they were murdered.”

“Yeah,” Matt muttered, picking at the soggy mashed potatoes with the edge of his fork, “but look at who they were. All of them had records. The news said so. Robert was some creep, Daniel had shit piled up against him, and Ethan—” He caught himself too late, his stomach lurching, the name hanging on his tongue like poison. He quickly corrected: “the last guy. He had a history too. Whoever’s doing it… maybe they’re not so wrong.”

Nick’s eyes widened. “You’re saying it’s okay to just… kill people? Like what, judge, jury, executioner?”

Chris leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Matt. “He’s not saying it’s okay. He’s saying he gets it.”

That made Matt snap his head up. Their eyes locked, tension crackling across the table. Chris didn’t look away.

Nick glanced between them, confused, worried. “Wait. You’re serious? Both of you? You think this person’s, like, some kind of hero?”

Matt’s throat was dry, but he forced the words out. “Not a hero. Just… maybe someone doing what no one else will.”

Nick shook his head, whispering, “That’s sick.”

Matt bit back the urge to argue, to yell. Instead, he muttered, “Maybe the world’s already sick.”

Nick leaned in, his tray forgotten. “So what, you think because someone messed up, they deserve to die? You realize people can change, right? People can get better.”

Matt let out a bitter laugh under his breath. “Not everyone, Nick. Some people don’t change. Some people stay monsters until someone stops them.”

Chris finally broke his silence, his tone biting. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Matt’s jaw tightened, and for a second he almost snapped back. Almost confessed more than he ever meant to. Instead, he forced a smirk. “I watch the news, same as you.”

Nick wasn’t buying it. He shoved his tray away, suddenly animated. “Okay, but what about when this person messes up? What if they kill someone innocent? Then what? They don’t get a second chance because some psycho decided they weren’t worth it?”

Chris tilted his head, studying Matt. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Who gets to decide who’s guilty and who’s not?”

For once, Matt didn’t have an answer ready. He just stared at his hands, the faint red marks from scrubbing still visible. His throat was tight, his mind spinning with the blurred line between his justifications and his cravings.

Nick sighed, softer now. “Look, I get it. Maybe those guys weren’t good people. But… I don’t know. Killing them doesn’t make things better. It just makes the world darker. Doesn’t it?”

Chris finally shrugged, still watching Matt. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rang then, the shrill sound breaking the heavy tension like glass shattering. The three of them stood slowly, trays clattering as they carried them off.

☁︎

Matt sat slouched in the back corner, hood up, his notebook blank in front of him. He wasn’t even pretending to take notes today. His eyes were on the window, but his ears caught every word.

Mrs. Brown was pacing at the front, her voice steady. “So, let’s revisit the question of justice. Is it something the law decides, or is it something people can take into their own hands?”

There was a murmur of voices, kids shifting in their seats, some eager, some uncomfortable. One boy raised his hand, smirking as he leaned forward. “Like the guy on the news, the vigilante. He’s delivering justice, right? I mean, no offense, but the cops didn’t get those guys off the streets. He did.”

A ripple of whispers went through the class. Some laughed nervously, others nodded.

Mrs. Brown’s expression tightened. “That’s… a complicated example. Whoever this person is, they’ve chosen violence as their solution. Killing doesn’t make you a hero.”

Another girl chimed in, crossing her arms. “But those men were criminals. The news said they had records. Maybe he’s just doing what no one else had the guts to.”

Matt’s stomach flipped, his nails digging into his palm under the desk. He could feel his pulse in his wounded eyebrow, throbbing harder with every word.

Mrs. Brown shook her head. “We don’t live in a world where individuals get to decide who lives and dies. That’s not justice. That’s chaos.”

The boy smirked again. “Maybe sometimes chaos is what we need.”

A few kids snickered, and all the while, Matt sat frozen. His throat was dry, but his heart hammered like everyone could hear it. Their voices blurred in his ears, the debate bouncing around the room like it was directed at him.

For a split second, his mind betrayed him, the memory of Daniel’s face in the dark, the sound of Ethan’s last breath, Robert stumbling back. He blinked hard, gripping the desk like it was the only thing tethering him here.

Mrs. Brown’s voice cut sharper, firmer than usual. “Justice doesn’t come from shadows. It comes from truth. And truth always finds its way out.”

Mrs. Brown’s gaze swept the room, but then it landed on Matt. “Matt,” she said, voice softer now. “What do you think?”

Every head turned. His chest tightened, and his throat felt like sandpaper. He sat up a little, hoodie shadowing half his face. 

“I think…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I think sometimes people don’t get what they deserve. Even if they should. And maybe… maybe that’s not fair.”

Whispers buzzed around the room. Mrs. Brown’s brows pinched, her lips parting like she wanted to cut him off before he said more.

But before she could, a girl in the second row blurted out, “Well, one of those guys that got killed was a molester, right? My mom said he went after kids. If that’s true, then good. He deserved it.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. His blood ran cold. The word echoed in his head like a gunshot. Molester. Suddenly it wasn’t Robert or Daniel or Ethan anymore, it was his uncle. The floorboards creaking, the smell of sweat, the whispers of this is our secret.

His hands clenched into fists under the desk, knuckles white. The classroom around him faded, drowned out by the roar in his ears. He could feel the phantom weight of someone pressing against him, Mrs. Brown’s hand in his jeans from the nightmare, his uncle’s voice overlapping with hers until he couldn’t separate them.

“Alright,” Mrs. Brown said quickly, her tone sharp, cutting the conversation. “That’s enough.” She looked directly at Matt, and her chest tightened at the sight of him, pale, eyes too wide. She remembered the janitor’s closet. His broken words. His shaking body in her arms.

“Class,” she said firmly, her voice too loud now, forcing control back into the room. “Let’s shift focus.”

He blinked, once, twice, trying to hold back tears. He couldn’t let himself break, not here, not in front of everyone.

He didn’t move for the rest of the lesson. He just sat there, fists clenched under the desk, trying to blink away tears. The minute the bell rang Matt snatched his bag and walked out before Mrs. Brown could even dismiss the class. She didn’t call after him.

The rest of the day passed like fog. He couldn’t remember what teachers said, couldn’t remember walking between classes. It was like he wasn’t even there. One second he was staring blankly at a whiteboard, the next he was stepping onto the bus.

He slid into the window seat, pressing his temple against the glass, hoodie pulled up. Chris dropped beside him, stiff, his movements sharp like he was still angry. Matt’s cheekbone had started to bruise, matching Chris’. He could feel the heat radiating from his brother, the tension in the air. Chris sat with his arms crossed tight, jaw locked, like he was swallowing down something he couldn’t say.

Matt sighed and pulled his earphones out, untangling the wires with shaking fingers. He shoved them in and let his playlist play, leaning into the cold window, trying not to think about English, not to think about Mrs. Brown’s eyes on him. Just noise, just music.

But Chris’ eyes burned into him. He could feel it, even with the music up loud. At first Matt tried to ignore it, staring at the blur of trees outside, but finally he tore an earphone out and snapped his head toward him.

“What?” His voice came out sharper than he meant.

Chris’ gaze flicked down to his lap. He hesitated, then muttered, so low it was almost lost under the hum of the bus, “I’m sorry.”

Matt blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Chris to apologize. For a second, he didn’t know how to respond. His chest twisted, but he shoved it down.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said flatly, forcing the words out quickly before they could mean anything. Then he shoved the earphone back in and turned to the window, pretending the conversation was over.

But the apology stuck in his head anyway, looping in time with the music, heavier than any bruise.

Chapter Text

Dinner was quiet at first, the kind of quiet where even knives scraping against plates sounded too sharp. Matt stared down at his food, poking it around, appetite long gone. His cheekbone still ached, a dull throb every time he chewed.

The news droned in from the living room. “…police are still investigating the string of vigilante killings. Three victims confirmed, all men with extensive criminal records…”

His mom sighed, shaking her head as she set her fork down. “It’s terrible. Three people dead now. Whoever this is, they’re sick.”

Dad leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Sick? Maybe. But you can’t deny the truth. Those men were monsters. The world’s better off without them.”

Matt’s stomach clenched. He kept his eyes on the potatoes, stabbing at them like they might bleed.

Nick frowned. “That’s not justice. Killing isn’t right, no matter who it is. The news said the police are treating him like a suspect, not a hero. And they should.”

Dad snorted. “Easy to say when you’re not the one who had to live near those animals. If the law can’t handle it, someone has to.”

Nick bristled. “So what, we just let people go around murdering whoever they think deserves it? That’s chaos. That’s—”

“Enough,” Mom cut in, her voice tight. “We’re not doing this at the table.”

But Chris wasn’t quiet. His fork clattered as he shoved back from the table, face red. “You’re all insane. Talking about this like it’s some debate team topic. People are dying. You think it’s something to admire? Or argue about like you’re in court?”

The room went still. His chest heaved, his eyes were wet. And then, before anyone could stop him, he stormed out, footsteps pounding up the stairs. A door slammed.

Matt swallowed hard. His throat burned, his pulse racing. He couldn’t sit there, couldn’t breathe with everyone staring at their plates like Chris’ outburst hadn’t just split the house open.

“I’m done,” Matt muttered, pushing his chair back. He grabbed his plate, dumped the scraps in the trash, and slipped upstairs.

The hallway was dark, only the bathroom light leaking out under the door at the end. Matt paused outside Chris’ room. At first, silence. Then he heard it, muffled sobs, sharp inhales like Chris was trying to bury the sound in his pillow.

Matt froze. He pressed his palm flat to the doorframe, leaning close.

Matt’s chest squeezed so tight it hurt. He couldn’t move, couldn’t knock, couldn’t speak. He wanted to go in, to sit with him, to say something, but his feet wouldn’t listen. He just stood there, shaking, while his brother’s pain seeped through the wood like smoke.

Finally, Matt stumbled back, his throat raw. He went into the bathroom instead, flicking the light on. His reflection glared back at him in the mirror above the sink. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises. His hair was plastered flat from sweat.

And then the image shifted. Blood smeared across his mouth, dripping down his chin. His hands were red up to the wrists, dripping into the sink. And his reflection… His reflection wasn’t horrified. It was smirking.

Matt’s breath hitched. “No… ”

Before he knew it, his fist flew forward. The glass shattered, exploding across the sink and tile. Pain flared through his knuckles, sharp and hot, and real blood joined the phantom, streaking down his hand.

He staggered back, clutching his fist, chest heaving. The mirror was fractured, his face staring back at him in a dozen broken shards. Some terrified. Some smiling.

Matt slid down against the wall, blood dripping onto the floor, his whole body trembling. He wanted to scream, to tear the walls apart, but all that came out was a ragged whisper.

“I’m losing it.”

The pieces of glass sparkled under the light like they were laughing at him.

Matt stumbled out of the bathroom. Every step left a faint smear on the hardwood as his fist dripped, knuckles torn open from the glass. The sting was sharp at first, but then it dulled, turning into a throbbing ache that pulsed with his heartbeat. Every beat felt like it echoed through his entire body, like the pain wasn’t in his hand anymore but everywhere.

He pushed into his room with his shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the edge of the bed, holding his fist over the floor so he wouldn’t stain the sheets. His vision blurred, not sure if it was from tears or the pounding in his head.

He should’ve bandaged it. He should’ve gotten water, towels, something. But instead, his eyes slid to the laptop on his desk.

The registry.

It pulled at him like gravity.

He wiped his bleeding hand on his jeans, smearing them dark, and dragged himself over. Dots scattered across the map, glowing faintly. Ethan’s was gone. Robert’s was gone. Daniel’s was gone.

His gaze snapped to the next dot, the one pulsing closest to him. A name popped up in the corner of the screen, sterile black text like it didn’t mean anything at all.

Brian White. Sexual Assault. Domestic violence charges.

The pain in his hand sharpened, dragging him back for a moment. He looked down, flexing his fingers. Blood had smeared across the keyboard, the spacebar sticky now. His knuckles burned raw, skin peeled back.

But the pain didn’t stop him from staring at the screen.

Didn’t stop the thought that maybe this was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore.

Matt’s breath came ragged as he dug under the mattress with his good hand, pulling out the half-empty pack of cigarettes he’d stashed there. His knuckles screamed when he flicked the lighter, but the flame caught and the end glowed red. The first drag seared his throat raw, bitter and heavy, but he welcomed it. Anything to burn out the buzzing in his skull.

Smoke curled up toward the ceiling, thick and gray, but he barely noticed. His eyes stayed locked on the laptop, on the pulsing dot.

Matt muttered the name under his breath, over and over, like saying it would carve it into his brain. Brian White. Brian White. The words tasted like ash. His hand trembled as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. The smoke filled his lungs, heavy, and for a second he swore it dulled the ache in his knuckles. But it didn’t numb the hunger clawing at his insides. That same emptiness that only disappeared after Robert, after Daniel, after Ethan.

He leaned forward, staring into the glow of the screen. The smoke blurred his vision, making the dot flicker like it was alive, like it was calling him.

Brian White.

The craving hit like a punch in the gut. He wanted to feel it again, the power, the blood, the silence. The rush that nothing else could give him. Food didn’t do it. Cigarettes didn’t do it. Alcohol hadn’t done it. Only this.

He stubbed the cigarette out in an old soda can by his desk, leaving a long streak of ash down the side. His chest rose and fell fast, almost manic. His reflection on the dark window stared back at him, hollow-eyed, blood still smeared across his mouth from where he’d rubbed it without thinking. And for a second, just a second, it looked like his reflection was smiling.

Matt’s stomach dropped, and he jerked back, heart hammering.

But then his eyes slid back to the glowing dot. Brian White.

And he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop. 

Chapter Text

Chris’ POV

Chris wiped at his face with the back of his hand, trying to quiet the sobs that had clawed their way out of him. His chest still ached, raw and tight, but the tears were drying, leaving behind a pounding headache and the sour taste of shame. He couldn’t let anyone hear him like this. Not his parents, not Nick, and especially not Matt.

He was about to crawl into bed and bury himself in the covers when a sound froze him in place. He tensed, heart skipping.

Slowly, he cracked open his bedroom door. Just in time to catch the tail end of Matt’s hoodie vanishing around the corner, the soft click of his bedroom door shutting.Confusion pulled him forward, and before he knew it, his feet were carrying him down the hall toward the bathroom. He stepped inside, and stopped dead.

The mirror was shattered, spiderweb cracks branching across it like veins. Blood speckled the sink, smeared across the porcelain. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

Matt.

Chris’ throat tightened, his eyes stinging again. He wanted to sob, to sink to the floor and scream, but nothing came out. Just a hollow ache. His own reflection looked back at him through the broken glass, fractured and sharp, a stranger in pieces.

He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t breathe in this house. He spun around and stumbled down the stairs, hoodie yanked up to hide his face.

“Where are you going?” his mom called from the couch, eyes narrowing with concern.

“Out,” Chris muttered, not looking at her. “I just… need air.”

She opened her mouth like she wanted to stop him, but his dad’s hand came down on her arm, quieting her. Chris didn’t wait for a response. He yanked the front door open and let it slam shut behind him.

The night air was cold, sharp in his lungs. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked. No destination, no plan. Just streets blurring past, houses lit up with warm yellow windows. Every step made his chest heavier.

He thought about Matt. About Nick. About the constant fights, the bruises, Matt’s smoking. He thought about the vigilante, the one everyone whispered about in school, the one his dad called sick and a hero in the same breath. He thought about the blood in the sink, the cracked mirror, Matt’s face when he punched him.

His stomach turned. He hated himself for not knowing what to do. For not being enough.

A faint neon light broke his thoughts. A tiny convenience store, still open. He pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming. The place smelled like bleach. He grabbed a Pepsi from the cooler, condensation wetting his fingers, and placed it on the counter.

When he looked up, he froze.

Cigarettes. Rows and rows of them stacked behind the guy working.

Matt’s face flashed in his head, hood up, eyes shadowed, lighter flickering between his fingers. Chris bit the inside of his cheek. Before he could stop himself, the words were out. “Pack of those, too.”

The cashier didn’t even glance at him. Just slid the box across. No questions about ID. No hesitation. Chris shoved the bills forward, grabbed the bag, and walked out before he could think.

The Pepsi was heavy in his hand. The cigarettes even heavier in his pocket.

He wandered until the road gave way to a dark playground, the swings creaking faintly in the breeze. He sat down, the cold metal chains rattling under his weight. He cracked the soda and chugged, the fizz burning his throat. His hand shook as he reached into his pocket.

The box crinkled in his grip. His chest twisted.

One cigarette between his fingers. A flick of the lighter. The flame glowed, and for a second he just stared at it, like he was holding someone else’s life. Then he brought it to his lips and dragged in a breath.

The burn hit immediately, fire in his throat. He gagged, coughed so hard his chest seized, his eyes watering. He gasped for air, but it only made it worse. He leaned over and retched, the bitter taste flooding his mouth until there was nothing left.

When it finally passed, he sat there slumped on the swing, breathing hard. His hand still trembled as he grabbed the pack. He stared at it for a long time, the cardboard bent from his grip.

Why?

Why would Matt keep doing this?

Chris felt the sting in his throat, the burn in his lungs, the taste of ash clinging to his mouth. It was awful. It was disgusting. And Matt did it every day. Chris couldn’t make sense of it. Was it about control? Punishment? Did Matt hate himself that much?

He wanted to understand, but all he could feel was anger and fear tangled together. He wanted to shake him and ask, what the hell is wrong with you? But he also wanted to hold him until he stopped shaking, stopped hiding, stopped hurting himself.

The thought made his chest tighten until it ached.

With a sudden burst of rage, he hurled the pack across the playground. It landed in the grass with a dull thud. He sat there shaking, fists clenched on the chains, the question looping in his head like it would never leave him.

He rocked back and forth slowly, sneakers dragging lines into the dirt beneath him. At first his chest just felt tight, but then it cracked open, and the sobs came. They tore out of him, ragged, the kind he tried so hard to swallow down when anyone could hear. Out here, with only the empty playground around him, he didn’t have to.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head, but the thoughts kept pounding anyway. Matt smoking, Matt fighting, Matt’s bruised face. Matt spiraling into someone Chris didn’t recognize anymore. He wanted to hate him, to scream at him until his throat broke, but all he could feel was fear. Fear for him. Fear of him.

A memory flickered, his uncle’s hand on his shoulder when he was a kid, holding him there a second too long. Chris’ breath hitched and he shoved it away so violently it made his stomach twist. Don’t think about that. Don’t. He bit down hard on his lip until the taste of blood pushed the memory back into the dark.

But Matt. God, Matt. Chris dragged his sleeve across his face, wiping snot and tears, and pushed himself up from the swing. He couldn’t sit here anymore. He started the slow walk back home, sneakers scuffing against the pavement, his body heavy, his chest still aching.

By the time he slipped through the front door, the house was dark. Silent. He walked upstairs, his heart heavy. Chris stood in the hallway for a moment, frozen. He started at Matt’s closed bedroom door, before quietly turning the knob.

Inside, Matt was asleep, sprawled across his bed in just a t-shirt and boxers. He immediately spotted his wounded hand, his knuckles bloody. His face looked softer like this, younger almost, his bruises dulled in the shadows. Chris lowered himself onto the floor, back against the dresser, staring at him. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the slow, steady rhythm of Matt’s breathing.

Chris’ thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. He kept picturing  the two times he’d walked in and saw Matt sleeping naked. Why? Why sometimes, and not others? The question buzzed in his head like a mosquito he couldn’t swat away. He didn’t understand, and it scared him that he wanted to.

His eyes burned again, and tears spilled down his cheeks, silent this time. He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face for a second before looking back at Matt. He couldn’t wake him. Couldn’t risk it.

The moonlight cut across the room in a faint silver line, landing on the edge of the dresser. Chris slowly pushed himself up, moving like every step might break something. He pulled open a drawer… shirts. Another… socks, underwear. His hands shook but he kept going, careful not to make noise.

Finally, he reached the bottom drawer. The wood stuck for a moment before it gave way. That’s when he saw it.

A bottle of vodka, already opened. The clear liquid catching the moonlight, almost glowing. Chris froze, staring at it like it was some kind of monster crouched there in the dark.

His chest tightened, and he felt his breath catch. Matt. Drinking. Alone. His throat went dry.

Chris slammed the drawer shut faster than he meant to, the wood clicking back into place. The sound seemed loud in the stillness, and he froze, holding his breath, eyes darting toward Matt.

But Matt didn’t move. He just shifted a little,  breath catching before falling back into rhythm.

Chris’ throat closed up. He pressed both hands over his mouth, but the tears broke through anyway, his chest heaving silently. His vision blurred as he slid back down onto the floor, knees pulled tight to his chest. He shook his head over and over, like he could undo what he’d just seen. The cigarettes, the smoke, the bruises, the broken mirror, and now this. The bottle. Matt was disappearing piece by piece, and Chris didn’t know how to stop it.

He sat there in the silver strip of moonlight, sobbing as quietly as he could, staring at his brother’s face in the dark. For a second, he thought he saw something flicker across Matt’s sleeping features, a twitch of his mouth, a shadow of pain. Or maybe it was just the light playing tricks.

Chris pressed his forehead to his knees. He wanted to wake him. But his body wouldn’t move.

So he stayed there. Crying. Waiting. Listening to Matt breathe.

Chris bit his lip, trying to quiet the tears, when Matt shifted again. At first it was just a twitch, a turn of his head against the pillow. Then the words started slipping out, low, broken sounds like he was talking through clenched teeth.

“No… don’t—” a pause, a strangled breath. “Stop it… I didn’t…”

Chris stiffened, his head snapping up. His brother’s face twisted in the pale strip of moonlight, brows furrowed like he was fighting something even in sleep.

“Not again… not again,” Matt muttered, voice almost cracking into a whimper. “Mrs… don’t… please… ” The last word dissolved into a shaky inhale.

Chris blinked hard, trying to catch it, trying to make sense of it. Mrs? What? His stomach turned but his brain scrambled for logic,maybe he was dreaming about school? 

Matt’s fingers twitched against the blanket, clutching the sheets tight. “No… I won’t tell… I won’t…” His voice dropped to a whisper so faint Chris had to lean closer to even hear it.

And then… silence. His breathing steadied, face smoothing out as if nothing had happened.

Chris sat frozen on the floor, heart racing. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. Was Matt just… stressed? Was it just another nightmare about class, about being cornered by the teacher? His head throbbed with questions he couldn’t answer.

He hugged his knees again, pressing his face into them to stifle the sob that pushed up his throat. The tears wouldn’t stop. 

Chris sat there for a long time, watching Matt. Every few breaths his brother twitched, like his body couldn’t even relax properly in sleep. Chris wiped his face again, but his eyes kept burning. He wanted to shake him awake, to demand answers, to beg him to stop hurting, but he couldn’t. He didn’t dare.

Finally, he pushed himself up on shaky legs. The room felt too heavy. He slipped out, careful not to let the door creak, and padded down the hall.

The bathroom light was still on. When Chris stepped in, the sight hit him like a punch again.

His knees nearly buckled. For a second he just stood there, gripping the doorframe like he might fall. He could smell it. His throat tightened until he thought he might choke.

Slowly, he forced himself to move. He wet a towel and started scrubbing at the floor, each swipe harder than it needed to be, tears blurring his vision. The red smeared at first, then faded, until only pink water spread thin. He wiped it again and again, like maybe if he cleaned it enough he could erase the memory too.

Hot tears dripped down his face, mixing into the mess. He pressed his nose into his sleeve but the smell clung to him, iron. He gagged once, then shoved it down, scrubbing harder.

When the floor was clean, he turned to the sink, wiping every spot until the porcelain shone again. Finally, he crouched, hands shaking as he picked up the shards of glass one by one. They caught the light, sharp and cold. Each one felt heavier than it should, like a piece of his brother splintered with it.

By the time the last shard clinked into the trash bag, Chris’ arms were trembling. He leaned back against the wall, pressing both hands to his face. His palms smelled like blood. He sobbed into them, silent at first, then harsher, like the sound was tearing its way out of his chest.

He thought about his mom seeing this in the morning. The mirror. He’d protect Matt, even from this. He’d lie, say the mirror broke by accident. Say he knocked it. Anything, as long as she didn’t see what he just saw.

Chris stood in the bathroom doorway for a long time after tossing the last blood-stained rag into the hamper. When he finally dragged himself back to his room, he shut the door softly and leaned against it, exhausted. He looked down and noticed the front of his T-shirt, faint red smears across the fabric where he’d wiped his hand. His stomach twisted. He yanked it off.

The cold air of his room hit his chest, making him shiver. For a moment his mind betrayed him, an image of Matt asleep under the covers, bare skin catching pale moonlight. He swallowed hard and froze.

His hands went to his shoes next. He untied them slowly, letting them drop heavy on the floor. Then the socks, peeled off one by one. His jeans followed, stiff with the day’s sweat, sliding down his legs until he stepped out of them. Then, finally, his boxers. Piece by piece, stripped away like he was shedding the day, shedding the weight.

The room was dark except for a slice of moonlight leaking through the crack in his curtains, just enough to catch him as he turned. The light fell across his mirror.

Chris stared.

For a long time he just stood there, bare and pale in the dim glow, staring at himself. His body. His bones under his skin. His ribs shifting with every shaky breath. He looked like Matt. The slope of his shoulders. The shape of his waist. Even the curve of his thighs. They were different, but not really. Same blood. Same family. Same scars, even if Chris’ weren’t on the surface.

His eyes flicked down, then back up. His throat tightened.

Matt sleeping naked slipped back into his head. He pressed his palm to his stomach, then let it fall. He didn’t know why he was doing this. Maybe he thought if he understood Matt, really understood him, even in this, then maybe he could fix him. Maybe he could drag him out of whatever spiral he was in.

Finally, shaking, he collapsed into his bed. The sheets were cold against his bare skin. He curled onto his side, pulling the blanket halfway up, staring into the dark. His thoughts spun in circles. Matt’s face, Matt’s blood, Matt’s secrets.

Sleep didn’t come easy. But when it did, it was heavy, restless, tangled in the same knot of love and fear that seemed to be strangling him from the inside out.

Chapter Text

Matt stirred awake, a throbbing pain in his knuckles making him groan. He rolled over, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in shallow waves. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest.

The nightmare rushed back in flashes, whispers, his uncle’s voice mixing with Mrs. Brown’s. He squeezed his eyes shut, breath shaky. He didn’t want to think about it. But then the sting in his hand demanded his attention. He sat up, pulling his fist closer to his face.

Dried blood crusted over his split skin, the cuts raw and angry across his knuckles. For a second he just stared at it, confused, like he didn’t remember doing this to himself. But then the image hit him. The mirror shattering, glass exploding, red dripping down the sink.

He swallowed hard and dragged himself out of bed, bare feet cold against the floor. He walked slowly, his head was pounding. He pushed the bathroom door open.

And froze.

The mirror was still cracked, but everything else was spotless. No shards, no streaks of blood, no mess on the tiles. Just gleaming porcelain and the faint smell of cleaner. He blinked, his brain struggling to catch up.

What the hell?

Twisting the tap, he shoved his bleeding hand under the stream. The sting made him hiss, his teeth gritting as the cold water ran pink. He clenched his jaw and kept it there, eyes shut, forcing himself not to pull away. The ache shot all the way up his arm, but he held it, like he deserved it.

He dug under the sink until he found a little first aid kit, the plastic box half-empty. He fumbled with the antiseptic, wincing as it burned his skin. Then he wrapped his hand in the bandages, clumsy but tight enough to hold.

He stared at the finished job for a while. His hand looked pathetic, wrapped and useless, another weakness. He glanced at the mirror again, his reflection split into pieces he couldn’t put back together.

He hadn’t cleaned last night. He’d stumbled straight to bed after smashing the mirror.

Someone else had been here.

His stomach twisted. Mom? Dad? No… if they had found the blood, they would’ve said something. Yelled, at least. He would’ve woken up to a lecture, not silence. His heart kicked harder in his chest.

He turned, scanning the floor again. Not one shard left behind. Whoever cleaned had been careful. Careful like they didn’t want anyone else to know.

Chris.

The thought lodged itself in Matt’s brain, sharp as glass. He gripped the edge of the sink with his good hand. Chris must’ve seen it. The blood, the broken mirror, all of it. He’d cleaned up after him.

Why?

He couldn’t stop picturing Chris bent over the tiles, scrubbing, his face pale, eyes red. The image made Matt’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. He didn’t want his brother involved in this, any of this. But now he was.

He couldn’t think about Chris right now. He couldn’t think about anything but the weight pressing on his chest. He opened the bathroom door, stepped back into the hall, and listened. The house was quiet, like nothing had happened. Like his family was still asleep in their rooms, safe in a world he didn’t belong to anymore.

Without thinking, he stumbled down the hall and pushed open Chris’ door. The moonlight from the window cut across the room in a pale, cold stripe, and that’s when he saw him.

Chris was sleeping, naked. The sheets had probably slipped down during the night, leaving him bare in the dim light.

Matt froze. His mind raced. He remembered all the times Chris had pressed and mocked him when he caught him sleeping naked. Now he was doing it too?

He took a step closer, trying to be quiet, but his foot caught the edge of a chair. The scrape echoed in the still room.

Chris stirred immediately, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “What… what the hell?” he mumbled, voice groggy but sharp with confusion. He pushed himself up slightly, fumbling with the sheets, trying to cover himself. His face burned red, eyes darting to Matt, searching for some explanation.

Matt’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. Nothing came out. He took another step, tripped slightly over the rug.

Chris’ breathing hitched. “Matt—what are you—why are you even—” 

Matt’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it shook. “I… I just… I.”

Chris blinked, still clutching the sheet. “You’re… you’re standing in my room… looking at me like—” His words stumbled out, incoherent for a moment. “Matt? Are you… are you okay?”

Chris’ hands were shaking slightly now, and his chest rose and fell unevenly. “I don’t… why are you here?” he asked. “I was sleeping… I… ” He stopped, and just stared at Matt, his eyes wide and confused.

Matt shifted, awkward and hesitant, not knowing where to look. He could feel the tension in the room so thick it pressed against his chest. His eyes darted from Chris’ face to the sheet, to the floor, to the moonlight spilling across the room. He opened his mouth again, fumbling for words.

“I… I just…” He stopped, realizing nothing he could say would make this normal. He shuffled slightly, trying to find a place to stand that didn’t feel so intrusive. He swallowed hard, head bowed, knowing he couldn’t explain without unraveling everything. He took a small step back, hands slightly raised, awkwardly. “Never mind.”

Chris’ gaze didn’t leave him. He slowly sank back against the bed, sheet clutched tightly. “Matt?”

“You cleaned it,” Matt said softly, nodding toward the dresser and the faint glint of the mirror. “The blood… everything.”

Chris glanced up, silent for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah… didn’t want Mom to see it.”

Matt stared at the floor

“You punched the mirror,” Chris said flatly. “Why’d you do that?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “I… I don’t know. It just… I just snapped.”

Chris stayed quiet for a long moment, staring at him. He wanted to ask more, to get at what had really happened, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded slowly, accepting the explanation, or at least pretending to.

Then Matt’s eyes drifted. He hesitated. “Why… are you… naked?”

Chris shifted quickly, fiddling with the sheet, deflecting. “I… it’s nothing. Let’s not… ” He looked anywhere but at Matt. “Forget it.”

Matt sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the quiet between them. Chris breathed steadily, his eyes focused on the floor. He didn’t mention the naked thing, didn’t move. The moonlight fell over both of them, soft and almost forgiving, while the tension lingered, unspoken but understood.

Matt’s eyes flicked down to the floor, shadows stretching across the carpet, before he met Chris’ gaze again. “You didn’t have to... clean all that up."

Chris stayed quiet, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding Matt’s.

A silence settled, thick and heavy. After a long pause, Matt muttered, “I… think I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

Chris blinked, silent, but his hands tightened on the sheet for a heartbeat. Matt didn’t wait for a response. He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and rose from the edge of the bed. “Bye,” he muttered softly, and without another word, he left Chris there, still clutching the sheet, staring after him.

Matt’s footsteps were quiet on the hardwood floor, carrying him back to his own room. The door closed with a soft click, sealing him in darkness and silence. His chest was tight, his pulse erratic, and he sank onto the edge of his bed. Thoughts clawed at him. Chris had cleaned the bathroom, the blood, the shards, the mess he had made. 

Matt pressed his face into his hands. He wanted to punish himself for everything he’d done that made his brother take care of him like this. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it, the way his life had dragged everyone around him into chaos.

He felt dizzy, hot tears stinging his eyes. Chris shouldn’t have had to do that. Matt’s fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. He thought of the nights he’d spiraled alone, of the blood on his hands, the nightmares that refused to end, and now Chris. Chris, here, cleaning for him, trying to protect him even when he didn’t ask for it.

His chest heaved. He couldn’t stop the racing thoughts. He couldn’t stop the spirals. He buried his face into the pillow, trembling, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions, fear, guilt, and shame, but they all crashed together until there was nothing but the pounding of his heart in the silence of the room.

He just lay there, shaking, thinking about Chris, the cleaning, the broken mirror, and the way guilt seemed to coil tighter around him with every passing day.

Chapter Text

Matt pressed his hands to his face, his palms digging into his eyes until hot tears spilled out, unstoppable. His hand throbbed, a deep ache pulsing through the skin where he’d split it on the mirror. He wanted it to go numb, but every pulse reminded him it was real. He dropped his hands into his lap, his chest heaving, and that’s when his gaze landed on the laptop.

His throat tightened. He knew what he was about to do, even before he pushed himself up, even before his fingers, shaking and clumsy, flipped the lid open. The screen burned against his wet eyes as he typed, every keystroke jagged and frantic.

The page loaded. His breath stuttered. He scrolled, desperate, until he found him again. Brian White. His chest caved in with relief and dread all at once. His hands were sweating, slipping slightly over the trackpad as he clicked. The map zoomed in, streets forming. He stared, forcing it into memory as quickly as he could.

Further this time. Not down the street, not tucked in a familiar corner. About twenty minutes away. Close enough. Close enough to still matter. He told himself he had time, it was barely 3 a.m. The house was quiet, safe.

He snapped the laptop shut, the sound loud in the silence, and stood. Hoodie first, tugged over his head, shadowing his face. Jeans next, dragging over his legs, loose enough to swallow him whole. He shoved his feet into a pair of Converse, fingers fumbling as he grabbed the cigarette pack and stuffed it into his pocket.

The door creaked softly as he opened it. He slipped out, careful with each step. The air in the hallway felt too heavy, pressing down on him, and he froze. Chris’ door stood closed, still and quiet. Matt stared at it. Just minutes ago, he’d been sitting inside that room, their words sharp and tangled between them. Now it felt both impossibly far away and unbearably close.

Please be asleep, he begged silently. Please don’t see me like this.

He turned away before he could think too long about it, before guilt could drag him back inside. He padded downstairs, the wooden steps sighing under his weight. His head buzzed with static, thoughts unraveling and snapping back together in the same breath. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t want to.

At the bottom of the stairs, something caught him. A frame on the wall, glinting faintly in the dark. He stopped, his chest pulling tight.

A family picture.

He stepped closer. It was Christmas, he remembered it vaguely. The three of them, little triplets, knees touching as they sat around the tree, tearing at wrapping paper, faces lit up with joy so pure it hurt to look at. His parents on the couch behind them, smiling, warm, whole.

Matt’s gaze fixed on himself. That version of him, eight years old, untouched, laughing with a smile too wide for his face. That kid didn’t know. That kid had no idea what was coming.

He lifted a hand to the glass, tracing over his younger face. That baby hadn’t been ruined yet. That baby didn’t carry the filth, the shame, the shadow of his uncle’s hands. He was still pure, still safe.

Matt’s throat closed. He dropped his hand, turning away.

The night air hit Matt sharp in the face, cold enough to sting, but he welcomed it. It kept him awake. He pulled his hood tighter and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, the pack of cigarettes digging into his palm as if reminding him what he came out here to do.

The street was dead quiet, houses lined in silence, all the families asleep behind darkened windows. Matt’s sneakers scuffed against the pavement as he walked, slow at first, then quicker, heading toward the map’s dot burned into his memory. 

He lit a cigarette halfway down the block. Smoke filled his lungs, hot, bitter, familiar. He exhaled hard, watching it curl into the night. But his mind wouldn’t stop. The picture kept replaying in his head. He clenched his jaw, dragging on the cigarette harder than he meant to.

Why did it have to be me?

The thought broke through before he could stop it.

Matt froze mid-step, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. The words echoed in his skull, poison, shame flooding in behind them. He snapped his eyes shut, heart hammering. No. No, no, no. He couldn’t think that. He wasn’t allowed to.

Because the second he thought it, the second he let it breathe, it felt like he was saying his brothers should’ve taken his place. Like he’d wished it.

He nearly gagged on the smoke, coughing into the night, clutching at his hoodie with his free hand.

It was better him. It had to be him. Better him broken, ruined, rotting inside, than Chris or Nick. They didn’t deserve it. They never did. If someone had to carry it, he’d rather it be him. He needed it to be him.

But still, he couldn’t stop hearing it, that single poisoned question, replaying. Why me?

Guilt swallowed him whole, heavier than the night itself. His legs carried him forward anyway, down street after street, the ember at his fingertips burning lower and lower. Every drag was punishment, every step closer to Brian White’s house felt like a sentence he couldn’t escape.

He couldn’t believe he’d even let the thought slip. He hated himself for it. But he kept walking.

Matt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, cigarette dangling loosely between his lips as he kept walking. The streets stretched on forever, each one quieter than the last. Porch lights blinked here and there, but most houses were swallowed in the dark, blinds drawn tight. It was like the whole world was asleep and he was the only one left awake.

His shoes scuffed against the cracked sidewalk, steady, hollow. Twenty minutes didn’t sound like much, but out here in the dead of night, it felt endless. Every block stretched. Every step weighed him down.

The cigarette burned low, ash threatening to fall, so he flicked it hard into the gutter and immediately lit another, flame sparking quick. He dragged deep, smoke clawing at his throat, and let it out slow. The bitter taste sat heavy on his tongue, but it kept his hands busy, kept his thoughts from eating him alive.

Except they still did.

Matt kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk, jaw tight. The words came back again, uninvited. Why me?

He clenched his fists, nails biting his palms. He wanted to scream at himself for even thinking it, but the streets were too quiet, too empty. The thought sat there like rot, and the guilt swallowed him deeper.

Better him than them. He repeated it like a prayer with every step. Better me, better me, better me.

The houses began thinning out, yards turning wider, fences taller. He’d already been walking ten minutes, maybe more, and Brian White’s neighborhood was still ahead. Matt checked the street sign at the corner, pulled the map from memory. Three more turns. Seven, maybe eight minutes if he kept pace.

His legs were tired, his hand throbbed where the skin had split, and smoke curled around his face, stinging his eyes. Still, he didn’t slow.

This wasn’t optional.

Matt’s lungs burned by the time the street finally curved into Brian White’s neighborhood. He flicked his cigarette into the wet grass, watching the ember die out, and stuffed the pack back into his pocket. The street here was quieter than the others. Too quiet.

The houses were bigger, spaced out more, their driveways stretching long and pale under the yellow wash of the streetlights. Trees stood like shadows, their branches scraping faintly against rooftops when the wind moved. Everything smelled damp, like wet earth and asphalt cooling after the day’s heat.

Matt slowed as he turned the last corner, pulse climbing even before he saw it.

There.

Brian White’s house sat at the end of the street, larger than the rest, but suffocating in its stillness. Curtains pulled tight, porch light off. No signs of life, just a dark block of brick and siding against the night sky. The windows were like blank eyes, staring back at him.

Matt stopped on the sidewalk, heart hammering. He shoved both hands into the pouch of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, staring at the house until his chest ached. His fingers twitched, wanting another cigarette, wanting anything to distract him from the buzzing in his skull.

“Better me than them,” he muttered under his breath, like saying it aloud would drown out the guilt choking him.

His jaw locked. His hands shook inside his hoodie. He stepped forward, the gravel crunching under his shoes, every sound amplified in the quiet. The house loomed larger with each step, like it was swallowing him whole.

Matt circled the side of the house, shoes sinking into damp grass. The back door loomed in the shadows, not glass, just solid wood. He cursed under his breath, scanning the yard, eyes darting. Then he spotted it, an old appliance half-buried in trash bags by the bin, wires sticking out like veins.

He crouched, tugging one free. The thin wire bent under his fingers, clumsy and sharp at the edges. He wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans, knelt by the door, and shoved the wire into the lock. His hands trembled, his teeth grit. He twisted, pushed, almost gave up, then click.

Matt froze. The door eased inward. He stared at it, shocked that it had actually worked. For a second, the world felt unreal, dreamlike. But the quiet pressed against his skull, urging him forward.

He slipped inside.

The air was thick, the kind of silence that felt heavier than sound. Moonlight pooled across the tile floor. His eyes landed on the block of knives by the sink. He stepped closer, pulled one free, the sharpest he could find, long and gleaming. It fit too well in his hand.

Matt gripped the knife hard, knuckles throbbing from the cut across them. He padded into the living room, but it was empty, eerily still. His chest rose and fell faster. He started up the stairs.

And that’s when he saw them.

The staircase walls were lined with photographs. Too many photographs. Brian White’s face grinned from all of them, beside his wife, holding their daughter, family portraits frozen in forced happiness. Matt’s stomach twisted. He stopped halfway up the stairs, his throat closing as he stared at the smiling faces.

The daughter. The wife.

He knew the story. Brian White had raped his own wife, beaten her bloody, left her broken. The website registry had all of it. And still, here were the pictures. Still, he kept them on display, his trophies, his reminders.

Matt shivered violently. Disgust crawled up his skin, leaving him cold. He tore his gaze away and forced himself higher, every step creaking under his weight. His grip on the knife tightened until his hand shook.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched long and dark. One door at the end, half-closed, faint breath sounds leaking through. Matt’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Brian White was asleep.

And Matt was already inside.

Matt edged toward the door, every nerve in his body on fire. He could hear it now, slow, heavy breathing from inside, the kind of sleep that didn’t even bother with dreams. He pressed his palm against the wood, fingers curling around the knife tighter, the cut across his knuckles stinging with sweat.

He pushed the door open.

The room smelled stale, sheets tangled on the bed. Brian White lay sprawled across the mattress, mouth half-open, oblivious. The moonlight caught his face just enough for Matt to see the shape of it. Broad jaw. Greasy hair. A body that once controlled everything in that house.

Matt’s stomach turned. He remembered the pictures on the stairs. The wife. The daughter. The bruises he knew they had lived with. The silence they were forced into.

For a second, his body locked up. He stood there, frozen, breath shallow, the knife trembling inches from his leg. His own reflection from earlier flashed in his head, the smirk in the mirror that wasn’t his, the blood on his hands. He blinked hard, forcing it down.

This wasn’t about him. It was about justice.

He stepped closer. The floorboard under his foot groaned, and Brian stirred, a grunt catching in his throat as he rolled slightly. Matt’s breath caught. His chest felt like it was going to explode.

And then, before Brian could wake, Matt lunged.

The knife came down hard, straight into his chest. He felt the warmth of blood spraying his hand. Brian’s eyes flew open, wide, panicked, locking on him for a split second.

Matt pressed down harder.

Brian thrashed weakly, choking, his mouth opening and closing like he could bargain with the air. Matt didn’t let him. The knife rose again, fell again, wet thuds filling the room. His body moved faster than his mind could keep up with, a blur of rage and momentum.

By the time Brian’s arms stopped jerking, Matt’s chest was heaving, sweat sticking to his skin. The bed was soaked, sheets dark and clinging. The breathing was gone.

Just silence.

Matt staggered back, the knife dripping. His ears rang, the rush of blood in his head louder than anything else. He stared at Brian’s body, slumped and still. He couldn’t look away.

He was dead.

Matt’s grip faltered. The knife clattered onto the floor, slick with blood. His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat. He stumbled back into the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the carpet, chest heaving.

The room spun. His cut hand burned. His whole body shook.

It was done. Another name erased. Another monster gone.

But all Matt could think was how quiet the house suddenly was.

Chapter Text

He stumbled out of the bedroom like a thing unmade, one foot, then the other, breath ragged, the world tilting. The front of his hoodie was dark with wetness. There was red streaking on his neck, a smear at his chin, the bandage on his hand already damp. 

The hallway lights threw long shapes on the walls. As he passed the staircase the photographs caught him again. Brian White grinning in a dozen frozen frames, a tiny daughter tucked in his arms in one, a wife’s smile sagging in another. The pictures felt obscene now, like trophies on a mantle, and Matt had to fight the bile rising in his throat. He told himself to push it down, shove it away; he moved faster, each step a hot, clumsy protest against the silence that followed him out the door.

Outside, the air hit him and it bit. He ran before he even knew he was running. The street was empty, lamp pools stretching like islands. He didn’t look back. He ran through yards and across intersections, lungs burning, the low burn in his ribs matching the sick, animal buzz in his head. The city around him blurred into a smear of light and dark; nothing landed except his own breath and the pounding of his heart.

After a few blocks his legs gave in. He folded forward on instinct and then, with a sour laugh that had no humor in it, he collapsed to his knees in a patch of grass near a playground. He put both hands in the dirt, palms slick against grass, and tried to drag air into his lungs. It came in ragged and shallow, as if his body didn’t want to cooperate.

The adrenaline that comes after violence had always felt like a drug. Sharp, a little clean, then gone. Tonight it was different. The realization slid over him like cold water: he needed killing. Not just wanted it, not just thought it might make things right. Needed. He felt the need like a physical pressure under his skin and it terrified him far more than the act itself ever had.

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to crawl forward and puke on the grass and have the world spit back something that would be recognizably his own humanity. The sick, metallic taste in his mouth grew until he couldn’t ignore it, and he doubled over, retching until his throat ached and his stomach cramped. Each heave felt like a sacrifice he didn’t deserve to make, and when it finally passed he pressed his forehead to the damp earth and cried without sound.

He stayed kneeling there, trembling. The playground around him was utterly still, the swings moved only when a breeze touched their chains. He stayed on his knees a long time, letting the cool night hold him until his breath steadied enough that he could stand. When he pushed himself up the world tilted, but the need for movement pulled him forward. He dug his hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the crumpled cigarette pack like an anchor, and lit the next one with hands that shook.

The smoke burned down his throat and somehow steadied him, giving the edges of the panic something to cling to. He walked fast, shoulders hunched, the street a blur of dark lawns and shuttered windows. He smoked until his lungs felt hollow and raw, until the pack was down to a single, sad cigarette that he pinched between thumb and forefinger and held like a talisman.

When he reached his driveway the house was the same quiet shape it had always been, lights off, the world inside folded in sleep. He moved through the side gate without thinking, hands cold and numb, and dropped the cigarette into the grass. The ember died without a sound. He stood in the yard for a second, hoodie heavy on his shoulders, the odor of smoke and adrenaline still clinging to him.

The hoodie went into the shallow firepit like he was trying to set a match to the night itself. It curled and collapsed, blackening at the edges, smoke coiling up into the sky. He wanted it gone more than he wanted anything, gone as if removing the fabric could peel back the memory, scrub his hands clean of everything he’d become that night.

He slipped inside, every floorboard  creaking beneath him. He moved down the hall the way a ghost moves, hands loose at his sides, the cut on his knuckles throbbing behind the bandage.

He turned the bathroom light on and shut the door behind him. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, willing himself to breathe in, breathe out. Then the water was on, warm and forgiving, and he stepped under it like stepping into another life. The spray pelted him, heavy and insistent, running down his neck, across his chest. He scrubbed at himself with both hands as if frantic rubbing could erase what was under his skin. Then the sobs came.

They were quiet at first, muffled against the roar of the shower. He pressed his face to his forearm and tried to make them soft, tried not to let sound carry through the house and wake anyone. But the body has its own language; the sobs grew anyway, raw little gasps that shook his shoulders and made the hot water tremble on his back. He tried to steel himself, to bite the noise down, but the tension in him folded and broke and broke again.

The water ran red at first and then clear, the motion of rinsing felt like ritual, like atonement, like punishment. When the shaking slowed, he turned the taps off and stepped out. He stood there in the dark fog of the mirror, hair plastered to his scalp, skin shining. The quiet in the house had returned. He wrapped a towel around his hips and stumbled into his room.

He didn’t dress. He lay down on top of the covers, slick and cold from the shower, and let the damp sheet crease against his skin. 

☁︎

Matt woke to the sound of his door creaking open, his body stiff under the sheets. For a split second, panic fired through him, he was naked. But thank God, somewhere in the night he must’ve rolled under the blanket. He pulled it tighter to his chest anyway, pretending the motion was just a stretch.

“Matt,” his mom’s voice came soft but brisk, like always. “Get up. Breakfast is almost ready. We’re going to church today.”

Matt blinked, his throat dry. “Church?” The word came out raspy. He rubbed at his eyes, squinting against the light coming in from the hall. “Why the hell are we going to church?”

She frowned a little, like she hadn’t expected pushback. “It’s Sunday. We haven’t gone in a long time. Your father and I thought it would be good… for all of us.”

Matt sank deeper into the pillow, heart beating fast with irritation and something heavier. Church. He hadn’t thought about it in forever. Not since he was a kid. Back then it was just long sermons and itchy shirts and songs he never knew the words to. Now the idea hit differently, hit raw.

“I don’t wanna go,” he muttered, pulling the blanket higher, up to his chin.

His mom sighed, standing in the doorway for a moment longer before saying, “Breakfast in ten,” and leaving him there.

Matt stared at the ceiling. The word church echoed. It tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t believe, not in God, not in redemption, not in anything higher. How could he? With what happened, with what he’s done. The abuse, the blood on his hands. He could still feel it under his skin, even after scrubbing until he sobbed in the shower.

The thought of stepping into a church made his stomach twist. Sitting in a pew, pretending to listen, pretending he belonged there. He didn’t. He wasn’t clean. He wasn’t saved. He wasn’t like his mom or dad, praying quietly at dinner, trusting something would forgive them.

Chris… he didn’t know about Chris. They never talked about it. Maybe he believed. Maybe he didn’t. Matt realized he never asked. And now, not knowing made it worse.

He curled up tighter under the sheets. Church wasn’t just boring. It felt wrong. Like walking into God’s house with the dirt of sin still caked on him. The abuse. The killing. He couldn’t wash it off, couldn’t make it vanish. No matter how much he scrubbed, it was still there.

He shut his eyes, jaw clenching. Going to church wouldn’t fix him. Nothing could.

Matt pulled on a clean t-shirt and jeans, the fabric stiff against his skin, the bandage on his hand tugging when he shoved it through the sleeve. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror, he didn’t want to see himself. Not today.

Downstairs the smell of bacon hit him, and for a second his stomach growled so hard he almost doubled over. He dragged himself into the kitchen, sliding into his usual seat at the table. Chris was already there, quiet, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. Nick sat slouched with his phone in one hand and toast in the other. Their parents moved around the kitchen like it was any other Sunday morning, clinking plates and pouring coffee.

“Jeans and a t-shirt?” Mom said sharply as she set a plate of eggs in front of him. “We’re going to church, Matthew.”

Matt picked at his eggs with his fork. “I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t get a choice,” his mom said firmly. Then she froze, eyes dropping to his hand. “Matt, what happened?”

Matt’s stomach twisted. He looked down at the bandage, heat rushing to his face. Before he could think of a lie, Chris shifted slightly in his chair, his gaze snapping to Matt’s. They locked eyes for a fraction of a second, Chris silently begging him not to ruin everything.

Matt cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. Just… accident. Cut it on something in the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom?” Mom pressed, concern dripping from every word. “What were you doing in there? Did you fall?”

Matt forced a shrug, stabbing at the food he didn’t want to eat. “Does it matter? It’s fine.”

Silence spread across the table. The scrape of Nick’s fork against his plate was the only sound.

Matt shoved a bite into his mouth, chewing trying not to gag. His mom was still staring. Chris wouldn’t look at him. Nick glanced between them like he knew something was off but didn’t want to ask.

Matt didn’t believe in God. But sitting at that table, the word church echoing in his ears, he felt something coil inside him. A weight. Like even God was watching, disgusted. His uncle had ruined him. Matt had ruined himself. His brothers were still clean, weren’t they? They had to be. He couldn’t even imagine them stained like him.

His fork scraped against the plate again. He wanted to disappear.

“So…” Jimmy said, trying to lighten the tension, “The Patriots are playing today. Big game.”

Nick perked up a little. “Yeah, they’ll destroy them.”

Dad smiled faintly, glad for the distraction. “We’ll see.”

Mom, still eyeing Matt’s hand, sat down across from him. “After church we’ll grab lunch together. Somewhere nice. Maybe that diner you boys used to love.”

Chris hummed noncommittally, eyes fixed on his food. Matt pushed a piece of egg around with his fork. The thought of eating in public made his chest ache.

“That place sucked,” Nick muttered with a small smirk.

“It did not,” Dad shot back, pretending to be offended. “They had the best pancakes in the city.”

The conversation carried on, Matt sat through it, chewing mechanically, every bite tasting like cardboard.

When the plates were cleared, Dad jingled the car keys. “Alright. Let’s move.”

Matt dragged himself to his feet, slipping his headphones around his neck. Outside, the air was cool. The family piled into the car, Mom chatting softly to Dad, Nick glued to his phone, Chris staring out his window.

Matt leaned against the glass, sliding his headphones on properly now. Music filled his ears, dulling the outside world. He still didn’t want to go. The word church made him feel dirty, like every sin was written across his skin for everyone to see.

His gaze flicked to Chris, who sat quietly, face unreadable. Matt wondered, not for the first time, if Chris believed in God. If he prayed at night, alone. 

The car rolled into the parking lot, the massive church looming overhead. Its stone walls were washed in pale morning light, the tall cross at the top casting a long shadow. Families were filing in, dressed in their best clothes. Matt tugged at his t-shirt, suddenly aware of how out of place he looked.

They climbed out of the car together, his mom smoothing her skirt, his dad locking the doors. Matt shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched, headphones now hanging loose around his neck. Chris walked a step behind him, his face blank but his movements tight, like every gesture cost him something.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of incense. The ceilings stretched high, arches curving into the distance, stained glass windows spilling colored light across the polished pews. The congregation moved quietly, respectfully, the shuffle of feet and murmurs blending with the distant sound of the organ warming up.

Their parents led them down a row near the middle. Matt slid into the pew, Chris beside him, then Nick, then their mom and dad. The wooden bench creaked under their weight. Matt’s eyes darted everywhere, the candles flickering at the altar, the gold trim, the statues of saints watching silently from their corners.

He hated it already. It felt suffocating, like the walls pressed in with every breath.

The service began. The priest stepped forward, his voice calm and practiced, welcoming everyone back. People rose together for the hymn. Matt stood too, mechanically, his body moving out of habit more than belief. The organ swelled, a deep, rich sound that filled every corner of the building.

The first note rattled through Matt’s chest like a punch. His stomach lurched. The air around him shifted, suddenly it wasn’t the church anymore, it was a dark room, too close, too hot. Fingers digging into his skin. His uncle’s voice whispering low. That smell. That touch.

He staggered, clutching the back of the pew in front of him, the hymn blurring into a haunting echo that wrapped tight around his throat. His chest heaved. He could feel it, every inch of what had been done to him, as though it was happening again.

Get it off. Get it off.

His mouth watered with nausea. He ripped himself away, pushing past Chris, shooting out of the pew. His mom’s head jerked up, lips parting like she wanted to call after him, but the priest’s voice rolled on, the hymn swelling higher, and she stayed frozen in place.

Matt nearly tripped down the aisle, his legs weak, lungs burning. He shoved open the heavy church doors and stumbled into the cool morning air.

He barely made it to the bushes before falling to his knees. His stomach gave out, heaving violently. Nothing came up at first, just bile, but the force of it left him shaking. He pressed his palms into the damp earth, tears spilling down his face.

Chris was right behind him. He hesitated a few steps away, frozen, his hands hovering like he didn’t know whether to touch him or not. His eyes were wide, his jaw clenched.

“Matt…” His voice cracked, quiet, almost lost under the sound of Matt choking on sobs.

Matt spit into the dirt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His body trembled uncontrollably, every breath a broken gasp. He tried to pull air in, but it hitched, jagged. The sobs kept tearing out of him, raw and ugly, no matter how hard he tried to swallow them down.

Chris finally stepped closer, crouching awkwardly. He didn’t reach out. He just stayed there, close enough that Matt could feel his presence, like an anchor that kept him from flying apart.

Matt pressed his forehead into his arm, his voice muffled and broken. “I can’t” His chest hitched. “I can’t do this.”

Chris swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, eyes stinging as he watched his brother crumple against the grass. He wanted to say something, anything, but no words came. He stayed still, listening to Matt’s sobs echo off the stone walls of the church, knowing deep down this wasn’t something he could fix.

Chris’s hesitation finally broke. He reached out, his palm brushing Matt’s shaking shoulder before settling there with more weight. The contact was light, careful, but grounding.

Matt flinched at first, then sagged into it, the fight draining out of him.

“Come on,” Chris murmured. He shifted, pushing himself upright, and extended his hand.

Matt stared at it through his tears, chest still heaving. For a second, he looked like he might refuse. But then his fingers curled around Chris’s, weak and trembling, letting his brother pull him up from the grass.

He swayed on his feet, one hand pressing to his stomach like he still might puke. Chris steadied him by the elbow. His eyes flicked down, catching a glimpse of Matt’s hands.

The nails. Dark crusted stains packed under them. Blood.

Chris froze. His gaze lingered, his pulse jumping, but he didn’t yank his hand back. He tightened his grip instead.

“Why’d you bolt like that?” Chris asked, searching Matt’s face. “Why did you… why’d you just run out of church and… throw up?”

Matt’s breath caught. His shirt was damp around the collar from sweat and tears, his mouth still sour from bile. His mind scrambled, a dozen excuses flaring and dying just as fast.

He couldn’t hold Chris’s eyes. Not with his chest burning from everything that had just ripped through him inside.

Chris’s jaw worked. He didn’t look away from Matt’s face, didn’t let the silence settle. “That wasn’t just getting sick,” he pressed, voice low but firm. “Something happened in there. What was it?”

Matt shook his head sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Nothing.”

“No.” Chris’s tone hardened, almost desperate. “You looked like you were about to pass out., Matt. You… you’re scaring me. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Matt’s throat tightened. He staggered back a half step, hands balling into fists at his sides. The words burned before he even said them. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Chris shot back.

Matt’s laugh was short, bitter, nothing close to humor. His eyes brimmed but didn’t quite meet Chris’s. “You couldn’t possibly understand what it feels like. To sit in there and hear that music and… ” His voice cracked, rage and shame tangling together. “And have everything come back. To feel it on you again.” He stopped himself, like he had said too much, choking on the words, dragging both hands over his face.

Chris stood frozen, he wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue stuck in his mouth, useless.

Matt dragged in a shaky breath, his shoulders hunching as if he could fold in on himself. “It was nothing,” he muttered, his voice frayed. “Just… I don’t know. The air in there. Too much.”

Chris didn’t buy it. He leaned in, his grip still steady on Matt’s arm. Matt swallowed hard, blinking furiously as if that could wash away the sting in his eyes. He tried to twist his hand out of Chris’s hold, but Chris didn’t let go.

“I said it’s nothing,” Matt repeated, sharper now, anger flaring up only to cover the shame gnawing at him.

Chris’s gaze flicked again to the dirtied nails, the torn skin along Matt’s knuckles. His stomach churned, questions clawing at his throat, but he forced them back down. Matt finally pulled free, stumbling a step back. He dragged his hand across his face, smearing away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. His breath rattled, uneven. “Just drop it, okay?”

The silence stretched, heavy and brittle. Chris opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally nodded once. “Fine,” he said quietly. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Matt’s laugh was humorless, a hollow sound that barely made it past his lips. He shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket, hiding the stains, hiding everything. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Watch me.”

He turned slightly, like he might walk away right then, but his legs stayed rooted in the damp grass. Chris stayed with him, not touching now, but close enough that Matt could feel the weight of his presence pressing against the silence.

Matt’s breath steadied, just barely, though his chest still ached with each pull of air. The thought of stepping back into that place made his stomach knot, but standing outside under Chris’s gaze felt worse somehow, exposed, like his insides had been split open.

Chris tilted his head toward the church doors, his voice low. “Come on. Mom and Dad are gonna wonder. Just… let’s get through it.”

Matt shook his head, a sharp, almost panicked movement. “I can’t”

“You can,” Chris interrupted gently, but firm. His hand hovered at Matt’s back, not quite touching, but guiding all the same. “You don’t have to like it. Just sit there. That’s it.”

Matt’s throat burned, a protest caught behind his teeth, but he let Chris lead him anyway. Step by step, the church loomed closer, the faint hum of the hymn bleeding through the walls. Every sound made his skin prickle.

Inside, the warm air pressed down on him immediately, heavy with incense and old wood. His parents glanced back, relief flickering over their faces before turning forward again, too polite to interrupt the service. Chris slid into the pew beside Matt, close enough their shoulders brushed.

Matt’s hands fidgeted in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He forced himself to breathe evenly, stare straight ahead, and not think about the organ, not think about the touch he could still feel crawling on his skin.

Beside him, Chris shifted slightly, moving his leg so their knees touched. It was nothing, barely a brush, but Matt felt the warmth instantly. It anchored him, kept him from floating too far into the panic clawing up his chest.

He swallowed, throat dry, and tried to focus on that small point of contact instead of the memories screaming in his head. His uncle’s hands. The suffocating weight. The sound of the organ fusing with the past until he could barely breathe.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

Chris couldn’t stop hearing Matt’s voice. “You couldn’t possibly understand what it feels like. To sit in there and hear that music and… and have everything come back. To feel it on you again.”

The words clawed at his skull, over and over, every syllable sharp enough to bleed. Chris had wanted to pull him together, wanted to understand, but he’d just frozen. Always frozen.

And Matt’s eyes, God, the way he looked at him, like he’d said too much and wished he could shove the words back down his throat. Like Chris wasn’t supposed to know something. 

Now, sitting in the car on the way home, Chris felt like his chest was stuffed with wet cement. His mom was trying to smooth everything over, talking in her bright Sunday voice.

“You were very quiet, Matt. Are you feeling better now?”

Matt sat slouched against the window, earphones in. He didn’t even flinch at her voice. His dad gripped the wheel like it might snap in two.

Chris kept sneaking glances at Matt’s hands, one bandaged, the other picking at the seam of his jeans. Chris’s stomach twisted.

Matt finally spoke, voice rough. “I said I’m fine.”

It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t anything close. But Mom just nodded, like she’d take any scrap of normalcy offered.

The rest of the ride dragged in silence. Chris leaned his head back, staring out at the blur of houses and trees, wondering if anyone else felt how heavy the car had become. Like it might sink straight through the asphalt.

At home, Matt disappeared into his room without a word. The slam of his door rattled Chris’s insides. He wanted to follow, to demand answers, but his feet stayed rooted. He couldn’t handle being shut out again.

So he went to the kitchen, hands jammed in his hoodie pocket, and nearly jumped when Nick appeared at the counter pouring cereal.

“Jesus,” Chris muttered.

“Sorry bro, chill,” Nick said, spoon clinking. His eyes narrowed a little. “What was that at church?”

Chris stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Nick shrugged, chewing, but his tone had bite. “Matt running out like a crazy person. Mom’s worried sick. You were right behind him. Did he say anything?”

Chris looked down at the tiles. “Nothing. He just didn’t feel good.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the first time he’s been… off.” Nick’s gaze sharpened, pushing. “He’s not eating. He barely talks. And you’re acting weird too. Is there something I should know?”

Chris’s throat tightened. His pulse thudded. “Drop it, Nick.”

Nick’s jaw flexed. For a second, it seemed like he might press harder, but then he just muttered, “Fine,” and shoved past Chris, bowl in hand, heading upstairs.

The kitchen felt bigger and emptier once he was gone.

He sighed and went upstairs. When he opened his bedroom door, his mom was sitting on his bed, like she’d been waiting. 

She smiled, soft but tired. “Can we talk?”

Chris froze in the doorway. “About what?”

“Church.” She patted the blanket beside her. “You were so quiet. And Matthew… I just feel like we’re drifting away. Like your father and I can’t reach you boys anymore.”

Chris sat stiffly beside her, hands folded. “We’re fine.”

She sighed, brushing her hair back. “Faith gives us strength, Chris. It helps us understand suffering, make sense of it. Don’t you feel that?”

His throat went dry. He thought of Matt’s words in the bushes, of the vomit and the blood under his nails. He thought of himself standing useless while his brother broke down.

“No,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “I don’t feel anything.”

His mom’s face cracked, like he’d slapped her. She reached for him, but Chris pulled back, shaking his head. She smiled sadly, like she was about to cry. Cry about her son not believing, about her family on the verge of falling apart.

She stood and slowly walked out, not looking back once. Chris sat alone, his heart hammering.

Chris’s head buzzed like a hornet’s nest. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t breathe. Matt’s face, pale and tight with rage and shame, kept replaying. The sound of him retching, the way his hands shook.

Before he knew it, he was moving. His legs carried him down the hall, heavy and fast. He didn’t even knock, just shoved Matt’s door open.

The room smelled sharp, a faint curl of smoke still hanging near the open window. Matt was slouched on the sill, one leg hanging out, a cigarette burning down between his fingers. He looked up, startled, eyes narrowing like he’d been caught.

Chris’s chest seized. He was the only one who knew. The smoking, the late-night windows cracked open, the ash flicked out into the dark. 

“What the fuck, Chris?” Matt snapped, stubbing the cigarette out on the sill, anger his first defense. “Ever heard of knocking?”

Chris’s throat was dry. His hands curled into fists. “I” His voice cracked. “I thought you were done with that.”

Matt gave a humorless laugh, dragging his hand through his hair. “Guess you thought wrong.”

The silence swelled. Chris’s stomach churned. He couldn’t look away from the faint streaks of dried blood under Matt’s nails, from the bandage peeking beneath his sleeve, from the exhaustion hollowing out his face.

Chris’s voice broke the moment he brought it up. “And the church today! You can’t just… ” His words tumbled out, each one sharp, accusatory, desperate. “You can’t do this to me, Matt!”

Tears started rolling down his face, unchecked, hot and heavy. His chest heaved as he yelled, a mix of fear, anger, and confusion rattling every bone. “Do you even care about what’s happening? About us? About Mom, Dad, Nick?”

Matt’s anger, the tension that had coiled his shoulders, softened at the sight of Chris crying. He dropped off the windowsill silently, the hoodie sagging around his frame, and stepped forward. “Chris…” His voice was low, urgent, almost pleading. Before Chris could even register, Matt’s arms wrapped around him, steady and heavy, anchoring him in the storm of his own emotions.

Chris froze, instinctively pushing back at first. But Matt held firm, rocking them slightly. “I’m not letting go,” he muttered. His voice was soft but insistent, almost desperate in its quietness. “I’m not letting go, Chris. Not now.”

Chris’s protests faltered, muffled into the crook of Matt’s shoulder. His tears continued to fall, soaking into Matt’s hoodie, and his sobs started to slow, caught in the warmth and steadiness of the hug. For a moment, the shouting, the panic, and the smoke from earlier seemed miles away. It was just the two of them, a fragile tether in the middle of the chaos.

Chris’s sobs finally eased into uneven breaths, his cheek still damp against Matt’s shoulder. Matt kept holding him, stubborn, as if he could will the world into silence if he just didn’t let go.

But Chris’s eyes drifted past him. The desk. The faint glow of the screen. Matt’s laptop sat open, angled just enough for Chris to see.

It wasn’t homework. It wasn’t YouTube.

A page stared back at him, sterile and heavy: a list of names, addresses, photographs.

Massachusetts Sex Offender Registry.

His breath stalled. His body stiffened against Matt’s. “Matt—”

Matt jerked back, spinning toward the desk. He slammed the laptop shut so hard the sound cracked through the room. He whirled on Chris, eyes flashing. “Don’t. Don’t fucking start. It’s none of your business.”

Chris blinked at him, stunned, still breathing hard. “None of my… ?  Matt, what the hell was that? Why are you even on that site?”

Matt’s jaw locked, his whole body wound tight like a trap ready to spring. “Drop it, Chris. I mean it.”

“No, I’m not dropping it.” Chris’s voice rose, breaking at the edges. “You puke in church, you lock yourself away, and now this? You think I’m just gonna walk out and pretend I didn’t see it?”

Matt’s fists curled, his chest heaving. He looked cornered, dangerous in his desperation. “You don’t understand… ”

“Then make me understand!” Chris shot back, his throat raw, tears burning at his eyes. “God, Matt, you keep shutting me out and I’m… ” He choked on the words, voice cracking as it turned into something closer to a sob. “I’m your brother. Tell me the truth.”

Chris sighed, “I’m standing right here, Matt, and I’m not leaving until you—”

Matt’s words ripped out of him, too sharp, too fast to catch. “Until I what? Tell you that every time I close my eyes I see him—”

He froze, throat clamping shut. The words hung there, jagged and raw, like smoke in the air. His whole body stiffened, realization hitting him a beat too late.

Chris’s face went pale, confusion flickering across his features. “See… who?” he asked, softer now, but his voice still trembling.

Matt swallowed hard, gaze darting anywhere but Chris. His breath stuttered, and he shook his head violently. “Forget it. I didn’t mean… just drop it!” His voice cracked as he grabbed at the air like he could claw the words back down his throat. “Drop it!”

“See who, Matt?!” he shouted, tears burning his eyes, his fists trembling at his sides. “Who the hell are you talking about?!”

Matt shook his head frantically, retreating a step like the volume alone had shoved him backward. “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!” His voice cracked, his throat raw. “You don’t know what you’re asking!”

Chris’s face was wet again, tears streaking down without him even realizing. He jabbed a finger at Matt, shaking, the sound ripping out of him like he’d been holding it for years. “I’m your brother! Stop hiding from me!”

Matt’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining, his hands balled into fists. For a second it looked like he might actually answer. His lips parted, his chest heaving, then he bit it back, violently, like it burned to keep it in.

“No!” Matt roared, his own tears threatening to spill. “I said drop it!” He slammed his palm against the wall so hard the sound echoed, a crack reverberating through the room. His bandaged hand split slightly, a spot of red blooming.

Both boys stood there, chests rising and falling in unison, the silence that followed louder than the screaming.

Then Matt broke first. His shoulders shook, the anger collapsing in on itself. He dropped onto the edge of his bed and buried his face in his arms, sobs tearing out of him in ragged bursts he couldn’t control. His whole body shuddered, hunched and small, like he was trying to disappear.

Chris stood frozen, guilt slamming into him at once, watching his brother come undone in front of him. He wanted to move, to touch his shoulder, to do something, but his own legs wouldn’t obey.

The door creaked open. Their mom stepped in, her face pale with worry. She must’ve heard the yelling. Her eyes darted between her sons, Matt curled in on himself, Chris with his cheeks wet and chest still heaving.

“What’s going on in here?” she yelled, her voice sharp, like she was scared of the answer.

Chris shook his head, words caught in his throat, his breathing still uneven. He wanted to answer but his mouth wouldn’t work. Matt kept his face buried, muffled cries breaking through his arms.

Their mom moved further into the room. “Why are you two yelling like this? What happened?”

Chris finally broke. His face crumpled and a sound escaped him, half sob, half strangled word. He pressed his hands hard against his face, like he could hide, like he could erase the moment. The weight of everything, the mirror, the church, Matt’s words, came down all at once.

Matt lifted his head only slightly, his eyes swollen and wet, his lips trembling. He didn’t speak, but the devastation on his face was answer enough.

“Just… leave us alone,” he rasped, shaking his head. “Please. Just go.”

Their mom froze, caught between confusion and the instinct to comfort. Her gaze flicked to Chris, who stood trembling near the door, hands still pressed to his wet face, chest rising and falling unevenly. He didn’t look at her.

“Matt… ” she started softly, but he cut her off, louder this time, his voice cracking.

“I said go!”

The room went still again, the silence shattered only by Matt’s shaky breaths. For a moment, it seemed like she might argue, but then her shoulders slumped. She lingered one more second, eyes brimming with hurt, then slowly backed out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only the two of them in the heavy air. Chris finally dropped his hands, eyes red and glassy, staring at Matt like he didn’t recognize him. Matt hunched forward on the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed, trying to hold himself together and failing.

Chris stood frozen by the door for what felt like forever after their mom slipped out. The silence pressed down on him, thick and suffocating. Matt’s breaths came ragged, broken by little choked sounds he tried to muffle behind his arms.

Finally, Chris moved. His feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, dragging him across the room until he reached the bed. He lowered himself down slowly, careful, like if he moved too fast Matt might shatter completely.

The mattress dipped under his weight. They didn’t touch. Chris sat rigid, staring at his brother’s hunched shoulders, at the way they trembled with every breath. He wanted to say something, anything, but every word that came to mind felt too small.

Minutes stretched. The quiet was filled only by the muffled sounds of Matt’s crying. Chris pressed his palms to his thighs, fingers digging into the denim of his jeans, grounding himself. He remembered every second of the yelling, the way Matt’s voice had cracked like it was tearing out of him, the way his own chest had burned with anger until it collapsed into sobs.

He swallowed, his throat tight. “Matt…” His voice was soft, cautious. He didn’t know if Matt would even hear it through the storm in his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Matt didn’t respond, but his shoulders jerked, like the words had landed somewhere deep. Chris didn’t push. He stayed there, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his brother, close enough that if Matt leaned even an inch, he’d have something solid to rest against.

The silence grew heavy again, but this time it wasn’t as unbearable. Chris let out a slow breath, his own eyes stinging. 

Matt’s arms shook against his knees, his shoulders racking with quiet sobs. After a long moment, he shifted slightly, hesitating, and then leaned toward Chris. Not fully, just enough that his side brushed against Chris’s leg. The contact was tiny, but it felt like a lifeline.

“I…” Matt’s voice was barely above a whisper, broken and ragged. He swallowed hard, trying to gather words that didn’t come out clean. “I don’t know… I don’t know why I get like this. Why it… all comes back.” His hands dropped from his face, resting limply on his lap.

Chris didn’t say anything, just let him talk, just let him spill fragments.

Matt took another shaky breath. “I try… I try to keep it inside, to act normal, but sometimes it’s too much. And I… I feel… guilty. All the time.” He looked up for a fraction of a second, eyes glimmering with tears. “I feel like I ruin everything.”

Chris shifted a little closer, brushing his hand lightly over Matt’s arm. “You’re not ruining anything,” he murmured. 

Matt’s lips trembled. “It’s more than that. I… I can’t stop thinking about it. About everything that happened. About…” He swallowed again, voice thick. “I feel dirty. So… so dirty.”

Chris’s chest tightened. He didn’t fully understand what Matt meant, but he understood the weight, the rawness of it. He squeezed Matt’s arm gently. His mind was on the laptop again. He stopped himself from mentioning it again. Matt leaned into his shoulder, tears staining Chris' hoodie. Chris put an arm around him.

Why did he get so defensive about the registry?

Chapter Text

The sound dragged him up out of sleep like a hand around his throat.

A sharp snort, then the low, steady rasp of breathing. Snoring.

Matt blinked into the dark, disoriented, the room silver-washed with moonlight through the window. For a second he didn’t know where he was, or why his chest felt pinned down. Then his eyes adjusted, and he realized. Chris.

His brother was tangled against him, face half-buried in the crook of Matt’s shoulder, an arm thrown heavy across his ribs, their legs knotted together like they’d been wrestled there. Matt went stiff. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His first instinct was to shove him off, untangle, run.

But he didn’t.

The snoring was ridiculous, uneven, almost comical, but each sound thudded against the silence of the room, keeping Matt awake, staring up at the ceiling.

His head spun back to last night, the shouting, his mom’s wide eyes in the doorway, Chris’s face wet with tears, the laptop screen he’d slammed shut too late. His stomach clenched, a bitter twist. Chris didn’t know, but he’d come too close.

Chris shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, and tightened his hold. Matt swallowed hard, heart thudding in his throat. He told himself he should move, put space between them, but the steady rhythm of Chris’s breathing pressed into him, warm and steady, made him stay. He didn’t deserve this, not the weight, not the closeness, not the way it almost felt like safety.

He turned his face toward the window, jaw tight. The moon slid behind a veil of clouds. His eyes stung, but no tears fell. He lay there with his chest on fire, not moving, not breathing too loud, waiting.

Minutes crawled. He drifted in and out of sleep, never quite falling under. He counted the seconds till the sky shifted gray.

By the time the first threads of dawn bled through the curtains, his body felt heavy, like he’d lived another lifetime in the hours of the night.

Chris stirred awake, letting out a groggy yawn. He blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes, then he realized where he was.

“What the fuck?” Chris muttered, scrambling back, tugging his shirt down like it could cover the awkwardness.

Matt sat up slower, running a hand over his face, his stomach hollow. “We must have fallen asleep” he said flatly, voice raw from sleep.

Chris made a face, part confusion, part embarrassment. He pushed off the bed, shaking his head. “This is…” He stopped himself, lips pressing thin.

The silence bloomed sharp. Matt didn’t move, didn’t meet his eyes.

Chris lingered by the door, opening his mouth once, twice, like he wanted to bring up last night. The shouting, the laptop, the tears. His voice cracked around the edges. “Matt, about last—”

“Don’t,” Matt cut in, sharp and final. He still didn’t look at him. He couldn’t.

The word hung between them like a slammed door.

Chris’s jaw flexed. For a second he looked like he might push back, might force it anyway, but then his shoulders dropped. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a short nod, stepping out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Matt sat there in the half-light, hands curling into the sheets, listening to the echo of Chris’s retreating footsteps, and told himself it was better this way.

☁︎

The morning air bit sharp against Matt’s skin as he climbed the bus steps. He tugged his hoodie tighter, head down, eyes fixed on the scuffed rubber floor. He slid into a seat halfway down, pressed against the window, backpack dumped at his feet.

A few seconds later, Chris boarded. Matt’s stomach twisted without him meaning it to. Chris’s eyes flicked toward him, a flash of hesitation, something unreadable in them, but then he kept moving. He slid into a seat three rows back, the space deliberate, almost punishing.

Nick followed right after, pausing only briefly before plopping down beside Matt. “Hey,” he said, voice easy. Matt smiled tightly, shifting a bit towards the window to make more space for Nick. 

He slipped his headphones over his ears, Bob Dylan’s voice already humming low and steady, a barrier between him and the world.

The bus finally came to a stop in front of the school. Matt put his headphones in his bag and stood up, next to Nick, waiting to get out. Chris was already moving ahead, his pace clipped, not once glancing back. Nick muttered a quick “see you later” and drifted toward his own group of friends, swallowed by the crowd.

Matt stepped off the bus, his shoes hitting pavement with a dull thud. The swarm of students scattered across the courtyard, some laughing, some yawning, all heading toward the front doors.

He was almost through when a voice cut through the noise.

“Matt?”

He froze. Mrs. Brown, her coat wrapped tight against the chill, stood near the steps. Her gaze was sharp, focused only on him. She smiled softly, almost inviting. 

He felt his shoulders tense. “Yeah?” he muttered, shifting the strap of his bag like it weighed too much.

“Can I have a quick word?” she asked, her tone firm but not unkind, the kind that didn’t really leave room for saying no.

Matt’s stomach sank, but he nodded anyway, letting himself be pulled out of the stream of students as the doors swallowed everyone else. Matt trailed behind Mrs. Brown, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, head low. Every step toward her office felt heavier, like he was walking straight into a trap he’d set for himself days ago, in that damn janitor’s closet.

She opened the door and gestured him inside. He hesitated for a second, then walked past her, eyes on the carpet. The room was warm, shelves lined with binders and books, a small lamp glowing on her desk. It was too calm, too safe, and that made it worse.

Mrs. Brown shut the door softly, no lock turning, but the sound of it closing made his chest clench. She crossed to her chair, sat, and for a moment didn’t say anything. Just watched him. Her eyes were kind, and he hated that kindness.

“You can sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the chair across from her.

Matt dropped into it, slouched low, arms crossed. He kept his gaze on the floor, as if he could burn a hole through the carpet if he stared hard enough.

“I noticed your hand,” she began, her voice low, careful. “That looks painful. Did it happen at home?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Matt…” She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk, her expression softening. “When you told me about what happened to you, that wasn’t nothing. And this isn’t either.”

He stiffened, shoulders tight, throat burning. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Her eyes sharpened, but her voice stayed calm. “You were brave to say it. Don’t take that away from yourself.” She paused, studying him, then asked, “Does anyone else know? Your parents? Your brothers?”

Matt shook his head. “No. Nobody.”

Her sigh was quiet but full of weight. “Matt, this is too much for you to carry alone. You don’t have to.”

“I can handle it,” he said, almost snapping.

Her gaze softened further, but she didn’t back down. “Matt, handling it isn’t the same as healing. Keeping it inside doesn’t protect you. It just hurts you more.”

Matt’s jaw clenched, eyes still fixed on the floor. He didn’t want to cry, not now, but the lump in his throat was thick, pressing up until he could barely breathe.

Mrs. Brown let the silence stretch, giving him space, then asked in a near-whisper, “Do you want me to help you tell someone? Or at least… talk through it with me?”

The question lingered, heavier than anything. He wanted to get up, to run, to laugh in her face and say no. But the warmth in her voice cracked something deep in him, and he couldn’t find the words right away.

Mrs. Brown leaned in a little closer, her tone shifting, gentle but firmer now, like she wouldn’t let him retreat into silence. “You’ve been carrying this since you were a child. I can see it in the way you sit, the way you shut down. It’s too heavy, Matt. It’s eating at you. And part of you must want to let it out, or you wouldn’t have said anything at all that day.”

He squeezed his arms tighter around himself, nails digging into his hoodie sleeves. His throat ached. “I can’t,” he muttered.

“You can,” she whispered, steady. “Not all at once, not every detail, but something. A piece of it. You don’t have to hold all of it by yourself anymore.”

His chest heaved once, a shudder he tried to hide. He pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth, desperate to keep the tears back. For years, he’d been the locked vault, the one who didn’t say, didn’t tell, didn’t trust. His uncle’s voice still echoed in his skull, don’t say a word. But his body betrayed him. His hands shook against his sides. His lips parted like they wanted to move on their own.

Mrs. Brown waited, not filling the silence this time. Just giving him space to choose. Her eyes didn’t waver from his face, and the patience there made his stomach twist.

Matt swallowed hard, his voice breaking even before words came. “If I say it” His breath hitched, his hands trembling harder. “…It makes it real again.”

Mrs. Brown nodded slowly, her voice soft but firm. “It was real, Matt. And it wasn’t your fault. Speaking it doesn’t bring it back, it loosens its hold on you. Even just a little.”

He dragged his hands over his face, pressing hard into his eyes until colors burst behind his eyelids. For the first time since he was ten, his body wanted to break the silence, but his mind clamped down, fighting it, terrified of what would happen if the words finally came out.

Matt dragged in a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling like he was about to drown. His mind screamed to shut up, to keep it inside, but for the first time in years, he felt… safe. Safer than he had any right to feel. Mrs. Brown didn’t push, didn’t rush, she just waited.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “The first time it happened…” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the desk between them. “…was Thanksgiving. I was ten.”

Mrs. Brown’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“My uncle, he said he wanted to show me something. I thought it was… I don’t know, a toy or a game or something. He told me to follow him.” Matt’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “He brought me to my room. My room. The only place I felt safe. And he… he ruined it.”

The air felt heavier, like the walls themselves were leaning in. Matt’s hands trembled in his lap, twisting his hoodie strings so tight they bit into his skin.

“It didn’t stop there,” he whispered. “Once he knew I wasn’t gonna say anything… once he knew I kept my mouth shut… it just kept happening. More and more.” His voice thinned, breaking into a raw rasp. “Every time, I wanted to tell someone. My mom, my brothers, anyone. But I didn’t. I was a coward. I let him do it because I was too scared to open my mouth.”

His eyes blurred as tears stung, but he blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “If I just said something, even once… it would’ve stopped. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I was such a fucking coward.”

Mrs. Brown’s breath hitched, her hands tightening around the pen she’d been holding. She leaned forward slowly, her voice low but steady. “Matt… none of this was your fault. Not one second of it. Do you hear me?”

But Matt shook his head violently, biting down on his lip until he tasted copper. “I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve—” His words choked off, dissolving into silence.

Matt’s chest heaved, his breath jagged. He stared down at his lap, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped the strings of his hoodie. A single tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it, hot and burning against his skin. He didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were wet, glassy, carrying years of weight he’d never let anyone see.

His voice was almost a whisper, but it trembled with everything he’d been holding back. “I go back in that room every night. Same bed. Same walls. Same door he shut behind him. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It hasn’t for years.” His throat ached as another tear fell.

“I hate myself for not saying something sooner. For letting it keep happening. Every time I stayed quiet, it was like I was helping him.” His voice broke, sharp and small. “Like I was just handing myself over.”

Mrs. Brown’s eyes softened, but she stayed still, careful not to move too close. Her voice was gentle, steady. “You were a child, Matt. You weren’t supposed to stop it. It was never yours to stop.”

Matt’s shoulders hunched, his body folding in on itself. His wet eyes flickered up for just a second, filled with a sad, aching question he couldn’t even voice, before darting away again. He dragged in another unsteady breath, fighting the urge to clamp his mouth shut again, but his body was already betraying him, letting the words out.

Matt pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if he could push the memories back where they belonged. 

“He would shut the door behind us,” Matt muttered, voice faint, like he was talking more to himself than her. “And I remember… I remember thinking I shouldn’t be nervous because he was family. Because family’s supposed to be safe.” His breath hitched. “But he smiled at me like… like I was something else.”

His fingers curled tighter around his hoodie strings. “He sat on my bed, told me to sit next to him. I did, because I didn’t know any better. And then…” Matt’s throat closed, forcing him to swallow before he could go on. “He touched me. Kept saying it was okay, that it was just a game. But it didn’t feel like a game. I knew it wasn’t. I felt sick.”

The words cracked out of him in fragments, halting but unstoppable. “After that, every time there was a holiday, or he came over for dinner… I’d feel his eyes on me. Waiting. And if he caught me alone, even for a second…” Matt shivered, dragging a hand through his hair. His nails scraped his scalp, leaving red streaks. “He’d do it again. My own room, my own bed. He turned it into something I can’t even sleep in without… without remembering.”

Tears slid down his cheeks now, hot and fast. He didn’t bother hiding them. “Sometimes I’d pray that someone would walk in, just once. My mom, Chris, Nick, anybody. But no one ever did. And every time I stayed quiet, every time I let him leave without saying a word, I thought… This is my fault. I’m letting it happen. I’m the reason it keeps going.”

His shoulders shook. “I was ten. I was eleven. Twelve. He kept coming back. And I kept letting him.” His voice broke completely, dissolving into sobs. “I hate myself for it. For not fighting harder. For not screaming. For being so weak.”

Mrs. Brown’s eyes filled, but her voice was steady, calm, like she was anchoring him. “Matt, listen to me. He manipulated you. You were a child, and he knew exactly what he was doing. None of this was because you were weak. None of this was your choice.”

But Matt shook his head furiously, his tears soaking the fabric of his sleeves. “No, you don’t get it. I stayed quiet. I kept the secret. I let him steal everything from me. I don’t even feel like I’m mine anymore.”

Mrs. Brown leaned forward just slightly, her voice low, careful, but unwavering. “Matt… is he still hurting you now?”

Matt froze, the question lodging itself like a stone in his chest. His breath shook as he shook his head. “No. It stopped.” He wiped at his wet face with the back of his hand, ashamed. “When I was twelve. I always thought… I don’t know… I thought it was because I started changing. Getting taller. My voice dropped a little. Hair started growing…  on my body.” His voice faltered, quiet but brutal. “I stopped looking like a child. And that was it. He just… lost interest.”

The words tasted poisonous, but he forced them out, staring at his hands.

Mrs. Brown’s lips pressed together. Her eyes softened, though, steady on him. “Matt, that doesn’t mean you were safe. It means he saw you as someone he couldn’t manipulate the same way anymore. He is a predator.”

Matt’s jaw clenched, another tear escaping despite him trying to blink it back. “But I kept waiting for it to start again. Every family gathering, every holiday. I was sure he’d pull me aside. And every time he didn’t, I felt relief and guilt at the same time. Like I was disgusting for even waiting.”

“Matt,” she said gently, “none of this disgust belongs to you. He made those choices. You were a child. You deserved protection, not silence.”

Matt buried his face in his arms again. “Protection. I haven’t felt safe since I was ten.”

Mrs. Brown hesitated, then spoke again, softer but still steady. “Matt… do you still see him?”

Matt’s head dropped lower, his fingers digging into his knees. He didn’t answer at first, his breath shaky. Finally, he whispered, “Yeah.”

Her brow knit, but she didn’t look shocked, just sad. “When?”

Matt’s voice was thin, almost childlike. “Every big dinner. Holidays. Family things. He’s always there. Laughing. Hugging everyone.” His lip trembled. “And I sit there and pretend I don’t want to claw my skin off. I can’t breathe when he’s near me. Sometimes… I can’t even eat. I just sit there and nod and smile so no one sees anything.”

Mrs. Brown’s throat tightened. “So no one in your family knows?”

Matt shook his head, eyes closed tight. “No. No one knows. No cops. No parents. No brothers. Just me. Just me.” His voice cracked. “And he knows I won’t tell. He knows.”

Her voice was almost a whisper. “Matt… how are you holding this all by yourself?”

Matt stared at the floor, eyes glassy. “I’m not. I’m falling apart. I see him even when he’s not there. I hear his voice when I’m alone. Sometimes I can smell him. Like he’s standing right behind me.” His hands trembled, gripping his thighs. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”

Mrs. Brown’s eyes filled but she kept her voice even. “That’s trauma, Matt. That’s what happens when someone does this to you. But it’s not your fault. And you are not alone anymore. Not while I’m here.”

He let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, burying his face in his arms. “You say that. But you don’t know what it’s like. Ten years old and he’s whispering in your ear. And you can’t tell anyone. You just… stop existing.”

Mrs. Brown hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Matt… I need to ask. If you’d ever want me to help you tell someone… your parents, or the police…”

“No.” The word shot out of him before she could even finish. His head snapped up, eyes glassy but blazing. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t.”

She froze, but didn’t back off completely. “Alright. I’m not trying to force anything. I just… ”

“You don’t get it,” Matt said, his voice cracking and climbing all at once. “If I tell them… if I tell anyone… they’ll never look at me the same. How do you think my mom would look at me? My dad?” His hands were shaking now, gripping the edge of the chair. “How do you look your dad in the eyes after you say something like that?”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, words spilling faster than he could stop them. “And Chris… god, Chris. No. No one can ever know. Ever.”

His breath hitched and he clamped his jaw shut, as if locking the words back inside before they escaped completely. He dragged both hands over his face, trying to smother the sound of his own breathing.

Mrs. Brown stayed very still, watching him with that same soft patience, but her eyes shone now too. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. No one will know. You’re safe here.”

Matt gave a small, miserable nod, but didn’t uncover his face. His body was trembling like he’d just run miles. He had finally spoken, but each one carried a weight he hadn’t expected. The memories had come alive again, vivid and cruel, pressing down on him like he’ll never escape them.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

Chris slouched in his chair, chin propped on his palm, staring at the scrawled mess of numbers on the board like they were written in another language. Mr. Henderson’s voice droned on about formulas and proofs, but none of it landed. He didn’t give a shit about math. His notebook was still blank, pencil rolling toward the edge of his desk.

His mind kept circling back to last night. The way he woke up in Matt’s room. The heat of it, the closeness, it was weird, yeah, but also… familiar. Like when they were kids, falling asleep on the same couch after a movie marathon, limbs all over each other, no one thinking twice. Except now they were seventeen, and it felt heavier.

Chris rubbed at his face, eyes burning. He kept seeing the flashes: the mirror, Matt’s hand wrapped in a bandage, the way he bolted out of church like he was being chased. And then, the laptop. Open, registry glowing on the screen before Matt snapped it shut like it was a weapon.

Chris shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tapping his foot under the desk. He didn’t want to admit how much that image stuck in his head. He told himself it was nothing, Matt’s business, not his. But the knot in his stomach wouldn’t let go.

☁︎

By the time Chris walked through the front door, his head was pounding. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder, kicking his sneakers halfway into the hallway. The smell of garlic and onion hit him immediately, his mom was at the stove, humming low under her breath while a pot simmered.

“How was school?” she asked without looking back, spoon tapping against the pan.

Nick came in behind Chris, all energy and noise, launching right into a rundown of his day, something about a game in gym, how he nearly scored, how Mr. Walker gave him crap for forgetting his homework but then let it slide. His voice bounced off the kitchen walls, filling the house.

Chris mumbled something noncommittal and dropped into a chair, elbows on the table. His mom smiled at Nick’s chatter, asking him questions, encouraging every detail.

Then Matt walked in. Late, dragging, like the air was heavier for him than anyone else. His backpack slipped from his hand and landed against the wall with a dull thud. He slid into the chair opposite Chris but didn’t say a word.

Chris noticed the way his brother’s shoulders slumped, his eyes unfocused, fixed somewhere past the table. Nick was still talking, their mom nodding along, but Matt wasn’t even in the room, he was gone, tucked away in his head. Distant.

Too sad.

Chris studied him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw clenched even when he wasn’t speaking. He’d been like this for a while, but today it felt sharper, like he was slipping further and further out of reach.

Chris swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat.

Their mom turned around, wooden spoon in hand. She gave Matt a small smile. “Long day?”

“Something like that.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

Chris’s chest tightened. He kept his eyes on his brother, noticing the way Matt’s fingers tapped against the table, restless, like he needed to claw his way out of his own skin. His cheekbones looked sharper in the kitchen light.

Chris shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth, not tasting any of it. Nick was still rambling about something stupid and Mom was smiling, but all Chris could see was Matt, pushing food around his plate, chewing once in a while just so no one would say anything, eyes miles away.

The silence pressed on Chris’s ears until he couldn’t take it anymore. He cleared his throat, setting his fork down.

“I’m done,” he said, standing a little too quickly. “Gonna head upstairs. Got stuff to finish.”

His mom blinked up at him, surprised. “Homework already? You usually—”

“Yeah,” Chris cut in, forcing a small smile. “Just… a lot to catch up on.”

Nick shot him a confused look but didn’t say anything. Matt didn’t even glance up.

Chris walked upstairs, every step heavier than the last. He shut his door behind him, leaning against it for a moment before dragging himself to his desk.

He pulled his math book out, flipped it open, and stared at the page until the numbers blurred. He tapped his pencil against the margin, trying to focus, trying to let the formulas drown out everything else. He scribbled something down, erased it, scribbled again. He needed the distraction. But no matter how hard he pressed into the paper, the image of Matt, silent, hollow, fading right there in front of them, burned in his head.

Chris stared at the same page for about fifteen minutes, his pencil hovering uselessly above the notebook. Numbers blurred into lines, then into nothing at all. His chest felt tight, like someone had looped a rope around his ribs and kept pulling. He pressed his palm hard into his sternum, willing it away.

The house was quiet except for the faint sound of the TV in the living room. With a muttered curse, he pushed his chair back and stood. The walls of his room were closing in, the numbers in his notebook crawling. He needed air.

Grabbing his hoodie, Chris slipped out the front door and onto the street. The evening was heavy and cool, the sky bruised with clouds. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked with no direction, his footsteps crunching against loose gravel. He tried to think of anything else but his mind kept circling back. Matt’s face in the dark, the weight of him against his shoulder, the registry glowing on the screen.

It made his stomach twist.

By the time he looped back toward the house, his sneakers were damp and his fingers numb. The lights glowed from the kitchen window. He didn’t even stop, just went straight up the stairs, heart beating fast. He needed to see Matt. He didn’t know why, maybe to talk, maybe to yell, maybe just to make sure he was still there.

Chris’s knuckles tapped against the door. No answer. He waited, jaw tight, then pushed it open anyway.

Matt was there, hunched over his desk, a cigarette dangling half out the open window. Smoke curled up, catching the faint light of the lamp. He didn’t even look up.

Chris stepped inside, shutting the door harder than he meant to. “You’re doing it again.”

Matt’s head tilted just enough to acknowledge him, but he didn’t bother turning. “What do you want, Chris.”

Chris’s breath came fast. His hands shook, but not from fear. From everything knotted up inside him, begging to tear out. “I sit there every day and watch you fall apart and I can’t do a damn thing about it!” His voice cracked. “And you don’t even let me try!”

Matt’s face shifted, anger bleeding into something else. He turned back to the window, crushed the cigarette out with trembling fingers. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t sharp anymore, but broken. “You don’t get it, Chris. You don’t get what it’s like to have this… ” He stopped. His hands curled into fists on the desk. “Just leave it. Please.”

Chris stood frozen, shoulders heaving, tears threatening to spill. His whole chest hurt from holding it in, from screaming it out. He wanted to hate Matt for shutting him down, but all he could see was his brother sitting there shaking, shadows on his face.

Without thinking, he took a step closer.

Chris lunged, shoving Matt just enough to push him off balance. Matt stumbled, eyes wide, and Chris grabbed the laptop from the desk. Matt froze, horror and anger flashing across his face. “Give it back! Now!”

Chris’s hands shook as he opened it, fingers trembling, but he knew the password. Instantly, the screen lit up, Google pulled up, and Chris clicked through the history.

“No!” Matt lunged, trying to snatch it back. “Chris!”

“I’m not letting you hide it anymore!” Chris yelled, standing his ground, holding the laptop open between them.

Matt’s hoodie sleeves were soaked in sweat. His chest heaved. “Chris, please! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

Chris scrolled through the browser history, eyes widening. Sixteen visits to the registry this past month. Especially in the last fifteen days, almost daily. His stomach dropped.

“Matt…” Chris’s voice cracked, disbelief and fear mixing. “What the hell have you been doing?”

Matt’s face twisted. His hands clawed at the air, shaking. “Just put it down!”

Chris’s chest tightened, every instinct screaming at him, but he held the laptop steady. “Tell me everything. Now.”

Matt froze, jaw trembling, and then shook his head violently. “No! I—” His voice cracked.

The laptop glowed between them, a cold, hard mirror of the secret Matt had tried so desperately to bury.

Matt’s hands flew up, panicked, voice shaking. “It’s just… research! I was… I was looking up those stories for a school project ”

Chris’s eyes narrowed, disbelief sharpening every line of his face. “Research? Matt, sixteen visits in a month? Fifteen in the past two weeks? You think I’m stupid?”

“I—okay, fine!” Matt blurted, stepping back, hoodie sleeves twisted around his hands. “I was curious! About… news stories.”

Chris’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“No! I mean… ” Matt’s voice cracked, eyes darting to the laptop as if it might burn him alive. “I just… wanted to… understand, okay? That’s it!”

Chris took a step closer, voice low but trembling. “Matt… if you’re lying… just… just tell me the truth. Please.”

Matt froze, his chest heaving. The excuse hung in the air, flimsy, half-believed even by him. He looked away, desperate, hoping Chris would drop it. “I’m not lying!”

Chris didn’t move, didn’t blink. The silence pressed down, and Matt felt it, the weight of all those days, all those secrets, all those dots on the map.

Matt lunged forward, his hands gripping the edges of the laptop. “Go fuck yourself!” he shouted, jerking it toward himself.

Chris planted his feet, holding firm. “Matt… ”

“Leave!” Matt yelled, voice raw. “Just… leave me alone!” He yanked harder, finally pulling the laptop close to his chest, twisting so Chris couldn’t reach it. His breathing was fast, panicked, and his eyes burned with a mix of fear and fury.

Chris hesitated, watching him, torn between anger and worry. “Matt…” he started again, voice low, almost pleading.

“No!” Matt shouted, backing toward the corner of the room. “I said leave! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch my stuff!”

For a tense moment, neither moved. The laptop was pressed to Matt’s chest like a shield. His body shook, adrenaline coursing through him, and Chris could see the raw panic in his eyes, the desperation to keep his world intact, to stop anyone from seeing too much.

Finally, Chris took a careful step back.

Matt didn’t relax. He hunched over the laptop, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him together, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… leave…”

Chris gave a slow nod and backed toward the door. He paused once, glancing at Matt’s tense, trembling form, then left the room quietly, the weight of the moment lingering behind him.

Chris shut his bedroom door behind him and pressed his back hard against it like he was trying to keep the whole world out. The quiet inside felt suffocating, his own pulse loud in his ears. He blinked fast, but his vision still swam, tears were already building, threatening to spill.

He dragged his hands over his face, fingers trembling. He could still see Matt’s face when he snatched the laptop back, the panic, the anger, the wall between them. Every time Chris tried to get close, it was like he slammed Matt further away. He hated himself for it. He hated that he didn’t know how to stop.

He crossed the room, then crossed it again, pacing like a caged animal. His heart was a hammer in his chest, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides until his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something at the wall, watch it break. But he stayed silent, jaw locked, swallowing it down until his throat ached.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He didn’t know why this was hitting him so hard. He didn’t know why he felt like he couldn’t breathe. All he knew was that somewhere under the mattress was the thing he’d promised himself he would never touch again.

The image of the small tin box flickered into his head, uninvited. He saw it in his mind, the dull metal, the way it felt cold against his fingers. His stomach twisted. No. No. No. He squeezed his eyes shut. It had been a year. A whole year. He’d fought like hell for that year. He was done with that. He was supposed to be over it.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His breathing went ragged. He could feel himself being pulled back into the gravity of it, like an old habit calling his name. His body moved on autopilot. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, fingers curling around the edge of the mattress.

“Stop… Just stop” he muttered to himself, but his hands didn’t listen. He pulled the mattress up just enough to slide his fingers underneath, feeling for the corner of the box. The metal was icy when he finally touched it. He froze, clutching it in his palm like it was something dangerous and sacred at the same time.

His chest rose and fell in uneven jerks. He sat back on the bed, staring at the tin. It sat there in his shaking hands like a confession, like a ghost.

“Not again,” he whispered, barely a sound. But the weight of it was already dragging him under.

Chris’s fingers hesitated on the lid. It was just a box, but it felt heavier than anything he’d ever lifted. His hands shook as he flipped the latch. The click sounded too loud in the quiet room, like a door slamming shut somewhere in his head.

He opened it slowly. Inside, everything was where he’d left it, neat, organized, like he’d been waiting for this moment even when he swore he wouldn’t.

Two small blades glinted under the dim light, scavenged years ago from old pencil sharpeners. They sat side by side like they were waiting for him. Next to them was a travel-sized bottle of antiseptic, its label peeling, and a small roll of bandages he’d stolen from the bathroom cabinet. All of it fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, like a ritual in miniature.

Chris stared at it, his chest heaving. His throat ached from holding everything in. This wasn’t supposed to still exist. He wasn’t supposed to still be this person. Yet here it was, this ugly little altar to a part of himself he thought he’d buried.

His thumb brushed one of the blades. Cold. Familiar. His stomach twisted violently, a wave of nausea and shame rising in him. The longer he looked, the louder his thoughts got. Matt’s face, Matt’s voice, all the secrets in this house, the tension in every room. It built and built until he thought he might explode.

“God,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers curled around the edge of the box. He wanted to slam it shut, throw it out, hurl it across the room, anything to make it disappear. But he couldn’t look away. 

His heart was hammering. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. He reached for the button of his jeans, hesitating for a second, then undoing it with a rough, jerky motion. The denim slid down his legs inch by inch, slow and deliberate, until he was sitting there in his boxers. The air of the room felt cold, invasive against his bare thighs. He already hated himself for this, hated that the thought of relief still made his stomach tighten.

He pressed his back to the door and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. The wood dug into his spine. He opened his legs slightly, enough to see the faint white lines on his inner thighs. They ran parallel, some thin, some wider, like old roads leading nowhere. Ghosts of nights he had promised would be the last. He ran his fingers over one.

His hand hovered over the box, shaking. Then, like muscle memory, he picked up one of the blades. It was so small, but it felt heavy, heavier than it ever had. He turned it once between his fingers, then pressed it against his skin.

The sting came instantly, sharp and hot, like fire under his skin. He hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut as a single bead of red welled up and rolled slowly down his thigh. He dragged it a little further, just a little, enough for another line to appear. The blood beaded and pooled, bright against his pale skin. It was too easy to remember the pattern, too easy to fall back into it.

Another line. And another. Not too deep, but enough to sting, enough for the ache to cut through the noise in his head. His breath came in ragged gasps. The blade slipped in his fingers. His vision blurred with tears.

The blood smeared as he wiped at it with his palm, streaking his skin red. It was warm, sticky, and somehow grounding. His stomach churned with shame and relief, the two mixing until he couldn’t tell them apart.

His thighs burned, little pinpricks of pain beneath the wetness. Tears rolled hot down his face, the room was silent except for his uneven breathing and the faint sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

His fingers trembled around the blade, still wet, still glinting. He didn’t even think before he pressed it down again, a little harder this time. A hiss escaped his throat as the metal broke the skin and another bead of blood rose, then slid down, warm and slow, making a thin red trail on his pale thigh.

The sting was instant. The shame, too. He dropped the blade onto the floor with a small clatter, his whole body shaking. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the streaks of blood, at the way they had already smeared from his palm wiping at them. The smell of iron hit his nose and his stomach lurched.

He reached for the antiseptic with a jerky motion, hands slick and unsteady. He tore the packet open with his teeth, pressing the wipe against the cuts. The sting made him gasp, his legs jerking slightly, but he kept going, wiping at the lines until the blood dulled. He wrapped the small roll of bandage around one thigh, then the other, clumsy and too tight at first, redoing it until it was neat.

His eyes burned as he stared at the blades lying on the floor. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. Not after a year. Not after all the promises he made himself. He pressed his forehead to his knees, his bandaged thighs tight against his chest.

“I was done,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was supposed to be done.”

The antiseptic smell filled the room as he sat there, knees to his chest, the box still open beside him like a secret spilled.

Chris dragged himself off the door and onto his hands and knees, the movement sluggish, his breath still ragged. The thin blade lay beside a small, dark pool of blood on the wooden floor, more than he’d meant, always more than he’d meant. He reached for a tissue, then another, pressing them down, watching them turn a dull red as they soaked up what had spilled.

His fingers shook as he wiped at the streaks, smearing them before finally managing to blot them out. The smell of iron clung to the room, to his hands, to his skin. He pressed harder, scrubbing until the wood was only faintly stained, until it looked almost normal again.

Tears slid down his face without warning, hot and quick. He stayed on all fours, shoulders caving in, the tissues shredded under his palms. A low, broken sound escaped him, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, as he wiped the last smear from the floor.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, voice hoarse, his forehead touching the cold wood. “I can’t.”

Chris dropped the bloodied tissues into the trash, his hands trembling so badly that a few slipped from his grip and scattered across the floor. He didn’t even bother picking them up. His chest felt hollow, scraped out, like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

He slid down again, knees hitting the wood with a dull sound, and then slowly curled onto his side. He pulled his legs up to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around them. The sobs came in quiet bursts at first, then heavier, jagged breaths that hurt his ribs. His body shook as he tried to stifle the noise, but it didn’t stop. He lay there on the cold floor, in the dim room, the smell of blood clinging to everything.

He pressed his fists to his temples, nails digging into his scalp, trying to make himself smaller, invisible. All the promises he’d made, the days he’d counted, gone. He was back here again, alone.

Chapter Text

Matt stood in the middle of his room, fingers clenched so tightly around his laptop it almost hurt. The screen had gone black, but he still felt like it was glowing, burning through his palms. His eyes flicked to the door, the echo of Chris’s footsteps fading down the hallway.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Chris’s face, the way he’d looked at him… it replayed over and over.

Matt set the laptop down on the desk with a shaky clatter and went straight for the dresser. His hands moved automatically, yanking open the bottom drawer where he kept his cigarettes. Only one was left. He stared at it, his stomach tightening, a hot thread of panic pulling through his chest.

He grabbed his lighter, flicked it once just to feel the heat, then jammed it into his pocket. No way that would last him through the night. He needed more.

Without thinking, he popped the screen of his window and climbed onto the ledge. The cool air hit his face, carrying the faint smell of damp leaves. For a second he hesitated, looking back at his room, the laptop, the door, everything closing in on him, and then swung his legs over, landing softly on the ground outside.

He lit the last cigarette with shaky fingers, took a drag so deep it burned his lungs, then started walking fast toward the corner store. The night swallowed him as he walked. The air was sharp against his skin, every exhale turning white in front of him. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement, quick and restless, like if he slowed down his head might catch up with him.

The store’s neon light buzzed faintly, it was nearly empty inside. Matt headed straight for the counter like always, rehearsing the same line he’d used a hundred times before in his head.

The clerk wasn’t the usual middle-aged guy. This one was barely older than him, nineteen, maybe twenty. Piercings glinted under the fluorescent lights, and his hair was dyed a dull shade of blue, roots already grown out. He looked Matt over with casual sharpness, eyes catching on his drawn face, the way his shoulders sagged like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Hey, man,” the clerk said, leaning an elbow on the counter. “You going through something?”

Matt blinked, thrown off. He froze halfway of asking for smokes. “…What?”

“You looking to buy?” the guy said, voice lower now, conspiratorial. With a quick glance toward the back of the store, he reached under the counter and came back with his palm closed around something. He lifted his hand just enough for Matt to see: two thin joints, wrapped clean and tight. 

Matt stared at them. For a second he thought he misheard, that he was imagining it. His throat felt tight, his hands clammy in his pockets. Cigarettes were one thing. This was… different.

The clerk tilted his head, studying him. “You look like you need it more than most.”

Matt swallowed hard, his chest aching with a sudden, hungry want he couldn’t quite name.

Matt’s eyes stayed on the joints, and something inside him snapped quiet. No questions. No weighing it out. Just need.

“How much?” he asked, voice flat.

The clerk smirked like he already knew the answer. “Fifteen.”

Matt shoved a crumpled twenty across the counter without blinking. “And a pack of Reds.”

The kid slid the cigarettes over, then the joints, wrapped in a napkin like they were nothing. Matt stuffed them deep into his hoodie pocket, the paper crackling against the cellophane of the Marlboros. His hands shook, but he didn’t care if the guy noticed.

“You didn’t get them from me,” the clerk said, grinning with a kind of lazy charm.

Matt gave a small nod and muttered, “Yeah whatever,” before turning and walking out fast, the bell over the door jangling behind him.

The night air hit him again, but the weight in his pocket was heavier now, hotter. He felt like he could almost breathe for the first time in hours, even if his chest still ached.

Matt didn’t head home. His legs took him a few blocks over, to the old playground that sat half-lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The swings creaked in the wind, chains rattling like they were moving on their own. It was empty, of course it was, it was almost midnight, but somehow that made it worse.

He slid onto the farthest swing, hood pulled low, and pulled the napkin-wrapped joints out of his pocket. His hands were clumsy, shaking as he peeled one free. Up close, it looked cheap, crooked, the paper loosening around the edges. He didn’t care. He needed something.

His lighter flared, the tiny flame bright against the dark. The first inhale burned his throat raw, made his eyes water, made his chest seize. He coughed hard, doubling over, spitting into the dirt.

“Fuck,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He almost tossed it, almost, but then he lifted it again. The second drag still hurt, but less. The third one settled lower, heavier.

The smoke hung around him, sweet and cloying, nothing like cigarettes. His head felt fuzzy too fast, his stomach rolling. He glanced at the slide, the jungle gym, the chipped paint, everything looked wrong, edges too sharp, too far away.

Matt pushed his feet against the dirt, the swing moving just slightly, the world tilting. He hated the taste in his mouth, hated how unfamiliar it was. But for a second, it was quiet in his head.

Matt leaned back on the swing, let the chains bite into his palms, and kicked at the dirt. Slowly at first, then higher, higher, until his hoodie tugged at his chest and his stomach swooped. The night air rushed past his face, cool and sharp, and for one strange second he felt free.

He dragged deep on the joint, smoke filling his lungs, and closed his eyes as the swing reached its peak. For the first time in forever, it almost felt like he wasn’t carrying anything. No uncle. No blood. No screaming matches with Chris. Just air. Just him.

But the freedom never lasted.

By the time the swing slowed, the thoughts slammed back harder than before, distorted, twisted. His uncle’s voice crawled into his ears, clearer than it had been in years. He could smell him, that disgusting cologne, could feel hands that weren’t really there. The chains in his grip felt like restraints, the rush in his chest turning to panic.

The smoke didn’t dull it, it sharpened it. Every memory cut like glass. Every breath dragged him deeper into it. His kills flashed in his head, blood under his nails, the sound of choking, the look in their eyes before they stilled.

He doubled forward, elbows on his knees, the swing swaying under his weight. He pulled another drag anyway, desperate, but it only made the pounding in his skull worse. His vision blurred, black spots swimming at the edges.

“Stop,” he whispered to himself, rocking forward. His voice cracked, desperate. 

But his mind wouldn’t. It shoved every memory at him, every image, until he couldn’t tell which was worse. The times he was the victim, or the times he made someone else one.

Matt’s chest caved in on itself, like something had punched straight through it. The swing squeaked under him, chains rattling with every shaky breath he dragged in. The tears started before he could stop them, hot, stinging, cutting down his cheeks like acid. He scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, but it only made it worse, his skin raw and burning.

The memories were louder now, brighter, closer. He could hear the floorboards of his bedroom when his uncle shut the door, could hear the low voice in his ear. He could feel it, phantom weight pressing down on him, suffocating.

“Stop—stop—fuck—” His words broke apart, strangled by sobs. The joint slipped from his hand and smoldered in the dirt, but he didn’t notice. His mouth filled with tears and heat, and then…blood.  He gasped, choking, and realized he was biting his lip so hard he’d split it open. The taste of blood coated his tongue, warm and disgusting, and for one wild second he thought it was someone else’s.

He spit into the dirt, shaking so hard the chains rattled like thunder. The playground blurred into streaks of light and shadow through his tears. Everything was too sharp, too heavy, like the world itself was trying to crush him.

He pressed both hands to his face, sobbing into his palms, his whole body trembling. His chest ached like it was caving in, ribs straining with every ragged breath.

For a second he thought he might throw up, his stomach clenching violently, but all that came out was a dry, choked sound. His entire body felt poisoned, by smoke, by blood, by memory, by everything he couldn’t get out of himself.

The swing swayed gently under him as if mocking him, like he was still just a kid in a playground, only he wasn’t, and the things inside him weren’t meant for kids. They weren’t meant for anyone.

And he cried harder.

Matt got off the swing, nearly tripping over his own feet. The ground felt tilted, the world spinning too fast around him, like the stars themselves were mocking him. His head pounded with every heartbeat, blood roaring in his ears.

He wiped at his face with shaky hands, but the tears just smeared across his skin, sticky with snot and blood from his split lip. He could barely see straight. His throat burned, raw from choking on his own sobs.

He bent to grab the half-crushed cigarette pack he’d dropped, stuffing it into his pocket with fumbling fingers, the joint forgotten in the dirt. He couldn’t stay here, out in the open, with the shadows of the playground curling like claws around him. He needed a bed, a dark room, somewhere to collapse.

Every step felt wrong, his legs heavy and rubbery at the same time, like he couldn’t quite remember how to walk. The night air bit at his skin, sharp against his overheated body, and he swore the streetlights were too bright, burning into his eyes.

His chest still heaved with uneven sobs, but he forced himself forward, arms wrapped around his stomach like he could hold himself together if he just pressed hard enough. The streets blurred by, houses blending into each other.

He didn’t know how long it took, only that eventually, somehow, his house came into view. Relief slammed through him so hard it almost dropped him to his knees again. He stumbled up the driveway, every nerve in his body screaming for quiet, for rest, for oblivion.

Matt pushed the front door open as quietly as he could, the hinges still groaning faintly like they wanted to betray him. The house was dead silent, the kind of silence that pressed down heavy, where every sound he made felt magnified. The stairs stretched out in front of him, darker than usual, like the shadows were alive, waiting. He grabbed the railing and dragged himself up one step at a time, his body heavy, his brain still spinning.

Matt froze. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow. Some part of him wanted to push Chris’ door open, step in, say something. He didn’t even know what. He thought of Chris’s face earlier, angry, yelling, then breaking apart, and Matt’s throat closed up. He lifted a hand halfway to the knob, then stopped. He couldn’t. Not now.

He let it fall, the sound of his heartbeat suddenly deafening in his ears.

He turned sharply, almost stumbling, and padded down the hall instead. Past the family photos, past the closed door of Nick’s room, until he reached the bathroom. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The mirror over the sink caught him instantly, his reflection pale and wild-eyed, hoodie stained faintly, hair sticking to his damp forehead. He gripped the edges of the sink until his knuckles went white, forcing himself not to look too closely, not to see himself too clearly.

He turned the faucet on, splashed cold water over his face, and leaned hard against the counter.

Matt wiped the water off his face, the cold doing little to shake the fire buzzing through his body. His lungs felt tight, his skin prickling, every nerve screaming, but he moved mechanically, almost without thought.

Back in his room, he dropped his hoodie onto a chair and pulled his bedspread back. He shoved the pack of cigarettes and the untouched joint under his mattress, tucking them away carefully, like hiding evidence, like trying to keep a secret from himself. They were there, waiting, just in case.

He didn’t get into bed. Instead, he lowered himself to the cold wooden floor, the chill biting through his skin and contrasting painfully with the heat coursing through his veins. His back pressed against his door, arms wrapped around his knees, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the buzz in his head and the thumping of his heart.

The high made his body feel alive in a way that was almost unbearable. Every thought was sharper, every memory louder, and his chest felt like it might split open. He could barely breathe, barely think straight, but he couldn’t move. He just sat there, burning from the inside out, the cold floor grounding him just enough to keep from floating completely into the chaos in his mind.

He closed his eyes, trying to block the swirl of visions, the weight of everything, but it pressed in from every side. His fingers flexed against his knees, nails digging into flesh, just to remind himself he was still there.

Matt moved away from the door, now laying on the cold, hard wood, his arms wrapped tight around his body. His face pressed into the wood, the ache in his chest twisting tighter with every shallow breath. The high had dulled the edges of his thoughts but not the weight of everything else. The weight of his uncle, the twisted memories that still clawed at his mind, the smell of blood he couldn’t scrub from his hands or from his soul, the faces of the people he had killed, all flashing in sickening, relentless loops.

Tears slipped silently down his cheeks, burning trails on his skin, and he let them come. He was utterly alone, utterly unfixable in that moment. The silence of his room swallowed him whole. He felt the blood on his hands as if it were still fresh, as if it weren’t just the memory and the lingering guilt. He needed it, the control, the release, the violence, whatever it was, he needed it. And the knowledge that it was wrong, that it would destroy him if he let it, made the grief hit even harder.

He cried for the little boy in the picture from the staircase, for the innocence stolen, for the years spent hiding, for the quiet terror he had lived with and carried alone. He cried for the loneliness, for the fear, for the shame. His body shook as he sobbed, curling tighter, wishing he could disappear, wishing he could erase the past and everything he had done.

He didn’t know that two doors away, Chris, at this exact moment, was doing the same thing. Alone. On the floor. Crying. Breaking. Trying to survive the storm of everything that had been done to him, and everything he had seen.

And Matt, lying there in the dark, couldn’t know that the pain was mirrored, the same, in the person he loved most in the world.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

The sunlight spilling through the blinds was sharp and merciless, cutting through the dim haze of Chris’ room like shards of glass. He blinked awake slowly, his eyes sticky and swollen from hours of crying, the bitter, metallic taste of regret still lodged in the back of his throat. For a moment, half-dreaming, he thought maybe it had just been another nightmare, but the relentless sting in his thighs pulled him back to a harsher reality.

He shifted under the covers with a quiet hiss, every small movement sending fresh waves of pain through his skin. The sheets clung damply to the rawness beneath, a suffocating reminder of what he’d done. His body trembled, but he forced himself to sit up, legs swinging over the bed’s edge. His head felt thick, heavy, like it was stuffed with cotton. His mouth was bone-dry.

The floor beneath was marred with streaks of rusty brown, smeared in a sickening trail leading toward the door. In the dark last night, he’d convinced himself it was clean after wiping over and over, but daylight didn’t lie. The stains clung stubbornly to the wood grain, proof of his pain and isolation.

Chris dragged a shaky hand over his face. It came away damp and trembling. He didn’t know if it was sweat or tears, maybe both. He just sat there, numb, staring at the floor like it held answers he didn’t want to find. His chest felt hollowed out, as if someone had taken a piece of him and left a raw, bleeding cavity behind.

His thighs throbbed with a dull, insistent ache that radiated inward, deeper than surface pain. Through the thin fabric of his boxers, he felt the sting of fresh cuts, jagged red lines, angry and unhealed, burning like fire on his skin. He felt filthy, broken, a fragment of himself lost in a sea of shame and silence.

The thought of showering twisted his stomach. He was terrified of seeing himself,  the scars, the blood, the evidence of his silent suffering. Slowly, trembling, he forced himself to stand, legs unsteady beneath him.

He moved through the hallway like a ghost, the weight of his secret dragging him forward. The bathroom light flickered on, harsh and unkind. The mirror caught him in one brutal glance, pale face, blotchy and raw-eyed. He turned on the tap, shoving his hands under the cold water. For a heartbeat, the stream ran clear, pure. Then pink swirled out from his skin, vivid and cruel, curling and staining the basin below.

His eyes followed it, glassy and empty. The color dragged him backward, to nights too dark to remember fully, memories splintered and broken, a younger version of himself trapped and cornered with nowhere to run.

He blinked hard, desperate to hold the flood at bay.

With trembling fingers, he grabbed the toothbrush and began brushing mechanically. His gaze remained fixed on the mirror but saw nothing, just a ghost reflected back, hollow and distant. His grip ached as he moved the brush clumsily, the sting in his thighs a constant shadow beneath the surface.

He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, the sound sharp and hollow in the silence.

He didn’t want Matt to see him like this. Didn’t want anyone to. The secret was a weight he carried alone, a wound buried beneath layers of silence and shame.

Without looking back, he left the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Chris slipped back into his room. The sunlight had shifted, casting long, cruel shadows across the floor where the bloodstains still lingered like silent witnesses. He dropped to his knees without hesitation. His hands trembled, but he grabbed a damp cloth and pressed it against the floor. The fabric quickly soaked red, and he scrubbed harder, his knuckles whitening with the effort. His thighs throbbed fiercely, every movement sending sharp stabs of pain through the fresh cuts. It was like fire beneath his skin, burning and raw, but he didn’t stop.

The sting grounded him, kept his mind from spiraling too far into the darkness. He had to make it clean. He had to erase the evidence, not just for anyone who might walk in but for himself. Because if the marks stayed, they would speak louder than he ever could.

His breath hitched as the ache radiated up his legs, each scrub dragging out the pain like a cruel reminder. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he swallowed them down, too exhausted to cry again. The silence around him was heavy, pressing like a weight on his chest, but he kept scrubbing.

He lost track of time, the world narrowing to the dull rhythm of cloth against wood and the sharp, relentless burn in his skin. The blood faded slowly, but the stains wouldn’t disappear completely, no matter how hard he tried.

Finally, his hands slipped, slick with sweat and blood, and the cloth fell to the floor. He rested his forehead against the cool wood, the sting in his thighs screaming with every heartbeat. His body trembled, exhausted and broken.

He was clean. The floor was almost clean. But the ache inside him wasn’t going anywhere.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and stood. He pulled on the baggiest pair of jeans he owned, he couldn’t stand anything touching him right now.It hurt too much just to move. With a hollow weight in his chest, he grabbed his bag and crept downstairs, the familiar creak of the steps echoing like a warning.

The smell of bacon hit him as soon as he reached the bottom. Warm, greasy, normal—everything in the room screamed routine, and yet it felt alien. His mom stood in front of the stove, flipping slices with practiced ease. Nick leaned on the counter, the clink of his spoon against the mug of coffee filling the small gaps of silence. Their dad sat at the table, thumb scrolling absently over his phone, completely unaware. Where was Matt?

Chris forced himself to act normal, though every step, every movement in those loose jeans sent a sting through his legs. He slid into a chair, keeping his voice low, his smile tight when Nick glanced at him. He opened his mouth to ask about Matt, to break the thick, uneasy silence, but the words stuck in his throat.

Then, at the bottom of the stairs, Matt appeared. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy and raw. His posture was slumped and weary. Chris looked down immediately, unwilling to meet him. Since the fight, since the laptop, since the screaming, they hadn’t spoken.

He picked up a piece of toast, took a bite, and forced it down even as his stomach churned. Every chew felt like swallowing knives.

“Morning, Matt! Did you sleep well, honey?” Mary Lou’s cheerful voice cut sharply through the fog of Chris’s thoughts.

Matt froze. His movements were jagged, hesitant. A quick nod, a low murmur under his breath, and he lowered himself into the chair across from Chris. Chris turned away again, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve under the table, trying to shrink into himself. That’s when he noticed Matt’s hands. They trembled slightly, fingers twitching, as if holding a storm at bay.

Chris’s eyes narrowed, refusing to look away this time. He lifted his gaze slowly, meeting Matt’s. For a tense second, it was just them, the quiet ticking of the kitchen, the sizzle of the bacon. Matt’s lips pressed together tightly, hiding his shaking hands under the table, but Chris could see the tension in the way his shoulders hunched.

Something unspoken lingered between them, heavy and fragile, like a glass about to shatter.

The walk to the bus stop was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed on Chris’s chest, making each breath feel borrowed. He trailed a few steps behind Matt, keeping his eyes low. Every time he glanced up, Matt’s hunched shoulders and downcast gaze made him want to curl up and disappear himself.

When the bus rolled up, Matt stepped aboard first. Chris hung back, hesitant, and slid onto a seat a few rows behind, pretending not to notice how tense Matt’s body was, how his fingers twitched on the strap of his backpack.

Nick appeared next, sliding into the seat beside Matt with the easy familiarity Chris couldn’t summon. Chris leaned back, trying to make himself small, a shadow in the corner, but his own pulse thudded in his ears, a frantic reminder of last night’s spiral.

The bus jolted forward, tires squealing against the asphalt. Chris pressed his palms to his knees, nails digging into the denim. Every stoplight, every curve of the road made him tense, every small sound pushing his nerves closer to snapping. He forced his eyes forward, scanning the passing streets, trying not to see the shadows that weren’t there, to block out the memories that pressed unbidden into his mind. Matt glanced at him then, briefly, eyes shadowed and cautious. Chris caught it, the faint flicker of worry.

He turned his gaze back to the window. The bus rolled on, the world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow. Chris felt every heartbeat, every pulse in his thighs, every memory of last night pressing against the fragile shell he was holding together.

Matt shifted, small and careful, leaning slightly away from Nick, but never completely. The bus slowed at the next stop. Students filtered in, laughter and chatter filling the space, but Chris felt apart from it all. 

The bus groaned as it pulled into the school parking lot, brakes squealing against the asphalt. Chris’s stomach twisted, a dull nausea creeping up as rows of kids spilled out into the cold morning air. Matt stood, clutching his bag like a lifeline. Nick rose next to him, murmuring something low, and together they slipped down the aisle. Chris followed at a distance, his legs heavy, each step sparking pain in his thighs.

Outside, the crowd splintered in different directions. Matt and Nick veered off toward their classes, Matt’s shoulders still hunched, Nick talking softly beside him. Chris stood still for a heartbeat, watching them disappear into the flow of students. Then he turned away, his own path pulling him toward his first period.

Maths. God, he hated it.

The classroom smelled like pencil shavings, the buzz of the fluorescent lights drilling into his skull. He slid into his seat at the back, the chair creaking under him. The pain in his thighs flared when he shifted, but he forced himself to ignore it, pressing his palms flat on the desk.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just floated on the surface of restless dreams, memories and urges clawing at him. His eyelids felt heavy, gritty, and before he knew it, his head had dipped forward, his breathing slow and shallow.

A sharp voice cut through the fog.

“Chris. Chris! Wake up!”

He blinked, disoriented. The room tilted. His teacher loomed over him, arms crossed, eyes blazing. “This is unacceptable. Get up, now.”

Something in him cracked. All the shame, all the rage, all the exhaustion he’d been swallowing since last night boiled over.

“Stop yelling at me!” he snapped, his voice harsh, louder than he intended. Heads turned. A few kids snickered nervously.

“Excuse me?” The teacher’s tone sharpened.

“I said stop yelling at me!” His hands curled into fists on the desk. His face burned. “I’m not doing anything wrong—just leave me alone!”

“Christopher, sit down right now—”

“No!” His chair screeched as he shoved it back. “I’m done!”

He stormed out, the door banging against the frame behind him. The teacher’s voice followed, sharp and clipped, but he didn’t listen. His heart was a hammer in his chest. His legs carried him blindly down the hall until he shoved himself into the boys’ bathroom.

He ducked into the farthest stall, slammed the lock shut, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. His whole body trembled. The noise of the hallway outside faded to a dull roar.

Chris buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe quietly, but the sobs came anyway, shallow, ragged, silent as he could make them. His chest hurt. His thighs burned. His mind screamed.

No. Not again.

The urge rose like a tide, sick and familiar. His stomach turned. He gripped his own arms, nails digging into the skin. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it again. Not after last night. Not after a year clean.

“No, no, no, no,” he whispered under his breath, rocking slightly. He pinched the inside of his forearm, hard, over and over, trying to override the craving with another pain, a lesser pain, anything to drown it out. But it wasn’t enough. The urge clawed at him, demanding.

“No, no, no, no,” he chanted again, desperate, his breaths quick and shallow. His skin stung where he pinched, but it didn’t work. It wasn’t working.

He pressed his forehead against his knees, shaking, trapped inside himself, fighting not to lose control again.

He pinched his forearm hard, again and again, hoping the sting would be enough, hoping it would drown out the craving. But it didn’t. His thighs throbbed, every nerve raw and screaming, the sting crawling up his skin like a warning.

His hand trembled as it drifted downward. Maybe if he pinched there instead, maybe it would work. He pressed his fingers to the inside of his thighs, the fresh scars from last night still angry and red. He pinched himself again, harder this time.

Instantly, a thin line of red welled up. 

“Oh God… no, no, no…” he whispered, panic rising fast, burning his throat. He snatched paper from the paper roll on the wall, pressing it against the cut, his hands shaking so badly the blood smeared across his fingers.

His thoughts tumbled out in a silent rush. Oh God no, no, no.

He pressed harder, gripping the paper like a lifeline. The bleeding soon slowed, a thin trickle now instead of a rush, but his panic wouldn’t let up. His breathing stayed ragged, the sound harsh in the quiet bathroom.

Tears streamed down his face now, hot and fast, dripping onto his hands. He didn’t bother wiping them away. He was clean. He had been clean for a year. A whole year. He had sworn to himself, promised he’d never be here again, not like this, not in a bathroom stall hiding blood. And yet, here he was.

“I can’t do this again,” he whispered to the tiled wall, voice cracking. “I can’t…”

He stayed pressed back against the cold stall wall, knees drawn up, tissue still held against his thigh. The blood was slowing, but the shame stayed heavy, pressing against his chest until it was hard to breathe. He rocked slightly, the movement small, trying to ground himself, to just sit, to survive the moment without spiraling further.

He closed his eyes, counting his breaths, tears still leaking down his cheeks. The promise he’d made felt broken, fragile as glass in his shaking hands. But it was all he had.

His mind, already splintering under the weight of panic, dragged him backward without warning. Two years ago. Fifteen. Bathroom stalls just like this one. His hands bloody, trembling. His face raw and salty from crying. The same tile under his shoes, the same echo of distant footsteps, the same hollow ache inside him.

Back then, he’d sit, trying to clean himself, his fingers shaking. He’d whisper to himself then too, little broken promises, empty prayers. I’ll stop. I’ll be better. This is the last time. Always the last time.

And now here he was again, almost exactly the same, the smell of disinfectant and damp tile filling his nose, blood on his skin, tears on his face. All the work he’d done, all the careful steps away from this, felt like it had collapsed in one night.

He pressed the tissue harder into his thigh, trying to keep the blood from soaking through to his jeans, but the memories made it feel even worse. The weight of fifteen-year-old Chris sat heavy on his shoulders, a ghost of himself staring back from the mirror he refused to look at.

He curled tighter in the stall, rocking slightly, the same way he had back then. His tears fell harder now, silent but relentless. The bathroom seemed to shrink around him, like it had when he was younger, the walls closing in until there was only him, his shame, and the sound of his own uneven breathing.

The sound of the door creaking open made him stiffen, every muscle taut. Footsteps echoed against the tile, lighter than he expected, stopping at the stall next to his.

A soft, quiet click of a lock. He stayed frozen, heart hammering, eyes fixed on the floor. Then a faint, unmistakable smell drifted through the air. Cigarettes. His stomach twisted, and a strange, aching part of him wanted it to be who he thought it was. Matt. Of course, it probably wasn’t, but the hope clawed at him anyway, a fragile, desperate comfort.

He swallowed hard, trying not to breathe too deeply, but the scent wrapped around him anyway, faint and acrid. His mind raced, remembering when he caught Matt smoking for the first time. And then again and again. He hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t understand why Matt did it but he would never just rat him out.

The smoke lingered, curling in the air like tendrils reaching toward him. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk it. His thighs throbbed, the tissue still clutched against his skin, blood soaking faintly through. He closed his eyes, letting the scent wrap around him like a warm, impossible hug.

The bleeding finally slowed, a dark smear of red against the crumpled tissue in Chris’s shaking hands. He let out a shaky breath and peeled the tissue away, staring at the angry red line beneath. It had stopped for now, but he didn’t trust it. With trembling fingers, he tore off more paper, wrapping it tight around his thigh like a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it felt like control, some small, fragile bit of control in the mess of everything.

He stayed sitting on the cold tile, jeans still open, staring at the random graffiti on the stall door as if it might answer for him. Then he thought of Matt. The smell of smoke still clung to the air, curling like a memory, and something inside him ached. His throat felt dry, but before he could stop himself, the word slipped out, barely more than a whisper.

“…Matt?”

The air went heavy, pressing down on him. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. His heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else out. Then, softly, like an echo.

“…Chris?”

Chris’s stomach flipped. Something like panic and relief mixed all at once. He swallowed hard, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He fumbled for more toilet paper, wiping the blood from his hands, making sure no trace of what had just happened clung to his skin. He yanked his jeans closed, buttoning them with stiff fingers, the makeshift bandage beneath pressing against his thigh.

He forced himself to stand, his knees weak, heart hammering. He opened the stall slowly, his eyes darting to the mirror on the opposite wall, checking for any sign of what had just happened. Nothing. No blood. No tears. Just pale skin and tired eyes.

When he stepped out, the smell of smoke hit him fully, sharp and real. Matt stood outside his own stall, a cigarette between two fingers, his face unreadable. For a second, neither of them moved, just staring at each other in the fog of smoke and everything unspoken between them.

Chris’ knees gave out the second he saw him. All the tension, the panic, the shame, the craving, it spilled over in one uncontrollable wave. He didn’t think, he just moved, staggering forward, and wrapped himself around Matt.

Matt froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, chest stiff. Then, as Chris’ sobs rattled through him, the tension broke. He wrapped his arms around Chris, holding him tight, as if he could shield both of them from the world.

Chris buried his face in Matt’s shoulder, hot tears soaking through the hoodie, shaking violently. “I… I couldn’t…” His voice choked off into ragged sobs, words swallowed by grief.

Matt pressed his cheek against the top of Chris’ head. His own tears started to fall, warm and unrelenting, dampening Chris’ hair. He rocked them gently, back and forth, letting the sobs pulse between them, holding tight even as his chest heaved with the weight of his own pain.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. The smell of smoke from earlier lingered faintly in the air, but it didn’t matter. The hug was everything, they needed each other, just like this, trembling and broken, and finally, somehow, together.

Chris’ sobs slowed slightly, turning into quiet, shaky breaths. Matt didn’t let go. His grip stayed firm, steady, a fragile anchor against the storm. Both of them were crying, both of them were hurting, but at least they weren’t alone.

Chris’ sobs didn’t stop, but his voice trembled out between them, small and broken. “I… I’m sorry… I’m sorry about the laptop… I’m sorry” His hands fisted into Matt’s hoodie, clutching like he could hold the words back before they fell apart completely.

He swallowed hard, tears still streaming, voice barely above a whisper. Matt stiffened for a second, just a flicker, then held him tighter. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Chris’ apology hung between them, fragile and raw. Matt’s steady presence, the warmth of his arms, made it almost bearable. Almost.

Chris pressed his forehead against Matt’s shoulder, letting out a shaky breath. He wanted to tell him everything, to confess the relapse, to say the words that had been clawing at his throat, but the shame pressed too heavy. He couldn’t speak them yet. Not now.

Instead, he just sobbed quietly, holding on, hoping Matt could feel everything he couldn’t say.

Matt pulled back just enough to look at Chris, his eyes red-rimmed, wet and trembling. He swallowed hard, trying to force the words out.

“I… I’m sorry,” he started, voice shaking, barely above a whisper. “About yelling last night… about—” His lips pressed together tightly. The words caught, lodged somewhere deep in his throat.

He shook his head, tears spilling over again. “I… I can’t…” His voice cracked, broken. The apology, the confession, the truth he wanted to give Chris, all faltered before it could leave him.

Chris stayed still, letting Matt lean into him again. Matt’s shoulders racked with quiet sobs, shaking against Chris’ chest. He buried his face in Chris’ shoulder, the apology dissolving into more tears, more trembling.

“I… I just…” Matt’s voice was muffled, raw, desperate, but the words never came. He let himself cry, letting the weight of everything, fall entirely into Chris’ arms.

Chris tightened his own grip, rocking them slowly, silently, letting Matt release everything he couldn’t say. The bathroom was heavy with unspoken words and sobs, but for a moment, that was enough.

Chris pressed his forehead against Matt’s shoulder again, whispering, “I’m… so sorry.”

Matt didn’t reply. He just held him tighter, allowing himself to let the tears fall.

Chapter Text

Matt’s arms stayed wrapped tight around Chris, neither of them moving. The sobs had slowed, but the silence that followed was fragile, trembling. Chris’s face was buried in his shoulder, his fingers fisted in the back of Matt’s hoodie like if he let go, the world would split open. Matt didn’t say anything, he just held him, his own tears falling quietly, hot against Chris’s hair.

Then, the door creaked open.

Matt’s heart stuttered. He and Chris pushed apart instantly, breathless and red-eyed. They didn’t speak, just stumbled to different sinks, hands trembling under the rush of cold water. The air between them still hummed with everything that had just happened.

The kid who walked in, some random student Matt didn’t recognize, caught their reflections in the mirror. His eyes lingered a second too long, curious, confused.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Matt snapped, his voice rough, more tired than angry.

The guy flinched and looked away fast, pretending to wash his hands. The sound of running water filled the silence, masking everything else.

Chris didn’t look at Matt again. He grabbed a paper towel, wiped his face quickly, and left the bathroom without a word. His steps were uneven, stiff, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

Matt stayed behind for a moment, staring at the sink, water pooling beneath his shaking hands. The other guy left, muttering something under his breath, but Matt barely heard. When the door finally clicked shut again, he exhaled, chest tight.

He splashed his face one more time, forcing the redness from his eyes. His reflection looked like a ghost, pale, hollow, cracked. He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out.

By the time he made it to English, the bell had already rung. The room was quiet except for Mrs. Brown’s voice, steady and sharp as she paced at the front. Matt hesitated at the door, dripping guilt and exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low as he slipped inside.

Mrs. Brown gave him a look but didn’t say anything. He made his way to the back, the floor creaking beneath his shoes. The whispers of his classmates barely registered.

He dropped into his seat, rubbed his hands over his face, and stared blankly at the page in front of him. The words blurred. His throat burned.

All he could think about was Chris, the way he shook, the way his voice broke, the way he’d said I couldn’t.

And the way Matt hadn’t asked what he meant.

The bell finally rang, slicing through the thick, dragging quiet of the room. Chairs scraped back, voices rose, the shuffle of papers filled the air. Matt blinked, realizing he hadn’t written a single word the entire period. His notebook was still open to a blank page, the pen lying useless across it.

He shoved it into his bag, slow and mechanical, his thoughts still stuck somewhere else.

“Matt?”

Mrs. Brown’s voice cut through the noise just as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Her tone was calm, but he heard the weight behind it. The kind of softness that meant concern. The kind of concern he didn’t have the strength to deal with.

“Can you stay for a minute?” she asked.

His stomach twisted. He didn’t need to ask what for. He knew.

He kept his eyes on the floor, nodded vaguely, then, without another word, walked straight out the door.

He heard her call his name once more, quieter this time, almost pleading. But he didn’t stop.

The hallway swallowed him whole, the noise, the light, the rush of bodies, all of it blurring together as he kept walking, faster, like if he slowed down, she might catch him and force him to say the things he wasn’t ready to.

He just kept going.

☁︎

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made every sound feel deafening. Matt sat at the far end of the table, head down, pushing cold peas across his plate. His appetite had been gone for days, but he pretended anyway. Pretending was easier than his mother’s questions.

Across from him, Nick mumbled something about a math test. Chris said nothing. He hadn’t said much since the bathroom, since that moment they both pretended never happened. Matt could still feel it though, the weight of Chris’s arms around him, the sound of his breathing breaking against his shoulder. It haunted him every time he blinked.

“Matt,” Mary Lou said suddenly, her tone careful, like she was stepping onto thin ice. “You’ve been awfully quiet this week.”

He didn’t look up. “Just tired.”

She set her fork down, the clink too sharp. “Is this about church?”

Chris’s head jerked up. The air froze.

Matt’s stomach twisted. “No.”

Mary Lou sighed softly. “Sweetheart, you scared us that day. Running out like that—”

“I said it’s not about church.” His voice came out harsher than he meant, rough and defensive.

His father looked up now, silent but watching. Nick glanced between them, chewing slow, anxious.

Mary Lou hesitated, then tried again, gentler. “You’ve barely eaten since then. You look pale. If something’s wrong… ”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He stabbed a piece of chicken, forcing himself to eat it even though it tasted like paper. “I’m fine.”

Chris let out a quiet breath that sounded a lot like disbelief.

Matt’s jaw tightened. “Got something to say?”

Chris didn’t look at him. “Nope.”

But his tone said otherwise, and Matt’s whole body tensed.

Mary Lou’s voice came again, a little sharper now, breaking the fragile quiet. “You two don’t start.”

Matt dropped his fork. “I’m not starting anything.”

Mary Lou pressed her napkin into her lap, her eyes tired. “You just don’t seem like yourself, Matthew. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but what happened in that church—”

“Can we not?” Matt muttered. “Please?”

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded, looking down at her plate. “Fine.”

Silence again. The kind that buzzed in his ears, heavy and choking. He felt every pair of eyes on him, even when no one was looking. He could still smell the incense, still hear the organ when he closed his eyes.

He pushed his chair back suddenly, the legs scraping loud against the tile. “I’m done.”

Mary Lou looked up. “You barely ate.”

“I said I’m done.”

He stood up, plate untouched, and walked down the hall before anyone could stop him.

In his room, the door clicked shut behind him. His chest ached, not from anger this time, just exhaustion. He leaned his forehead against the wood, breathing slow, the sounds of forks and quiet voices muffled through the wall.

He wanted everything to stop echoing.

So he did what he always did when it got too loud in his head. He sat down. Turned on his laptop. The screen flared to life, pale light washing over his face. The registry page loaded automatically. Rows of names, faces, addresses. His pulse started picking up. There was a new dot.

One new dot.

The others, the ones he’d already “handled”, were gone. Like they’d never existed.

His chest tightened. He zoomed in. Clicked. The man’s name appeared, his photo, his crimes, his address. Just a few streets away. He could already feel it. The walk. The knife. The sound.

His stomach twisted.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no, I can’t. I can’t do this again.”

He stood so fast the chair rolled back, his breath breaking up into short, sharp bursts. His hands shook. He slammed the laptop shut. The sound echoed in the quiet room. He pressed his palms to his face, pacing, his heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

He needed it. God, he needed it.

Nothing compared to that rush. That feeling when everything made sense for one second. When he wasn’t drowning. When it was quiet.

He stopped pacing. His fingers twitched. His breathing steadied, just a little. Then, slowly, he sat back down.

He opened the laptop again. 

He clicked the pin like he always did, like pulling a thread he couldn’t stop once it started. 

Name: Leo Mercer.
Age: 33
Convicted: rape of an underage girl.

Leo Mercer. The name sat there in black type like a verdict.

“No,” he told himself, soft and hollow. “No, you can’t. You have to stop.” His voice sounded like someone else’s.

But the words didn’t land. They slid off the shape of what he wanted and fell flat on the carpet.

Leo Mercer deserved it, his brain supplied, fast and rational, sliding into place like a trained muscle. He hurt people. He ruined things that couldn’t be fixed. Matt watched the logic assemble itself, detail by detail, until it didn’t feel like murder anymore. It felt… necessary. Protective. Like cleaning a wound so it wouldn’t fester.

He was not the same as them. He wasn’t a monster, they were. He was the person who acted. He was the person who made the world less rotten. He said it until the words tasted like permission.

His hands trembled. Sweat slicked his palms. The laptop’s light painted the room blue, and in that light the map looked like a constellation of wounds, and each pin was a promise. The ones he’d erased were gone, clean holes where a life had been ended and nothing left to point at him. That fact calmed him and terrified him all at once.

“I can stop,” he lied to himself, whispering it into the empty room. “I can stop. I have to stop.”

He slammed the laptop shut in a move that was too loud, a punctuation that did nothing to quiet the noise in his head. The sound echoed and then cut off, useless. He clapped his hands over his face and paced until his calves burned, over and over, the mantra fraying into ragged pieces.

Need. Need. Need. The word beat to the rhythm of his pulse. Not hunger for food. Hunger for the quiet that came after. The release that ripped the knot in his chest open and let something else breathe for a moment.

He told himself it would be different this time. He told himself he wouldn’t let it touch the people he loved. He told himself a thousand clever lies and watched them parade across his mind like soldiers.

When he sat back down, the laptop opened like a mouth, obedient. The profile of Leo Mercer waited, patient and obscene, the typeface smug and simple.

He hovered there, fingers trembling over the trackpad, half wanting to close it forever and half aching to map the path he could take. The craving didn’t soften, it coiled, waiting.

He didn’t move. He watched Leo’s face, the small printed facts, and let the rationalizations come. He told himself he was protecting, that he was doing something righteous. He told himself whatever he needed.

And the want burned under it all, steady and terrible, as the screen’s light breathed across his face.

He shoved back from the chair and stood. His fingers were clumsy on his jeans, yanking them off, tossing them somewhere across the room. Pajama pants. T‑shirt. Not the hoodie he wore out. Not the jeans he’d kill in. Just clothes you sleep in. Just a normal night.

He told himself each step like a mantra. He’s not going out. He’s not doing this. He’s going to sleep. He’s going to school tomorrow. He’s going to have breakfast. He’s going to live his life. This is going to stop. It’s over.

He went to the bathroom, flicked on the harsh light. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. The mint burned his tongue. He stared at himself in the mirror while he brushed, jaw tight, eyes too dark. “Not gonna do it,” he said again, quieter this time, like if he said it enough it would stick. 

When he turned out the light, the hall was dim and soft. Nick appeared at the other end, hair falling in his face. Matt’s heart jumped. “Goodnight,” he muttered, too fast, not stopping long enough to see if Nick answered.

He went back into his room like retreating into a bunker, shut the door, locked it. The air felt thick. He turned off every light until the room was just shadows and the hum of his pulse.

He lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling, hands fisted tight against his ribs. He wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to sneak out. He wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He kept repeating it in his head like a prayer, the words echoing against the dark, until they lost all shape and became just noise.

Minutes bled into hours. Matt lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling that wasn’t even a ceiling anymore, just a black void pressing down on him. He hadn’t moved. The whole house was silent.

Everybody was asleep.

He was alone.

He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, knees curling, then stretching out. He changed angles, changed positions, trying to trick his body into rest. His brain wouldn’t shut up. The words “I’m not gonna do it” beat like a drum against his skull. He wasn’t going out. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

But then his uncle’s voice slid in through the cracks.

The smell. The heavy, sour cologne. The weight of his hand. That low whisper. This is our secret. You can’t tell anyone. You’re alone. You’re worthless. You’re hopeless. You are mine.

Matt’s chest went tight, like someone had dropped a cinder block on it. His breath caught. The room tilted, closing in. The air was thick and wet. He could feel that hand on him again, that voice curling around his ears.

He shot out of bed, gasping, his palm on his chest like he could push his lungs open. His vision sparked at the edges. His knees nearly gave out. This was happening. This was happening again.

The room swam around him, dark and still, but the echo of that voice filled every inch of it, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck,” again, softer this time, like the word itself might steady him.

He moved before he could think, crossing the room to where his jeans lay in a heap. The denim was cold against his legs as he yanked them on. He dragged a random hoodie from the floor, didn’t even look at which one it was, and shoved it over his head. The smell of his own sweat and detergent clung to it. He slid his feet into his Converse, the laces frayed, his fingers clumsy as he tied them.

He didn’t glance at the bathroom door. Couldn’t. He couldn’t risk seeing himself in the mirror, couldn’t bear the eyes staring back. Instead he moved quietly, each footstep careful on the carpet.

The house was dark, breathing slow. Everyone asleep. Everyone dreaming. Everyone except him.

He crept down the stairs, skipping the step that creaked, sliding a palm down the banister to steady himself. The living room passed like a shadow. The kitchen a blur. He slipped out the side door without a sound, the click of the latch too loud in his ears.

Outside, the air bit at his skin. It had to be two, maybe three a.m. The world was still, the kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. The streetlights buzzed faintly. Houses lined up like sleeping bodies, curtains shut, eyes closed.

Everyone could close their eyes. Except him.

He wrapped his arms around himself, hoodie thin against the cold, and started walking. His feet found the sidewalk on autopilot. He knew the route, four streets, maybe three blocks. Not too far, not too close. Enough time for the walking to settle into a rhythm, for the part of him that still hesitated to go numb.

He pulled the hood tighter, head down, and kept moving toward Leo Mercer’s house.

Matt’s feet shuffled over the cracked sidewalk. The hoodie dragged against his palms as he hugged himself, the chill biting him through the fabric. Dark houses leaned in from either side, windows shut tight, blinds drawn. The bathroom flashed first. Chris’s warmth against him. And then the church. The pews. The hymn. The smell of candles and incense curling in his nose like smoke in a trap. That weight pressing down on him. The echo of a voice he didn’t want to hear, but couldn’t escape. He saw it anyway. Everywhere. In the ceiling, in the columns, in the light slicing through stained glass. His uncle’s laugh. The whisper. This is ours. You’re mine.

His chest tightened. He tugged the hoodie higher, breathing short. The streets were empty. Quiet. Safe. For now. But the images pressed in, sharp and biting. The smell. The touch. The shame. And then Chris, Nick, his mom and dad, the family that didn’t deserve this. The family he couldn’t ruin. Not again.

But Leo Mercer, he deserved it. Every rotten piece of him. Every lie. Every crime. The world would be cleaner after this. He told himself. He had to. He was doing it for them, for himself. For all the people who would never know what he saved them from. Right? Right.

He passed a corner where the streetlights flickered. His shadow jumped in front of him, jerking, shaking. He could hear Mrs. Brown’s voice now, soft but sharp in memory. Matt’s legs ached. He kicked a pebble, watching it skid across the wet cement. Leo’s house would be there soon. He could feel the pulse in his fingers, the surge behind his ribs. The craving. The release. Just a block more, just a corner.

And still, the thought clawed in. His uncle. That smell. That whisper. That hand. The betrayal and the control. He gagged on it, tightened his jaw, wanted to scream and throw up all at once. But he couldn’t stop. Not yet.

Better him than them. Better him than Chris. Better him than Nick. Better him. He repeated it under his breath, almost a prayer, almost a warning to himself.

The blocks stretched longer than they should have. Shadows of trees scraped against the sidewalk. He shivered. Hands shaking. But the streetlights guided him. The maps in his mind, every step closer, closer, closer.

Leo Mercer’s house was just ahead. Fences tall, porch light dim, a sleeping world inside. But Matt could feel him. Could hear the blood behind his own ribs, the fire in his fists. And the craving, hotter now, rising, impossible to stop, calling, whispering, pulling him forward.

The fence loomed up, tall and black in the yellow streetlight. Matt froze for a second, heartbeat hammering, chest tight, legs jittering like he’d already run a mile he hadn’t. Gate was locked. Of course it was locked. He swung a leg up, grabbed the top, slipping, he almost fell. His palms scraped the metal, hoodie sleeve riding up, skin stinging. Fuck. He bit back a groan. One more push. One more. And he was over, stumbling on the other side, catching himself against the grass, knees weak.

The yard stretched out, dark except for the dim porch light. The house stood quiet, silent, a perfect target. Perfect. He paused for a second, taking it in, chest heaving, sweat prickling at his spine. The front door. Locked. Fuck.

He circled the house, heart rattling in his ears, legs tense, mind racing. Back door. No glass to break in from. Shit. Shit. Shit. Think. Think. Think.

There. The living room. A window slightly ajar, barely noticeable if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Bingo.

Matt crouched low, breathing fast, the craving knotting tight behind his ribs. Fingers trembling, hoodie sticking to his palms, he eased the window open, tested the frame. It gave. Quiet.

Matt slipped through the window, landing soft on the carpet. The house was too quiet. His sneakers barely made a sound as he crept through the living room. The couch was there, a blanket tossed over it. A lamp in the corner, unplugged. Everything normal, everything human. His pulse thudded in his ears anyway, drowning it all out.

Kitchen. He needed the kitchen. He needed to feel it in his hand.

He moved like he’d done it before. Like muscle memory. Past the dining table, past the fridge humming low, into the drawers. He pulled one open, forks, spoons, clatter too loud in the silence. Another. Another. His hands shook.

There.

He wrapped his fingers around the biggest knife he could find, steel glinting faint in the dark. Heavy. Cold. The handle fit into his palm like it had been waiting.

Matt’s chest tightened. His thoughts blurred, images flickering behind his eyes. Mrs. Brown’s hand on his shoulder once, the kind squeeze that had felt like pity.

He closed his eyes, just for a second, pressing the blade to his palm, feeling its weight. He told himself he wasn’t thinking. He told himself this wasn’t a choice anymore.

This was what he did. This was who he was.

He opened his eyes, the kitchen swimming in shadows. 

The knife felt heavier now. Or maybe his hands were just shaking harder. Matt’s breath came in shallow bursts as he turned from the counter, blade glinting faintly in the kitchen light. The house wasn’t silent anymore; it was alive. He could hear it, the low hum of the fridge, the faint creak of wood as it settled, the sound of his own pulse hammering against his skull.

He stepped forward, slow. The linoleum under his shoes felt slick, even though it wasn’t. Each step was louder than it should’ve been, like the house was swallowing every sound except his.

The hallway stretched ahead, dark. A single door cracked open near the end, a faint strip of light spilling out. Matt’s grip tightened on the knife. His palms were slick, his fingers slipping on the handle.

Leo Mercer was somewhere in this house. Breathing. Sleeping. Completely unaware.

Matt’s chest rose and fell, sharp and fast. He pressed himself against the wall, inching closer to the door. The floorboards under him creaked soft, a sound that felt like it echoed forever. His breath hitched. He paused, knife trembling just inches from his leg.

Another step. Another.

The strip of light widened, spilling across the hallway floor. His heart beat so loud he was sure someone could hear it. He reached the doorway, head tilting just enough to peer inside.

The room was dim but not dark, a lamp left on low in the corner. The bed was unmade. A shape under the covers rose and fell with slow, even breaths.

Matt swallowed hard. His throat felt raw, his chest like it was caving in. He tightened his grip on the knife until the handle dug into his palm.

This was it.

He stepped over the threshold, every nerve in his body screaming, but still moving forward.

Matt’s breath grew shallow as he crossed the room, each step calculated, quiet. The air was thick, heavier somehow, the way it got before a storm. The lamp’s light trembled faintly against the wall, and in that glow, he could see the rise and fall of Leo’s chest, steady, calm.

Matt stared at it like it was taunting him. Every inhale, every exhale, proof that Leo was still here, still breathing, still walking free after what he’d done.

His hand flexed around the knife handle. The urge surged through him, hot, electric, sickeningly familiar. He could almost taste it. The adrenaline, the control, the release. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else.

He moved closer.

The floor creaked under his weight, a soft, drawn-out groan. Leo stirred slightly, shifting beneath the blanket. Matt froze, muscles locking up, holding his breath until the movement stopped.

Seconds stretched thin. Then nothing.

Matt exhaled slowly through his nose, his heart still racing. He took another step, then another, until he stood at the side of the bed. Close enough to see the faint glint of sweat on Leo’s temple, the small twitch of his fingers against the sheets.

Matt’s mind spiraled. His uncle’s face flashed in his head, that same smirk, that same voice. Then Mrs. Brown’s, Chris’s, his mother’s eyes at the table. All of them tangled together into something unrecognizable, unbearable.

He raised the knife, just slightly, his arm trembling.

This is what you do. This is who you are.

His breath came faster. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his fingertips, everywhere.

He whispered it before he even realized he was speaking. “You deserve this.”

The knife shook in his hand, hovering above the sleeping man.

Just one motion. One clean motion and it would all be quiet again.

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning. His chest heaved. His vision tunneled, narrowing to the point of the blade.

His hand moves before the rest of him decides. It’s a clean motion, animal and practiced, as if it has been rehearsing itself in his bones for years. The blade drops.

Leo jerks awake with a sound that tears the dark. For a second there’s panic, hands scrabbling, a blanket bunching between his fingers, and then the world compresses, a sharp, wrong note, and it’s over. The breath that leaves his body is small and thin and then nothing.

Matt stands above him, the knife heavy and impossible in his palm. He can’t feel anything cleanly. There is the hot quickness behind his ribs, urgent and obscene, and under it a coldness that slides through him like ice.

He watches the chest. It stills. He watches until there’s no rise at all, until the tiny hairs on his arms prick and the air in the room becomes something he can’t name.

For a moment his head is so loud with everything, the church hymn, his uncle’s whisper, Chris’s face in the bathroom, that he can’t find a shape for it. He drops the bloody knife as if it burned him. It clatters against the wooden floor and the sound cracks across the room like a gunshot.

He runs. The air outside is clean and cruel, it slaps his face and opens his lungs until he can’t tell which part of him wants to keep running and which part wants to fall and never move again.

He double‑takes in a neighbor’s driveway, vomits into the gutter, retches until his stomach is empty of everything but bile and the metallic tang that lingers no matter how he gags. He clutches his hoodie, dark with blood, and the smell of it turns his stomach harder than the sight of it. 

Matt ran without thinking, legs pumping, hoodie sticking to him, heart hammering like it would burst through his ribs. The night air was sharp against his cheeks, cool and wet with dew. His breaths came ragged and loud in his own ears. He could still feel it, the weight of the knife slick in his hand, every detail burning inside him.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, hot and fast, and he didn’t care. He didn’t try to hold them back. His body shook as he ran, shoulders heaving with sobs, knees weak. He was crying, really crying, for the first time in hours, letting it all out, letting the guilt and relief and adrenaline crash over him like waves.

When he reached his street, he slowed, staggering along the sidewalk. His hoodie clung to him, soaked and heavy. He ripped it off and stared at it in his hands, dark with blood, ruined. He dumped it in the small fire pit behind the house. Lighter in trembling fingers, he set it ablaze. The flames licked the fabric, black smoke curling into the sky. The smell made him gag, choked him with panic, and he bent over, vomiting hard onto the grass. Nothing came but bile and the raw, bitter taste of iron lingering in his mouth.

He gagged again, and again, until his stomach felt hollow and torn. His chest heaved uncontrollably. His knees shook. His hands were sticky with blood and sweat. He stayed there for a long time, until the hoodie had burned down to glowing embers and the night had swallowed him in silence.

Matt stumbled inside, legs barely holding him, and shut the door behind him. The house was still, deep in sleep. He didn’t stop in his room. He went straight to the bathroom, turned the water on as hot as it would go. The steam hit him like a blow, making him shiver.

He stepped under the spray, letting the water pound against him, hot and sharp, scalding in a way that almost hurt enough to match the ache inside. His hands clawed at his skin, scrubbing at the blood and sweat, at the remnants of what he’d just done. The soap burned, stung, made him hiss and bite back sobs. He rubbed until his arms were raw, chest pink and sore.

The sound of the water masked his cries, and he let them come anyway. His chest rose and fell rapidly, body slick with water and soap and the remnants of the night. When the water finally dies away, he stands choking in the steam, skin raw, chest hollow.

He stands in front of the mirror, water dripping down his chest and arms. Steam curls around him, thick and clinging. The glass is fogged, but he can still make himself out, pale, trembling, wild-eyed.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him, wet footprints smearing across the tile. Toward his room, slow steps, careful, quiet. He drops the towel on the floor without thinking. Doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t care.

The bed is waiting, sheets cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn’t bother with pajamas. Nothing but bare, exposed skin, muscles coiling and relaxing instantly against the chill.

He curls into the sheets, the cold pressing into him, and his body finally lets go. The tension, the need, the hunt, all of it drains out of him.

For the first time in hours, in days, maybe weeks, he sleeps. Actual sleep.

The room is dark. The house is still. And for now, nothing touches him.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

He woke up to the sound of running water. At first, Chris thought he was dreaming, that half-awake kind of noise that melts into whatever nightmare you were having, but no, it was real. The shower. Someone was showering. At three in the morning.

He blinked at the ceiling, heart already picking up speed, and sat up. The house was quiet except for that one sound, water hitting tile, faint and steady. He rubbed his face, groaned, then got out of bed. His room was cold. The floorboards creaked when he stepped into the hallway.

The noise stopped. He froze.

The silence that followed was almost worse. Like the whole house was holding its breath. He waited, listening… nothing.
“...what the fuck,” he whispered.

He walked toward the bathroom, slow, careful. The door was open, the light off, but the floor was wet. Steam still clung to the mirror. A towel lay crumpled in front of the sink, soaked through.

Someone was here. Just minutes ago.

Chris stared at the towel, the puddle underneath it, then picked it up. It was still warm. He hung it on the rack, shaking his head. “Who the hell showers in the middle of the night?”

His brain already had an answer.
Matt.
Of course it was Matt.

But it didn’t have to be. Could’ve been Nick. Or anyone. He sighed and turned down the hall.

Nick’s door first, half-open, like always. He peeked inside. Nick was dead asleep, mouth open, soft snoring. Okay. Not him.

He moved on to his parents’ room. The door creaked, but neither of them stirred. Both out cold.

That left one room. Matt’s.

He stood in the hallway for a full minute, staring at Matt’s door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. Just... stood there. Something in him didn’t want to know.

So he turned around and went back to his room.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at nothing. His head felt loud, too loud. He thought about the box, that stupid tin box, and his stomach twisted. No. No, not now.

He pushed the thought away, climbed under the blanket, and faced the wall.

The house was silent again, but he didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

Chris woke up with sunlight in his eyes and no memory of falling asleep. He remembered lying there, staring at the wall, thoughts circling like flies, and then nothing. Just the morning, the light, the faint sound of someone moving down the hall.

He blinked, groaned, dragged himself up. School. Great. He pulled on some clothes, shoved his books into his bag, tried not to think about the towel, or the sound of the shower, or the fact that his brain wouldn’t shut up last night. Just... normal morning.

He walked to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, and froze in the doorway. Matt was already there.

He was standing at the sink, brushing his teeth like nothing in the world was wrong. Chris hesitated, then stepped inside. “Morning.”

Matt looked at him through the mirror, eyes tired. “Hey.”

The silence stretched a little too long. Chris reached for his own toothbrush, but his mind was already buzzing. He tried to act casual, spitting into the sink. “So,” he said. “Why the fuck were you showering at three in the morning?”

Matt’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. Just for a second. Chris saw it.

“What?” Matt said, too fast. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Chris said, voice sharp. “It’s just… who showers at three a.m.? Like, you were asleep. I thought you were asleep.”

Matt rolled his eyes, tried to sound annoyed instead of scared. “You’re acting weird, dude.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one taking midnight showers like a psychopath.”

“Maybe I couldn’t sleep,” Matt muttered.

Chris leaned against the counter, staring at him in the mirror. “Right. Couldn’t sleep. Sure. You were, what, washing off the stress? Or jerking off in there or something?”

Matt’s head snapped toward him. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Chris grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the one acting shady. I’m just asking questions.”

“Then stop,” Matt snapped, voice low. “Stop fucking asking questions.”

Chris lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Jesus.”

They both went back to brushing their teeth, the air between them heavy with toothpaste and unspoken shit.

Chris didn’t let it go. He could see the lie sitting heavy on Matt’s face, the way his shoulders tensed like he’d been caught doing something worse than whatever he was pretending it was.

So Chris leaned in.

“I mean,” he said, voice too casual, “if you were jerking off in there, it’s normal. Like, seriously. I’m not judging you or anything.”

Matt blinked. “What? Dude, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Chris kept going, brushing his teeth slower now, watching Matt through the mirror. “We all do it. It’s not, like, a federal crime or something. But if you’re gonna do it, maybe don’t turn the shower on at three in the morning. Kinda gives it away, you know?”

Matt spat into the sink, jaw tight. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Chris said, shrugging. “I’m just helping you out, man. Subtlety. Ever heard of it?”

“Chris.” Matt’s voice was low, sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”

Chris laughed, but it came out weird, forced. “I’m serious. They talk about this stuff in health class. Totally normal. I’m just saying, if you’re gonna do it, don’t wake up the entire neighborhood while you’re at it.”

Matt slammed his toothbrush down, the sound cracking through the quiet. “I said shut up.”

Chris froze for a second. He hadn’t meant to push that hard, but he couldn’t stop either. There was something off, something behind Matt’s eyes, something that didn’t fit.

He tried to play it off, tossing his toothbrush into the cup. “Alright, man. Jesus.”

Matt didn’t answer. He just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still breathing like he’d run a mile.

The silence between them was thick, humming with something neither of them would name.

And Chris could feel it, that knot in his stomach tightening, the part of him that joked too much when he was scared. Because he knew Matt was lying.

He just didn’t know about what.

Chris stared at himself in the mirror after Matt left, toothpaste still bitter on his tongue. His reflection looked worse than he remembered, hair sticking up in weird directions, face pale, eyes sunken. He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. It felt greasy. Gross.

He grabbed a towel from the rack, but the second he went to close the bathroom door, something in his stomach twisted. He stood there for a while, hand on the doorknob, just breathing. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. It was just a shower. Just water.

Still. He hesitated.

He shut the door with a quiet click, then the lock turned. He leaned against it for a second, exhaling slow. The silence in the bathroom felt heavy, like the air itself didn’t want to move.

He pulled his shirt off first, then the rest. His chest felt tight. He kept his eyes straight ahead at first, trying not to look down. Another breath.

He looked down.

The skin there was still marked, faint red lines cutting across pale. A couple scabbed. A couple not yet. His throat burned. He turned the shower handle too fast, and the rush of water filled the silence.

He stepped in.

The heat hit his back, his shoulders, his stomach, and when it touched the newer scars, the sting was sharp and immediate. He hissed through his teeth, gripping the wall, jaw tight. The pain spread like a pulse, hot and alive.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered under his breath. His voice cracked halfway through.

But he couldn’t.

The more he tried to steady himself, the more everything pushed back, the water, the noise, the pressure behind his eyes. His breath caught. He blinked fast, then slower, and then he couldn’t stop it. The tears came. Quiet at first. Then full.

He pressed his face into his hands and let it happen, the water hiding the sound, washing everything down the drain. He stayed there until the water started to cool, until the air bit at his skin. Then he turned it off.

He grabbed the towel, drying himself off in silence, eyes red but dry now. He wrapped it around his waist, took one last look in the mirror, and tried to pretend he didn’t see the same thing staring back. He went back to his room. 

Chris had just finished drying off and was pulling clothes from the drawer when his door flew open.

“Yo, you seen my charger—” Nick stopped.

Chris froze. His heart jumped into his throat. He grabbed the towel from the bed and wrapped it around himself, trying to hide his thighs, so fast it nearly slipped from his hands.

“Dude, knock!” he snapped, louder than he meant to.

Nick blinked, half-asleep, hands up. “Okay, chill. Sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, clearly.” Chris’s pulse hammered in his ears. He turned his back, pretending to look for socks, anything to make this moment end faster.

Nick lingered in the doorway, awkward now. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Too fast. Too sharp.

“Alright.” Nick hesitated, then left, door clicking shut behind him.

Chris stayed still for a few seconds, breathing hard, towel clenched tight in his fists. The air in his room felt too thin.

☁︎

The bus smelled disgusting. Chris slides into his usual seat near the middle, drops his bag beside him, and leans his head against the window. The glass is cold, and it makes him shiver a little, but he doesn’t move.

Matt’s a few rows ahead, earbuds in, hood up, staring straight ahead like he’s trying to disappear. Chris watches him for a second, the way his shoulders are tense, like he’s bracing for something, then looks away before Matt can feel it.

Chris picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, trying to make sense of how weird everything’s been lately. Matt’s late-night showers, his jumpiness, the way he won’t meet anyone’s eyes. It’s like he’s hiding something, and Chris hates not knowing what.

The bus hits a bump, and Chris’s forehead thuds lightly against the window. He sighs. When he looks back up, Matt’s turned slightly, just enough that Chris can see part of his face reflected in the glass. He looks tired. Not just “stayed-up-too-late” tired, like something’s eating at him from the inside.

Chris wants to tap him on the shoulder, say hey, what’s going on with you?, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his headphones in, stares out the window, and lets the noise of the bus drown everything out.

The bus jolts to a stop in front of the school. The brakes squeal, and everyone starts standing up too fast, like they can’t wait to get out. Matt’s one of the first to move. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and walks down the aisle without looking back.

Chris waits a second, then grabs his own bag and follows. He keeps a little distance, close enough to keep Matt in sight, far enough not to get caught.

Matt’s walking fast, head down, hoodie up, like always. Chris narrows his eyes. Skipping again? he thinks. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Then… Mrs. Brown. She steps out from one of the side classrooms, calling something out to Matt. He stops, stiff, like a deer caught in headlights. Chris slows down too, ducking slightly behind a row of lockers.

He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can see it. Mrs. Brown’s face softens. She puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder, says something low, and tilts her head like she’s trying to be kind. Matt doesn’t look up. Just stares at the floor, hands buried in his hoodie pocket.

Chris frowns. Mrs. Brown leans in closer, still talking, still smiling that gentle teacher's smile. Then she gestures for him to follow her, and Matt hesitates only for a second before going with her. They head down the hall together, turning into the teacher’s office wing.

And that’s when Chris’s stomach twists. What the hell was that?

Matt’s supposed to be in math right now. Not in some private meeting with Mrs. Brown. Not walking off like it’s nothing.

Chris stands there for a moment, pretending to rummage in his bag, eyes fixed on the corner where they disappeared. His chest feels tight. Something’s off.

Really off.

Chris waits until the hallway mostly empties out, the bell’s already rung, and everyone’s flooding into their classrooms. His heart’s beating faster than he’d admit, but he walks down toward the teacher’s office anyway.

He slows when he sees her name on the plate, Mrs. Brown, English Department. The door’s shut. No voices, no movement. He looks around once, then steps closer.

He leans in. Puts his ear against the wood. Nothing. Not even a whisper. Just the faint hum of the lights overhead and the squeak of sneakers from the far end of the hall.

He presses a little harder, squinting like that’ll somehow help. Still nothing.

And then, footsteps stop behind him.

Chris freezes. Slowly turns his head.

Some random kid is just standing there in the hall, watching him. Head tilted, eyebrows pulled together. The kind of look that says, What the hell are you doing?

Chris straightens up fast, trying to look casual. “I, uh— I was just—” He gestures vaguely at the door. “Dropping something off.”

The kid keeps staring for a second too long before shrugging and walking off.

Chris exhales, embarrassed heat climbing up his neck. He looks back at the door one more time, then steps away, fast, pretending like none of it ever happened. But his hands are still shaking a little.

By the time he slips into his classroom, the teacher’s already writing something on the board. Chris mumbles a half-assed “sorry” and heads straight for his seat in the back. Nobody really notices, or cares, which is exactly what he wants.

He drops his bag beside the desk, slumps into the chair, and props his head on his folded arms. The fluorescent lights are too bright, his eyes feel heavy, and his brain’s still buzzing with the image of Mrs. Brown’s hand on Matt’s shoulder.

He doesn’t even bother opening his notebook. He just closes his eyes. The teacher’s voice fades into background noise, words blurring together, replaced by the dull hum of exhaustion and confusion.

Within minutes, he’s gone. Head turned toward the window, sunlight warming his face. Fast asleep.

Chris jerked awake, someone shaking his shoulder. He snapped his head up, heart hammering.

“What the fuck is going on?” he hissed, eyes blinking against the bright classroom lights.

“Oh, the bell rang,” a girl said, smiling faintly. “I saw you were sleeping.”

Chris mumbled a quick “thanks” and shoved his bag over his shoulder. He got up, walking fast down the hall, scanning for Matt, Mrs. Brown, anyone who might explain what the hell was happening.

He felt movement behind him. She was following. He turned sharply.

“Do you… need something?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“No, nothing,” she said quickly, fidgeting with her hair. “Are you… okay? You looked tired. Why were you sleeping?”

Chris felt it immediately. She was flirting. Trying to get under his skin. But he didn’t have the energy. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m fine,” he said tightly. “Sorry, I have to go… my friends are waiting.”

He didn’t wait for her response. He kept walking, pushing the hall, the lockers, the noise behind him. He didn’t look back. He reached his biology class, entering the classroom. 

Chris slid into the empty seat beside Katie, his desk mate, dropping his bag on the floor. She looked up immediately, a grin tugging at her lips like she’d been waiting for this moment all morning.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” she whispered, leaning just a bit closer than necessary. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and she twirled a pen between her fingers. “Rough morning?”

Chris shrugged, already tuning out. He didn’t care. Not now. Not ever. His head was still buzzing from the bus, Matt, the Mrs. Brown thing, everything. Katie was like a background noise he couldn’t even bother to hear properly.

“Didn’t get much sleep, huh?” she pressed, voice playful.

“Yeah,” he muttered, staring down at his notebook like the pages could swallow him whole.

Katie laughed softly, leaning in again. “You know, you’re just way too serious all the time. You should loosen up.”

Chris wanted to tell her he didn’t have the bandwidth for flirting, jokes, or anyone’s attempts to “loosen him up.” But instead, he just nodded once, short, clipped. He didn’t want to encourage her, didn’t want to think about anyone but Matt and the weird, heavy tension he couldn’t shake.

Katie’s grin faltered for a second, realizing she wasn’t getting the reaction she expected, but she didn’t push further. Not today. Not with whatever storm was brewing in Chris’ head.

He let the classroom chatter wash over him as he stared at the desk in front of him, thinking: Where the fuck is Matt? What’s he doing?

And for the first time all morning, the world outside his thoughts didn’t matter. Not Katie. Not the class. Not anything except that gnawing worry he couldn’t shake.

The bell rang sharply, echoing through the biology classroom, and Chris jumped, his chair scraping against the floor. He shoved his bag onto his shoulder and bolted out of the room before Katie could even get a word in, the girl’s bright, teasing smile already fading behind him. He didn’t want to deal with her today, didn’t want to deal with anyone. Not the flirting, not the questions, not the tiny annoyances he usually could shrug off.

He hit the hall and slowed, letting his breathing settle, scanning the crowd. Most of the students were milling between classes, lockers slamming, voices buzzing, but then he saw her: Mrs. Brown’s office door swinging open, and Matt stepping out.

Matt’s hoodie was pulled tight around him, head bent, eyes red and swollen. His shoulders were stiff, deliberate, like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. His movements were careful, quiet, like he didn’t want anyone to notice him, like the entire hallway could swallow him up if they tried.

Chris froze for a second, his stomach twisting. He wanted to call out, to ask what the hell was going on, but something in him hesitated. Fear? Respect? Maybe guilt for even following in the first place. Instead, he fell back a few steps, keeping his distance, bag swinging loosely at his side, shadowing Matt silently as he walked.

Matt’s head stayed down the whole time, but Chris could see the dark circles under his eyes, the redness around his lids. He looked smaller than usual, almost fragile, and Chris’ chest tightened. He wanted to step in, to say something, but the right words didn’t exist. Instead, he just kept walking, careful not to make a sound, trying to figure out how to reach him without pushing him further away.

Chris’s eyes followed Matt as he moved down the hall, slow, deliberate, shoulders hunched. Then, just past the lockers, Matt made a sudden turn into the boys’ bathroom. Chris froze, just for a moment, heart lurching. Of course, he probably needed some space, some quiet, a smoke maybe.

He stopped outside the doorway, leaning against the wall a little, trying not to breathe too loud. Chris’ stomach tightened. He wanted to go in and knock on Matt’s stall, but he didn’t. He just watched, lingering in the shadowed hallway, hands gripping his bag straps like a lifeline, as if staying here, unseen, might somehow keep Matt safe. 

He didn’t move for a few moments, just stared at the closed bathroom door, trying to make sense of everything.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he straightened up. He still didn’t have answers. He didn’t even know if he wanted them. He had to keep walking through this day.

Chris adjusted his bag, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped forward, merging into the current of students flowing down the hall. His eyes flicked once more toward the boys’ room, then forward.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind, Matt stood there for a second, hand still on the knob, like the air in the hallway might behave differently now that he wasn’t inside her office. It didn’t. It was still too bright, too clean, too full of the sound of other people’s shoes moving in perfect patterns.

Mrs. Brown’s voice lingered anyway. She kept asking for more, more details, more memories, more of the story that he’d spent years trying to bury. The kind of questions that felt like scalpels. What do you remember most clearly?
 

He’d said enough the last time. More than enough. That was supposed to buy him silence for a while. But she’d leaned forward again today, eyes soft, voice low “If you can tell me a little more…”  and his throat had locked.

He wanted to. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell anymore. It had felt good, once, to speak. Relief, like pressure leaving a wound. But today it felt different, heavier, poisonous. Talking meant remembering, and remembering meant shaking, and he couldn’t afford that. Not today. Not when everything was already slipping.

He started walking. His footsteps echoed against the tiles, too loud in his ears. Mrs. Brown said he was safe. He wasn’t. Safe people didn’t feel like this. Safe people didn’t see red every time they blinked.

He reached the end of the hall and pushed through the boys’ bathroom door. He slid into the last stall and locked it. Sat on the closed lid. His hands were shaking before the lighter even flicked.

The cigarette was half-crushed in his pocket. He lit it anyway. The smoke burned going in, but it was something real to focus on, heat, breath, control. For a moment, the world steadied. Then the thoughts came back, sharper.

Chris. The shower. The way he’d looked at him that morning, like he knew. He was being careless again. That was what happened when you let your guard down. When you get comfortable. He exhaled and watched the smoke climb toward the ceiling vent. Pull it together.
He used to be good at that, compartmentalizing, keeping the walls straight. Now the walls were leaking.

He dropped the butt into the toilet, flushed, and waited until the sound died before unlocking the door. The mirror caught him as he passed, red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, a face that didn’t look like his.

He smiled at it anyway. A reflex. A mask. Then he walked out of the bathroom and back into the hallway, like nothing had happened. Like everything wasn’t happening. 

☁︎

Dinner was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every clink of a fork sound too loud. The table felt smaller than usual, like everyone was sitting too close, even though nobody was talking.

Mary Lou was trying, she always tried. Asking about school, homework, teachers, the usual small talk that was supposed to sound normal.  “How’s the homework this year? You keeping up okay?” she asked, voice soft and hopeful.

Matt just shrugged, poking at the food on his plate. He hadn’t taken a real bite yet. The smell made him nauseous. Across the table, Chris was staring. Not obvious, not glaring, just… watching. His fork hovered over his plate, untouched.

Nick was the only one actually talking, the words fading into background noise.

Matt mumbled, “I’m done,” and pushed his chair back. The legs scraped against the floor, sharp and loud in the quiet room. He picked up his plate, half-full, and carried it to the sink. Nobody said anything. He could still feel Chris’s eyes on him, burning into his back.

He rinsed the plate, left it in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen. The second he was out of sight, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Matt shut his bedroom door behind him, the sound of the lock clicking louder than it should’ve been. He dropped his bag somewhere, didn’t even look where it landed. He sat and opened his laptop. His hands were shaking, not a lot, just enough to piss him off.

The screen glowed too bright in the dark room. His reflection stared back at him for a second before the site loaded.

He scrolled through the map. The red dots blinked, scattered around the city. Five were gone. The ones he’d already… handled. No new ones yet. But there were still so many. Too many. His cursor hovered over one. Elliot Dylan. The name sat there, boring, meaningless, until it wasn’t. He clicked on it.

Profile photo. Age. Address. The list of charges. The same kind of words that made his stomach twist, that made his hands curl into fists.

He stared. For too long. He could already feel the cold night air, the quiet streets, the weight in his hands. He could already see it. He hated that he could already see it.

No. Not tonight.

He closed the tab. Then opened it again.

Chris’s face flashed in his head, his stupid questions, the bathroom talk, the way he’s been watching him lately. Chris was getting close. Too close. He could feel it.

He closed the laptop hard enough to make the desk shake. Sat there breathing through his teeth.

Stop. Just stop.

But the name Elliot Dylan kept running through his head. Over and over, like a song he couldn’t turn off.

He stood way too fast and dropped to his knees next to his bed. He dug under the mattress, fingers brushing against the joint. He stared at it, thumb tracing the edge. Fuck. It would reek. His mom would know. Everyone would know. He shoved it back under the mattress and stepped away, heart pounding.

His eyes caught the corner of the dresser. He walked over, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the vodka. He hesitated, then twisted the cap off and took a swig.

It burned going down. His throat clenched around it, his face twisting, but he forced it anyway. He needed the burn. Needed to feel something other than the chaos clawing at the inside of his head.

He exhaled, long and shaky, staring at his reflection in the dark window. “Get it together,” he muttered. But his voice didn’t sound like his.

Matt steps back from the dresser, the bottle still clutched in his hand. He paces across the room, bare feet dragging slightly against the carpet, eyes darting toward the laptop, toward the bed, toward the window. His thoughts spin too fast to settle, and every step makes his chest tighten a little more. He circles the room again, then stops, then paces in the opposite direction, running his hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. The walls feel closer, the ceiling lower, and with each turn around the room he feels the pressure building, the need for control twisting tighter in his chest.

His hands flex at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as he glares at the clock. 8:00 p.m. Not yet. His stomach twists, a tight coil of need and dread that won’t let him breathe properly. He needs this. It’s happening. It’s always happening. But not yet. Not now. He has to wait, has to hold it in, has to let the seconds crawl by, each one stretching endlessly, mocking him, feeding the tension coiling tighter in his chest. Every option spins in his head, each one a whisper, a temptation, a promise. And still, he waits. He has to. He clenches his jaw, swallows, forces himself to pace again, boots scraping, back and forth, back and forth, counting down toward something he both fears and craves.

He pulls at the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down and letting them pool around his ankles. He tries to convince himself this is just a normal night, just another routine, nothing unusual, nothing dangerous. 

Pants off, he swings his legs onto the mattress, curling up against the chill. The sheets are icy against his skin, stiff and unwelcoming, but he knows they’ll warm soon enough. He closes his eyes, willing himself to feel calm, to feel nothing, but the stillness only stretches the tension tighter. Nothing comes. His mind races in silence.

He lies there, muscles heavy, body aching from exhaustion, but sleep refuses him. His eyes stay shut, but it’s not rest, just a weight pressing down, making him feel every nerve raw. He turns onto his side, then back, twisting under the cold sheets, trying to coax his body into surrendering. Nothing. 

Finally, sleep dragged him down, heavy and unforgiving, but it offered no peace. The nightmare hit like a physical blow, immediate and suffocating. He was back in the church, the pews warped and stretching like black teeth, the stained-glass windows melting into grotesque shapes. Johnny’s face twisted in a cruel, grinning mask, leaning close, whispering words that slithered into his brain, words he couldn’t block. Mrs. Brown appeared too, her sympathetic smile stretched unnaturally wide, eyes glinting, like she knew everything and was waiting for him to confess.

Then there was the voice. A booming, impossible voice, neither entirely male nor female, echoing off the warped walls. God’s. “Disgusting,” it hissed, over and over, until it became the drum of his own heartbeat. “Horrible. You are horrible.” He tried to protest, tried to fight it in his mind, but it was like trying to push back the tide. His parents’ faces flickered in the shadows, murmuring prayers, eyes wide with fear and faith, the kind of faith he didn’t share but that weighed down on him all the same.

He saw himself in the pulpit, hands shaking, staring out at the faceless congregation, every eye judging, every whisper accusing. The smell of incense turned acrid, sickly sweet, choking him. Light bent and twisted into sharp spikes, stabbing at him, and the voice grew louder, more insistent. “Disgusting. Filth. Unworthy.” His chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes, and his stomach knotted, twisted with terror and shame that wasn’t fully his own.

Matt bolted upright, heart hammering, lungs burning, eyes wide in the dark. The voice from the nightmare, the voice of God, still echoed in his skull, low and scolding. Disgusting. It reverberated through him like cold steel. He felt the heat of anger rise first, sharp and fast, twisting his chest. God had no right. No right to call him disgusting. He had survived. He was just a kid. Helpless. 

If you’re all-powerful, then why didn’t you save me? Why didn’t you stop him? The thoughts slammed into him, jagged and relentless, and the weight of them broke something inside. Rage turned into a jagged sob, tearing from his chest, echoing only in the empty room. He was alone, cold against the sheets, sweat clinging to his skin, shaking from more than just the nightmare. He buried his face in his hands, tears spilling freely, hot and bitter.

And then the truth hit him, like a knife sharper than any he’d ever held. That’s why he didn’t believe. That’s why he couldn’t. Because God had been absent when he needed Him the most. Because he had been small, a helpless kid praying for the abuse to stop, praying for mercy, praying for anything, and no one came. No one listened. No one cared.

The sobs wracked him harder. His body trembled, teeth chattering in the cold, sweat making his skin slick and clammy. The betrayal, the helplessness, the anger, the grief, they all crashed together, and for a long moment, Matt just cried, alone, furious, and utterly, completely abandoned. He tasted bile and iron at the back of his throat and the thought rose up like a thing with teeth, he needed it more than anything. Fuck God. Fuck Johnny. He wasn’t a broken kid anymore you could tape up and set back on the shelf. The thing inside him wasn’t an accident or a symptom, it was a maw, and it wanted. He could lie to himself, promise himself one last time, swear he’d stop, but the truth thudded under his ribs louder than any promise, this was who he was now.

He pictured the clean, bright faces of the world and felt a cold clarity cut through the fog. Killer. The label made his stomach drop and something else in him settle. Not a mistake. Not a phase. A hunger. It was terrifying and, god help him, it was awful-clear. He hated it and he needed it. 

The horror of that collapsed into the smallest, fiercest honesty he’d had in years, he would have to live with that, or die trying to hide it. There was no angel left to save him, no scripture that would make the ache go away. Only the decision: keep pretending, keep pretending he could be anything else, or admit the thing inside and face whatever that meant.

He pressed his palms to his face until the skin stung, trying to scrub one truth away with another, but it wouldn’t wash off. When he finally let his hands fall, there was nothing noble in the silence, no relief. 

He pushed the blanket off his chest and sat up, breathing like he’d just surfaced from underwater. The room was too small, too still. His skin stuck to the sheets with sweat, his hands trembling as he wiped at his face. He reached for his jeans, pulling them on with jerky movements, the denim cold against his legs.

The floorboards creaked as he moved, so he slowed down, heart hammering. The air coming through the window was sharp, autumn biting at his skin. He paused for a second, fingers gripping the sill. His reflection in the glass looked pale and half-wild, eyes hollowed out by everything he wouldn’t say.

Then he swung his legs over, felt the rush of cold hit him full in the face. One last glance back at the dark room, the bed, the silence, the ghosts, and then he dropped down into the night.

Chapter Text

His feet hit the ground with a dull thud when he lands outside the window. For a second, he just stands there, still, breathing hard, feeling the sting of cold air slide under his hoodie and cling to the sweat on his back. The night’s quiet, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet, the kind that hums in his ears and makes his skin crawl.

He starts walking. One step. Another. His shoes crunch against the pavement, rhythm steady, heartbeat not. It’s too fast, too loud, and it feels like every nerve in his body’s on fire. The nightmare’s still clinging to him, God’s voice still somewhere behind his eyes, the word disgusting echoing.

He fishes a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with shaking fingers. The first drag burns, the smoke heavy in his throat, but it helps. It always helps. He exhales and watches the smoke curl into the air before the wind eats it.

The neighborhood’s sleeping. No lights, no sound, just him and the cold. He feels it all, the way his hoodie rubs against his neck, the weight in his chest, the sweat cooling down his spine. Every sense sharpened, stretched thin.

He keeps walking, smoking, breathing. One more step. One more drag. He knows where he’s going. And he knows what’s about to happen.

The walk doesn’t take long. It never does when he’s like this, when his head’s already there before his body catches up. The cigarette’s almost burned down to the filter by the time he turns onto the street. He flicks it away, watches the ember die in the dark, then pulls his hood tighter around his face.

Elliot Dylan’s house sits at the end of the block. White fence. Porch light still on. He stares at it from across the street for a long time, breathing slow, shallow. He takes one step off the curb, then another. The sound of gravel crunching under his shoes feels too loud, so he slows down. Keeps to the shadows. His hands are cold, fingers twitching. His heart’s loud again.

He reaches the side of the house, stands still, and listens. The world feels smaller now. Just him, the dark, and the hum inside his chest that won’t go away.

His palms were damp. He rubbed them against his jeans, feeling the tremor in his fingers. Every cell in his body screamed go home, but under that, something deeper, darker, pushed him forward. His pulse was loud enough that he swore it could be heard through the night air.

He checked the street again. Empty. Not even a car passing by. Just the steady hum of a distant highway and the faint rustle of leaves. He could taste the smoke still clinging to his tongue from the cigarette, could still feel the way the wind had burned against the sweat cooling on his skin.

He told himself to breathe, to wait, to think. But waiting only made it worse. His jaw clenched. The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt, like his ribs were locking up around his heart. He reached the edge of the driveway. His reflection stared back at him in the dark window, pale, hollow-eyed, someone he barely recognized.

Matt hesitated only once. One deep breath, one flicker of doubt, then he set his jaw and moved toward the door.

Matt’s hand went to the knob like a reflex, fingers numb and shaking. He tested it expecting it to be locked, expecting the click of disappointment to send him back to the street. It turned. It was unlocked.

For a beat the world narrowed to the metal under his palm and the sound of his own breathing. The door yawed open a sliver, the house breathing out a little of its warmth into the cold night. His heart hammered so loud he could almost hear it in his ears. He froze, the threshold like a line he could still step back from, or cross.

He pushed the door open slow, the sound of the hinges slicing through the quiet. The air inside was still, heavy, smelled like dust and cardboard. He’d just moved in. There were boxes everywhere, stacked on top of each other like he didn’t know where anything went yet. The couch faced the wall, a blanket thrown across it, like Elliot had tried to make it look lived in but failed.

Matt stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

His heart was too loud. He tried to breathe quietly, tried to stay steady, but his hands were shaking. He hated that. He moved through the dark living room, past the half-unpacked boxes and the empty coffee table.

In the kitchen, the light from the street cut through the window just enough for him to see the counters. He opened a drawer. Forks, spoons. Another one. Nothing. Third one, bingo.

He picked up the biggest knife. Not too heavy, but solid. The handle fit right into his palm. His fingers twitched around it once.

It felt right.

He just stood there for a second, breathing. The air was dry in his throat. The house was too quiet. Every small sound felt like a scream. He looked down at the knife. His reflection shimmered on the blade. His hand was still shaking.

He tightened his grip.

This was happening.

The stairs creak under him but he moves like a ghost, soft and careful. Elliot’s door is closed. He pauses, hand on the knob, listening. Nothing. Quiet like the world forgot how to breathe. He pushes it open a crack. 

The room is dark except for the streetlight leaking through the blinds. Elliot is a shape under the blanket, the lines of his face easy and calm. He’s curled like a kid, one arm thrown over his head, mouth slack. He’s sleeping so perfectly it makes Matt want to smash the air out of the moment.

He doesn’t deserve that, Matt thinks. He doesn’t deserve to sleep. Not like that. Not after what the registry said. Not after what the world says he did and what the world doesn’t punish.

The house is too quiet. The radiator ticks. A car passes outside and the sound slides away. Matt’s chest is tight. He thinks about God’s voice from the nightmare. He thinks about Johnny. He thinks about all the little betrayals that built him into this and the part of him that has already decided what he is.

He could move. Instead he takes a step back.

For a beat he just stands there, his hand loosens around the knife. The choice sits at the back of his teeth like metal.

He could leave. He could go home. Scrub until his skin flares raw, and crawl back into the lie of being okay. Or he could stay.

He breathes out. 

His body jerks into motion. No time for his mind to catch up. One step. Then two. Three. He halts beside the bed. The air feels thick. Heavy with sweat and fear. He draws in one deep breath. No turning back now.

 His hand grips the knife tight. He lifts it high. Pauses. Then lets it drop low. The blade catches the dim light from the window. Elliot stirs. His eyes snap open. They lock onto Matt's. A silent plea shines there. Desperate. Blood seeps from his chest. It spreads dark and wet across the sheets. Already pooling in sticky rivers. Matt turns his gaze away.

The knife rises again. It plunges down fast. Strikes deep into flesh. Again. And again. Each thrust harder than the last. Muscles tense under his arm. Elliot's body twitches once. Then stills. No more gasps. Only silence now. Nothing is moving. No breath rises but his own. The weight of it all presses down. The knife slips from his fingers, clattering when it hits the floor. 

He took a step back. His hands were trembling, his chest tight. The air felt heavy, suffocating. He wanted to cry, to scream, to disappear, but nothing came. Just the hollow thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

Then, sirens.

He froze. His stomach dropped. Every muscle in his body locked, panic clawing at him, hot and sharp. His chest heaved, he wanted to run but couldn’t move. It was over. He was caught.

Closer. Louder. Closer. His heart skipped, then slammed against his ribs, a frantic drum he couldn’t control. The sound filled his head, pressed against his temples. He imagined headlights sweeping over the house, the doors bursting open, shouts, the world collapsing around him.

And then, they kept going. Past the street. Fading. Fading. Slowly, achingly, the panic loosened its grip. He realized the sirens hadn’t been for him. They’d just been passing by. Someone else, somewhere else. Not him. Of course not him. How could they know?

He bolted. Out of the room, out of the house, heart hammering like it was trying to escape. The darkness pressed in from every side, the night air biting at his skin, but he didn’t care. He just ran. Every step was a scream he couldn’t make out loud, every breath a knife in his chest.

His knees gave out. Just like that. His body betrayed him. He collapsed, stumbling into Elliot’s front yard, hands scraping against the wet grass. He hit the ground hard, chest heaving, and the world tilted sideways. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he let them fall, hot and uncontrolled. His hands were slick with blood, his hoodie stuck to his skin, and the sobs he couldn’t hold back tore out of him. He curled into himself, shaking, gagging, crying, broken and raw, until the night swallowed him. 

His lungs were burning, chest heaving, heart hammering like it might break right out of his ribcage. Blood. Everywhere. His hands were red, sticky. His jaw, his neck. The hoodie clung to him, drenched in it. His eyes stung, the adrenaline, the mess. He needed to do something. He couldn’t just keep running like this.

He passed a park, barely noticing the swing sets and the empty benches in the dark. Something clicked, he cut into the park, ducked behind a bush. Every step made him panic harder. He yanked off the hoodie, tossing it into the shrubbery. He stuffed it deep, pushing it down as far as he could. No trash cans. No way to just get rid of it properly. It had to stay hidden. Evidence. He couldn’t leave it out.

He looked down at his hands again. Red. His t-shirt was clean, at least. He was still a mess. And Chris… Chris was going to be asking questions. How the fuck was he going to explain himself? How the fuck was he going to clean himself up? He didn’t know what to do. He just froze for a second, in the shadows, panic clawing at his chest, his stomach twisting.

He froze mid-step. A water fountain, glinting faintly in the moonlight, off to the side of the path. Small, cold, public, probably never used at this hour. His hands were trembling, blood coating his fingers. He needed to clean himself.

He moved toward it, careful, glancing over his shoulder. No one in sight. He knelt down, cupping his bloody hands under the stream, letting the cold water hit him. The chill bit at his skin, stinging, but it was relief, tiny and sharp. He scrubbed at his neck, tried to wipe his jaw, but it wasn’t enough. The water didn’t take it all. His hands were still sticky, smeared, and every movement reminded him of what he’d done, of what was still under his skin.

He drank a little, rinsed his mouth. The blood, the panic, the fear, it was all still there, lingering, clinging, impossible to wash away. And somewhere far off, the streets were silent. He was alone, but not safe. Not even close.

He stayed at the fountain longer than he meant to, cupping the icy water over and over, letting it stream down his hands, his wrists, his forearms. He bent forward, trying to wash the blood from his neck, splashing the water onto his jaw, onto the sides of his face, scrubbing at the sticky mess. 

He shivered, teeth clenched, hissing through his teeth as the cold seeped into him, soaking through his t-shirt. His body was trembling.

He splashed again, shaking the water from his hands. The blood was gone. He ran his hands through his hair, slick with water, shivering harder now, teeth chattering slightly. 

 Chris’s voice cut through the night, sharp and panicked, echoing off the empty park around them. Matt froze for a second, water dripping from his hair and down his soaked hoodie, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath.

“Matt! What the fuck are you doing here? Are you insane? It’s three in the morning! What the hell is wrong with you?” Chris was running toward him, hands shaking, eyes wide, yelling with a mix of fear and anger.

Matt swallowed hard, trying to speak over the pounding of his heart. “I—It’s fine, Chris! I’m fine, I just—”

“No! You’re not fine! You’re soaked, in the middle of the park, at three a.m.! Where the hell have you been?” Chris yelled, stopping just a few feet away.

Matt’s wet hair clung to his forehead, droplets running down his neck. “I said I’m fine, just… leave me alone, okay? I don’t need your lectures!”

Chris’s voice rose, cracking. “No! I don’t care! I need to know what the fuck you’re doing! Jesus, are you even thinking?”

Matt’s fists clenched at his sides, water dripping from his hands. He looked away for a second, trying to catch his breath, trying not to show the panic bubbling under the surface. “Chris, I … just stop! I’m fine! You don’t get it!”

“You think I don’t get it? You’re my brother! I don’t care what’s going on, I’m not letting you do whatever the fuck you want, okay? This isn’t normal!” Chris stepped closer, voice trembling, tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes.

Matt’s jaw tightened. He wanted to yell, to push Chris away, to run again, anything, but he stayed frozen, shivering from cold and fear, listening to Chris’s voice. Part of him hated that Chris had found him, part of him hated that he cared.

“Matt! Answer me!” Chris’s voice cracked louder. “Where the fuck were you? What the hell did you do?”

Matt’s eyes darted around the empty park, panic coiling in his stomach. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then whispered, almost to himself, “It’s nothing. It’s nothing…”

“Nothing? Nothing at three a.m., soaked, in the middle of a park? What the fuck, Matt?”

Matt wanted to disappear, vanish into the shadows, anything to escape the truth and Chris’s shouting. His teeth chattered, and he could feel the adrenaline roaring in his veins, his chest tight, heartbeat like a drum in his ears. He swallowed, looking at Chris, wet, shivering, cornered by words he didn’t want to say.

Matt’s teeth chattered as he tried to think fast. “I just… I couldn’t sleep,” he stammered, voice cracking a little. “I needed… air. Just… couldn’t stay in my room. That’s it. I just needed to clear my head.”

Chris’s wide eyes blinked, and then he fell forward a little, his hands shaking. He knew Matt was lying. Tears started spilling down his cheeks. Matt froze. He wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. His own adrenaline was screaming, his heart still pounding, his body wet and cold, trembling from the fountain and the night.

Chris’s sobs shook him, and Matt just stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to make it stop. The park was quiet again, except for the faint sound of Chris’s crying and Matt’s own ragged breaths. He could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him, and he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Chris choked out between shaky breaths, wiping at his face uselessly as the tears kept coming. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I just… I’m sorry.”

He stumbled back a step, then sat down on the edge of a low stone ledge by the path, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders trembled with every breath, the sound of muffled crying filling the cold air.

Matt just stood there. Still. His clothes clung to him, wet and freezing, hair dripping into his eyes. He watched his brother fold in on himself, small and helpless in the dim park light, and he didn’t move. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to do something, comfort him, maybe, but he couldn’t make them. He just stood there, staring, heart still pounding, not sure what he was supposed to feel anymore. 

Matt finally stepped closer. He lowered himself onto the ledge beside Chris, careful not to crowd him, and rested a hand lightly on his brother’s shoulder. Chris flinched at first but didn’t move away.

The streetlight above them cast a soft, golden glow, illuminating Chris’ face almost perfectly. Matt could see the tight line of his jaw, the red, swollen eyes, the way his small hands trembled against his cheeks. He looked so small, so fragile, like the world had just collapsed around him. Matt looked down at his own jeans, soaked through from the fountain, and then his gaze shifted to Chris. 

He was still in his pajama bottoms, the light blue ones he always wore. He’d literally run out into the night in pajamas just to find Matt.

Guilt hit Matt like a punch to the chest. His hand tightened on Chris’ shoulder, almost instinctively, but he felt useless. He shouldn’t have dragged him into this. Chris didn’t deserve this. Not at three in the morning, not in the cold, not in this chaos. Matt’s chest heaved, the weight of it pressing down, and for the first time that night, he wished he could undo everything.

Matt’s gaze flicked down instinctively, almost away from Chris’s pajamas, but then he froze. The way Chris was sitting… he could see a flash of red, right on his inner thighs.

Matt blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. His brain refused to process it at first, was that… blood? It didn’t make sense. He stared again, heart starting to hammer. 

Matt’s breathing hitched, shallow and fast, as he leaned in, trying to see what that red stain really was. The motion made Chris jerk his head up suddenly, pulling his face out of his palms, eyes wide and panicked. Chris’ eyes followed Matt’s, locking on the small flash of red on his inner thighs. Chris didn’t hesitate, he sprang to his feet, the motion jerky, abrupt, like he was trying to put as much distance between them as possible. His pajama bottoms rustled as he took a step back, then another, each one hurried and uneven, as if he might fall at any second.

“What the fuck?” Matt’s voice came out sharp, a mix of panic and confusion, his own hands trembling slightly.

Chris froze for a split second, then continued backing away, his steps frantic, his eyes darting to Matt’s face, then down again, and he seemed to shrink in on himself, trying to make himself smaller, to hide. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled against his thighs, made Matt’s chest constrict even more. “What is going on?” he demanded, his voice rising, laced with both fear and a desperate need for answers, but Chris only kept stepping back, eyes wide, a silent storm of shock and fear.

Matt stood up, fast. His voice cracked through the air, rough and uneven. “Chris… what, what is that? Is that blood? What the hell is going on?”

Chris’s breath hitched, his hands fluttered nervously at his sides. “It’s nothing,” he said, voice small, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing.”

Matt took a step toward him. “What do you mean it’s nothing? What is that?”

Chris backed up a few steps, every movement slower, defensive, like he was trying to hold a fragile wall between them. “I said it’s nothing! Why do you care?” His voice cracked, and then louder, sharper, “Leave me alone, what the fuck is your problem?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. He moved closer again, his tone rising, desperate. “My problem? You’re bleeding, Chris, what the hell—”

Before he could finish, Chris shoved him hard in the chest. Matt stumbled backward, catching himself before he fell. “What the hell is your problem?!” Matt snapped, eyes flashing.

“I don’t have a problem!” Chris shouted back, tears clinging to his lashes. “I’m fine! Fuck you, Matt, why are you trying—fuck you, fuck off!”

Matt’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice breaking through the air again, furious and shaking. “What do you mean ‘fuck off’? You’re the one that fucking followed me here! If you get to care about my shit, then I get to care about yours! What the fuck is going on with you?”

Chris’s breathing got louder, quicker, his whole body trembling. His eyes glassed over as the tears started falling again, and his words came out choked, almost screamed through his crying. “What do you want me to tell you, huh? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that I cut myself?” Chris shouted, voice breaking. “Is that what you want? Is that what you fucking want, Matt?!”

The sound of it hit Matt like a brick to the chest. His body went still. Everything around him just… stopped.

His stomach dropped. The words reverberated in his head, echoing louder than the streetlights buzzing above them. He could feel the heat from his own anger evaporating, replaced by this heavy, sickening weight. Chris, small and trembling, was looking at him with wide, raw eyes, tears streaking down his face, his jaw tight as if he was trying to hold himself together.

Chris took a shaky breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. He looked like he wanted to disappear, to sink into the ground, but he stayed standing, shivering in the chill night air.

Matt’s chest heaved. “I want to see,” he said, his voice breaking, trembling but fierce. He took another step toward Chris.

Chris froze. “What…what do you mean? No, no, no,” he stammered, stepping back, hands up like he could hold the world off.

“Show me! Show me, fucking show me, show me!” Matt yelled, the words raw, desperate. His voice cracked over the last repetition, but he didn’t stop.

Chris shouted back, his voice rising, shaky but defiant. “I said no! Stop! Fuck!”

It wasn’t really anger between them, it was everything else, heavy and suffocating, spilling over until it felt like anger. Breath mingled with the cold night air, tears streaked faces illuminated under the streetlamps.

Matt’s hands shot forward, grabbing the waistband of Chris’s pajama bottoms. Chris immediately shoved his hand away. “Fuck off!”

Matt stumbled slightly, he was desperate to see, to understand. Chris tried to back away, pulling free. “No, Matt! Stop!”

“No,” Matt rasped. “No, Chris. I need—”

Before either of them fully processed it, Matt tackled him. They hit the grass with a soft thud, rolling slightly. The streetlamps cast a dim, yellow light over them, illuminating their struggle, Matt’s soaked t-shirt clinging to his back..

They twisted and grappled, both shouting, neither truly angry. Matt’s hands found the waistband again and tugged. Chris’s pajama bottoms came down to his knees.

Matt froze, staring. Chris’s thighs were pale in the streetlight, dotted with red lines, old scars, some faint and healed, and some sharper, fresher. New ones. The sight cracked him open from the inside.

A sob ripped out of Matt before he could stop it. He clutched at the grass, shaking violently, tears streaming down his face. He cried louder than Chris had, louder than anything he’d cried in years, shaking, overwhelmed by the sight of the damage he hadn’t known about, the pain his brother had been carrying alone.

Chris’s body slowly went slack beneath him, the fight leaving him like a tide receding. He lay back on the wet grass, staring up at the dim glow of the streetlamps, the night feeling too heavy, too sad. He had given up trying to push Matt away, but the sight of Matt crying, sobbing uncontrollably, broke something inside him all over again.

Matt stayed over him, still holding onto him in some unspoken way, sitting half on top of him, jeans wet, hands shaking. The pajama bottoms were still down at Chris’s knees, exposing the red lines, a raw map of pain he had carried alone. Matt’s sobs were ragged, loud, shaking, and they seemed to fill the night around them.

Chris felt the tears start again, rolling down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting. He buried his face in his hands, letting himself cry too. His shoulders heaved, matching Matt’s sobs in rhythm. They were both crying, both broken, on the cold grass under the weak glow of the streetlamps, sharing a grief and a weight that had been silent for far too long.

Even in his sadness, Chris reached a hand up and touched Matt’s arm lightly, not pushing him away, just a tentative connection, a small acknowledgment of the storm of emotions between them. 

Matt’s shoulders shook harder, his sobs ragged, uncontrolled. “I—I had no idea,” he gasped between breaths, his voice raw. “I didn’t… I didn’t know… Chris, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” He pressed closer, as if trying to make up for years of not knowing, and the words spilled out uncontrollably, “I didn’t know… I didn’t see… I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Tears blurred his vision as he kept crying, head bowed over Chris’s chest, hands gripping his arms like he could somehow take the pain in himself. “I—I never meant… I didn’t know, I swear…” Every apology came out in broken gasps, each one heavier than the last. He kept sobbing, shaking, as if the sheer weight of seeing Chris’s scars, seeing the suffering he never knew about, was crushing him from the inside.

Chris lay still beneath him, silent, letting Matt cry, letting him apologize over and over. The night wrapped around them, the wet grass pressing cold against their bodies, the weak glow of the streetlamp painting their shared grief in pale light. Matt didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Every “I’m sorry” was a tiny plea, a desperate attempt to reach Chris, to make things right, even if he knew nothing could ever fix this.

Chris’s hands trembled as he finally lifted them to Matt’s shoulders, weakly pushing him just enough to look up. His eyes were red, puffy, but glimmering with something fragile—trust, maybe, or relief. “Matt… it’s okay,” he whispered, voice cracking, small and quiet but heavy with exhaustion. Matt’s tears kept spilling, but hearing Chris speak, hearing him not scream or push away, made his sobs shudder differently, less desperate, more raw, more full of guilt and sorrow. His forehead pressing against Chris’s chest. “I just… I didn’t know… I never saw, I never—fuck, I’m sorry I didn’t see.”

Chris let himself relax a fraction, the feeling of the grass beneath him grounding him, the cool night pressing around them, letting him breathe again. “I know,” he said, voice still trembling. 

Matt let out a shaky, ragged sob and leaned fully down, pressing his chest to Chris’s. Chris’s arms lifted automatically, wrapping around Matt’s back, pulling him close. The weight of Matt against him, wet and trembling, made Chris’s own body shake, and he hugged back just as tightly, trying to be solid for the first time in what felt like forever.

They stayed like that, chests heaving together, heads pressed against each other, sharing warmth in the cool night air. Matt’s tears soaked Chris’s white t-shirt, but neither of them pulled away. Words didn’t come; they didn’t need to. 

After a long, shaky moment, Matt slowly pulled back just enough to look at Chris, his eyes red and puffy, still sobbing. “We… we should go home,” he whispered, voice cracking. Chris nodded, still holding onto him, and they stood up carefully, Chris adjusting his pajama bottoms.

Matt kept an arm around Chris’s shoulders as they walked slowly toward the street. Every step was tentative, weighed down by everything that had just happened, but they moved together, silent except for the soft sound of their feet on the pavement.

They reached the porch, and Matt froze for a moment, hands on the railing. The quiet was different. The air smelled faintly of the night, wet grass, and something sharp lingering in his memory. He felt the pull of habit, the need to go to the backyard, to burn the hoodie, to do everything the way he always did, but there was no hoodie, and Chris was with him. He clenched his jaw, pushing the urge down, and they stepped inside without a word.

The hallway felt narrow, the stairs looming ahead. They moved up slowly, silently, each step echoing softly against the wood. The weight of what had just happened hung between them, unspoken, pressing into their shoulders.

Chris stopped, voice barely a whisper, “I… I don’t want you to see me… or treat me differently.”

Matt nodded once, tight and small, and didn’t say anything. Chris turned toward his room, Matt toward his, and they slipped inside, doors clicking softly behind them. Alone, but somehow still together in the silence.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

Chris shuts his door quietly, the click of the latch echoing in the dark. He presses his back against it, breathing shallow, his chest rising and falling like it’s trying to escape him. His hand comes up to his mouth, pressing hard, harder, until it hurts, anything to stop the sound. But it doesn’t work. The sobs still come out, muffled and broken, shaking through his chest.

He slides down slowly, the wood against his back cold, until he’s sitting on the floor. He bites down on his knuckles, hard enough to taste salt and skin, trying to silence himself. He doesn’t want anyone to hear. 

His other hand finds his thigh, gripping tight, right over the lines. The skin there stings under his fingers, faint but real. The proof of everything he’s been trying to hide. The reminder that Matt knows now. That someone finally saw.

And he can’t tell if that makes him feel lighter or worse.

He leans his head back against the door, eyelids heavy, tears running freely now despite the pressure of his hand. The sobs come in uneven bursts, rattling his chest, making him shiver in the darkness. Every breath feels sharp, every heartbeat loud.

His fingers stay pressed against his thigh, tracing the scars almost instinctively, like trying to memorize them, understand them, or maybe punish himself a little for what they mean. He hates that they’re there. He hates that Matt saw them. He hates that he’s shaking, that he can’t stop crying.

He curls his knees to his chest, clutching them tightly, his forehead resting on his knees. The quiet of the room presses in, and he lets the tears fall without shame now. Each one feels like it’s carrying a piece of everything he’s been holding inside all bundled into the soft, tremulous sound of him crying alone.

And somewhere deep down, he knows this is only the beginning of everything he’s going to have to face.

His breathing starts to slow, but his mind won’t stop. It drifts to the tin box under the mattress. He can see it in his head without even looking: the small silver edges, the weight of it, the way it would feel in his hands if he pulled it out right now. The thought hits him hard, sharp, like muscle memory.

His fingers twitch on his thigh, almost reaching for it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Just the idea of it, the quiet focus, the sting, the release, feels like a promise. A way to stop feeling like this, just for a second.

But then he sees Matt again. The way his face broke open when he saw the scars. The sound of his crying. It plays again and again in his head, until Chris’s stomach twists with guilt. He pulls his hand away from his leg like it burned him, wiping his face with the back of his arm. He crawls onto the bed instead, lying on his side with his back to the wall, eyes open in the dark. He focuses on the ceiling, on breathing, on anything except the box under the mattress.

He doesn’t know if he’ll sleep. He just knows he can’t open that box again. Not tonight.

He twists again, once, twice, over and over, the sheets twisted around his legs like they’re holding him down. His eyes are wide in the dark, staring at the ceiling that doesn’t offer any answers. His chest heaves, heart too loud in the quiet, and his mind won’t stop. Every thought circles back, every memory sharp, every impulse buzzing under his skin.

After what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, he can’t do it anymore. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor, and he stands. The house is still. Too still. He pads down the hallway, careful not to wake anyone, the darkness pressing against him.

In the kitchen, he grabs the milk carton from the fridge without thinking. The cold hits his hands as he rips the cap off, and then he tilts it, chugging straight from the carton. The cool liquid burns his throat in a way that makes his chest tighten, but it’s the only thing that feels like it’s filling the empty ache inside. His eyes are still wide, still restless, still too awake for sleep. He keeps chugging, ignoring the slight shake in his hands, trying to wash something down into himself to quiet the chaos.

Chris jumps, almost dropping the carton, when Matt’s voice cuts through the quiet kitchen. “Wow, straight from the carton? That’s… hygienic,” Matt says, half-grinning, half-teasing.

Chris swallows fast, heart still racing. “Shut up,” he mumbles, but there’s no bite in it.

Matt leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, watching him. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits quietly. Chris nods slowly, setting the carton down. He doesn’t need to ask, he already knows why.

They end up sitting opposite each other at the small kitchen table, silent, the dim light from the fridge casting long shadows. Chris watches Matt out of the corner of his eye, knowing exactly what’s in his mind. He wants answers, he wants the truth, but neither of them say anything yet. The tension hangs heavy, thick, waiting for someone to speak first.

Chris’s fingers won’t stay still. They twist in the hem of his t-shirt, pick at a loose thread, press into his palms like he’s trying to ground himself. He stares down at the table, anywhere but at Matt.

“It started a couple of years ago,” he says finally, voice small, hoarse. “I don’t even know why. I just… one night I felt so bad I didn’t know what else to do. And then I did it, and it… helped. I don’t know why it helped, but it did. It made everything go quiet for a while.”

He swallows hard, throat clicking. “And I kept doing it. For a while. Then one day I stopped. I didn’t even decide to stop, I just… didn’t need to anymore. I was clean for almost a year.”

His hand goes up to his face, rubbing his eyes roughly. When he drops it, his lashes are wet. “And then a few days ago I started again. I don’t even know what happened, I just… something in me snapped. I was tired, and angry, and I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t.”

He lets out a shaky laugh that breaks halfway through. “It’s pathetic, right? All that time, and I still…” He trails off, breathing uneven. His shoulders are shaking just slightly, like he’s holding it in with everything he has.

When he looks up for half a second, his eyes glisten, red-rimmed and watery, before darting away again. “The ones you saw… they’re from before, most of them. But the new ones… those are from this week.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. I didn’t want you to see me like that.” His jaw trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He presses his palms into his knees, head bowed, and a tear falls onto the table. “You weren’t supposed to know,” he says again, quieter this time, like he’s talking more to himself than to Matt.

Matt shakes his head immediately, eyes wide and soft. “Don’t… don’t say sorry,” he says quietly, voice breaking a little. “You shouldn’t have to apologize for that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Chris doesn’t look up. He’s still staring at the table, shoulders hunched, jaw tight.

Matt hesitates, then keeps going, the words spilling out, awkward and uneven. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve been… I don’t know. I’ve been making everyone’s lives harder lately. You, Mom, everyone. I’ve just been—” he stops, exhales shakily. “Going through some stuff.”

Matt’s hand moves across the table slowly, uncertainly, like he’s afraid Chris will pull away. He reaches out, fingers brushing over Chris’s knuckles, hesitant, almost asking for permission.

Chris glances up for a moment, eyes glassy, then down at their hands. He doesn’t move at first, but he doesn’t pull away either.

Matt swallows hard, staring down at the small scratches on the wooden surface. His voice barely comes out when he finally speaks. “It’s… because of me, isn’t it?”

Chris looks confused at first, brow furrowing. “What?”

Matt lifts his head just enough for their eyes to meet. There’s guilt carved into every line of his face. “You… started again because of me,” he says quietly. “Because of all the fighting and the shit I’ve done lately. I made everything worse.”

Chris’s mouth opens like he’s about to argue, but nothing comes out right away. Matt keeps talking, faster now, his voice breaking. “You were doing fine before. And then I— I fucked up, I started losing it, and now—”

“Matt,” Chris interrupts softly, reaching out, but Matt pulls his hand back, shaking his head.

His throat burns. “You shouldn’t have to deal with me. You shouldn’t have to… hurt because of me.”

Chris’s face twists, hurt, confused, desperate. “That’s not why, Matt. It’s not…  it’s not your fault.”

But Matt doesn’t look convinced. He just stares down at his lap, eyes glassy, whispering, “Yeah, it is.”

Matt’s breath hitches, once, twice, and then it just breaks. The words he was trying to hold back slip out in a choked sound, and before he can stop it, he’s crying again. He presses the heel of his palms against his eyes, but it doesn’t stop anything.

Chris freezes, watching him, his own eyes wide and wet. Matt takes in a ragged breath that sounds more like a sob. “I didn’t—” he tries to speak, but his voice cracks halfway through. “I didn’t want to… make everything so fucking hard.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers clawing at his hair. “I just, I can’t stop screwing everything up. I can’t stop—” he cuts himself off with another broken sound, wiping at his face uselessly.

Chris finally moves, his chair scraping quietly against the floor as he slides closer. Matt’s still shaking, his face red and wet and angry at himself. “It’s not you, Matt,” Chris says softly, but Matt just lets out a bitter, shaky laugh that turns into another sob.

“I ruin everything,” he whispers through his hands. “I ruin everyone.”

Chris shut his door and leaned his back against it. The air in his room felt heavier than before, like it hadn’t moved since he left it. He pressed a palm over his mouth, hard, trying to stop the sound that was already threatening to come out of him. It didn’t work. The tears came fast, stupid and hot. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, biting into his knuckles to silence himself. The faint taste of salt and skin filled his mouth. He didn’t even know why he was crying again, everything just felt like too much.

After a while, the sobs stopped coming but the ache stayed. He stayed sitting there, hugging his knees, breathing through the tightness in his chest. 

They had said goodnight not even an hour ago. Well, more like good morning. The sun would be up soon. They had hugged before going back to their rooms, a real hug, one that clung and didn’t let go right away. Matt’s hand had been shaking against his back, but he didn’t say anything about it.

Chris shut his eyes. He could still feel the warmth from it.

He tried to sleep, again, lying still on his back, eyes open to the dark. His mind wouldn’t stop. It just kept looping over everything Matt said, everything Matt didn’t say. He kept seeing Matt’s face when he cried, the kind of crying that breaks something in your chest just watching it.

After a while, he sat up. There was no point in pretending he’d sleep. The air in his room felt thick. His heart was racing again, fast and uneven. He ran a hand through his hair and got up, pacing.

He thought about how strange Matt had been lately. The short temper. The nights he’d disappear. The blood once, on his shoes, and the dirt under his nails. He said it was nothing. Always nothing.

It had to be something.

Chris pressed his palms against his eyes until stars burst behind them. Drugs, he thought. Fights. Maybe both. But that wasn’t Matt. Matt was moody, reckless sometimes, but not that. Except… lately he didn’t know who Matt even was.

He looked over at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Almost time to get up anyway.

Without thinking much, he pushed his blanket aside and left his room. The hallway was dark, cold on his bare feet. Matt’s door was closed, but not all the way. Chris stood there for a second, listening. Silence.

He pushed the door open a little more.

Matt was asleep. Somehow, impossibly, actually asleep. His arm was half-hanging off the bed, fingers twitching like he was dreaming. His hoodie was tossed over a chair. His face looked calm, not peaceful exactly, just… empty. No tension. No scowl.

Chris stepped in, barely breathing. He stood there for a long minute just watching. The quiet felt weirdly fragile, like one sound could shatter it.

He wanted to believe that Matt was okay. That whatever this was, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. But deep down, he knew better.

He turned to the window. The sky was changing, faint pink and grey. The sun was coming.

Chris’s throat tightened. He took one last look at his brother, then turned and left the room quietly, shutting the door behind him.

When he got back to his own bed, he lay down and pulled the blanket over his head. His eyes were wide open. He wasn’t sleeping, he was just pretending to.

When the alarm went off, it didn’t even startle him. He’d been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, waiting for it. His head hurt, that deep, dull kind of headache that comes from no sleep.

He sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes, and got dressed. His body moved on autopilot, the way it always did when his brain was too full.

Downstairs smelled like coffee. The kitchen light was too bright. His mom was already sitting at the table, scrolling through her phone, and his dad was flipping through the newspaper. The usual.

Matt came down a few minutes later. He looked half-dead, eyes puffy, hair messy, that grayish tint to his skin like he hadn’t rested either. He didn’t even look at Chris when he sat across from him.

“Morning,” Mary Lou said softly, not looking up.

“Morning,” they both mumbled back at the same time.

The silence after that was thick. Chris could hear every small sound.

Matt reached for a piece of toast and didn’t eat it. Just held it there, staring at it like he was thinking about something else. Chris watched him for a second before looking away. He didn’t know if he wanted to say something or not. What was there even to say?

Nick came in late, as usual, still tying his shoes and talking about some test he didn’t study for. The noise made things feel normal for about ten seconds.

Chris looked at Matt again. He looked worse up close. Pale. Hands trembling slightly when he reached for the coffee. There was something hollow about him, not just tired, but gone somewhere else in his head.

Chris pushed a piece of toast around his plate. He wanted to ask are you okay? but it sounded too small. Too stupid for the kind of weight hanging between them.

Instead, he just said, “You didn’t sleep much, huh?”

Matt looked up for the first time, eyes heavy but sharp at the edges. “Yeah. You neither.”

That was it. That was all they said. But it was enough to make Chris’s stomach twist because there was so much behind it. So much neither of them was ready to touch, not again, not in front of everyone. 

When Matt finally stood to leave for school, Chris caught himself watching him again. His brother’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders tense, like he was trying to hold the world together with the weight of his body alone.

Chris’s chest ached in that way it only did for Matt. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he knew something was. 

He still couldn’t believe it. Someone finally knew. Matt knows.

It felt impossible. He’d spent so long hiding it, burying it under layers of excuses and empty smiles, and now… Matt had seen. Last night was almost surreal. Like he should have felt relief, maybe even comfort, but all he could feel was this dizzy, floating disbelief. Someone actually knew. Someone finally really knew, and they hadn’t screamed or left or looked at him like he was broken. They had just… understood, in their own messy, human way.

Chris blinked rapidly, but the thought kept spinning in his mind. Matt knew. And that was… wild.

Chapter Text

Matt had been lying in the dark for over an hour, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the streetlight leaking through the blinds, listening to the house breathe around him. He turned his head toward the clock on his nightstand.

1:13 AM.

Chris’s door across the hall stayed shut. That didn’t mean anything. Chris was a heavy sleeper, but not that heavy. Matt sat up slowly, careful with the mattress springs, careful with the floorboards. Every sound felt like it could give him away, like the house itself might betray him if he stepped wrong.

He crossed the hallway and gently twisted Chris’s doorknob open. The room was dark, washed in pale blue from the streetlight outside. Chris was on his side, facing the wall, his breathing slow and even. Completely out.

Relief loosened something in Matt’s chest.

He closed the door quietly and stood there for another second, just in case. Just to be sure.

Then he went back to his room and climbed out his window.

The night air was cold enough to wake him fully. He dropped down into the yard and started walking before his brain could talk him out of it. The streets were empty, but not in a comforting way, empty like something was waiting.

He kept his head down, hoodie pulled up, moving at a steady pace toward the park. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Acting normal, even though his heart was anything but.

The closer he got, the tighter his chest felt.

He cut through the gate and walked into the park, eyes searching the uneven ground near the trees. It didn’t take long before he saw the bush.

The hoodie.

Right where he’d left it.

For a second, he forgot to breathe.

He crossed the distance in a few quick steps and picked it up, inspecting it like it might vanish if he blinked. A small, shaky laugh escaped him.

“Thank God…”

The words barely had time to leave his mouth before another voice cut through the air.

“Hey! What are you doing?!”

Matt’s head snapped up.

Two police officers stood behind him, about ten meters away, their hands resting casually on their belts but their eyes sharp. He was snooping around in bushes at 2am and probably looked as suspicious as Ted Bundy. 

His stomach dropped straight through him.

“Just… looking for something?” he said, but it came out wrong. Weak. Too fast.

“Stay where you are,” one of them said, taking a slow step forward.

Matt didn’t think. He grabbed the hoodie like his life depended on it before he turned and ran.

His body moved on pure instinct. His sneakers pounded the pavement as he burst out of the park and down the street, breath tearing out of him. Behind him, he heard the officers shout and then start running too.

“Stop!”

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to not go to fucking prison for life. If he got caught, the cops would take the hoodie and that would tie him to Eliot's murder. It wouldn't be long until they’d figure out that he killed all the other offenders too. He had to keep running. 

He turned corners sharp, going anywhere that wasn’t home. He knew he couldn’t lead them there. The thought alone made his stomach twist. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but adrenaline kept dragging him forward.

They were still close.

He cut into an alley, then froze.

Dead end.

A tall chain-link fence stretched across the back, too high to climb comfortably, too late to hesitate.

So he didn’t.

He threw the hoodie over the top without thinking, grabbed the metal, and pulled himself up. The fence rattled under his weight, his palms burning as the metal scraped his skin, but he kept moving.

He could hear the officers behind him now, their footsteps skidding to a stop.

He swung over and dropped onto the other side.

Pain shot through his legs when he landed, but he didn’t stop. He just ran again, not daring to slow down until the sounds behind him finally faded into nothing.

☁︎

He collapsed onto his knees in his own backyard, chest heaving, body shaking, still clutching the hoodie like it had grown into his hands.

His brain struggled to catch up with what had just happened.

He’d just run from the police.
He’d almost been caught.
All over a piece of fabric.

He looked around the yard, breathing hard. Too open. Too risky. The neighborhood was probably flooded with patrols anyway. Burning it now would be the stupidest thing he could do.

So he went inside.

Back through his window, back into his room like he’d never left.

He flicked on his lamp. Under the soft yellow light, the hoodie looked even worse. Dirt-stained, worn, heavy with meaning. Not clothes anymore, evidence.

His stomach twisted.

He should destroy it. He knew that. But not tonight.

His hands shoved it deep into the back of his closet, behind boxes and old clothes, where it didn’t belong and yet somehow fit perfectly with everything he’d become.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closet door.

Then he turned away.

He dropped onto his bed fully dressed, exhaustion crushing him all at once. His body felt like it had been peeled open and stitched back wrong. His thoughts slowed. His breathing finally evened out.

And in the quiet of his room, with the hoodie hidden but not gone, Matt finally let his eyes close, not because he felt safe, but because his body had nothing left to give.

Morning didn’t feel like a reset. It felt like a continuation of a mistake that had just gone quiet for a few hours.

Matt woke up with his back aching slightly and his throat dry, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t really touch. For a second he just stared at the ceiling, trying to orient himself. His room looked the same as always and it made him feel almost sick, how normal everything looked.

His eyes drifted to the closet.

He didn’t move. He just looked at it.

The hoodie was in there, folded the wrong way, shoved too quickly, like something trying to be hidden instead of stored. He could almost feel it through the wood, like the door was thinner than it should be. It didn’t make sense how something so simple could weigh so much. He sat up slowly and ran a hand down his face. His jaw felt tight, like he’d been clenching it all night without realizing. Everything inside him felt dull.

Downstairs, the morning sounded like it always did. Chris was already sitting at the table when Matt came in. He looked exhausted, but not in the way someone looks after a late night or a bad sleep. There was something deeper in it, something settled behind his eyes. Like he’d aged slightly while no one was looking.

“You look like shit,” Chris said, quietly, not even trying to make it a joke.

Matt let out a dry huff. “Good morning to you too.”

Chris gave him a small, tired look but didn’t push it. He just went back to his cereal, stirring it even though it was already soggy, like he was avoiding finishing it.

Their mom glanced between them, clearly sensing a weirdness she didn’t understand. “You both okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” they both answered automatically.

It was weird how easily the lie landed.

Matt didn’t sit. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching Chris’s fingers fidget around the spoon. There was so much he wanted to say. Not about the hoodie. Not about the other night. Just… something. Anything. But every word felt like it would collapse as soon as he let it out.

Outside felt too open.

The sky was clear and stupidly blue, like it didn’t care about anything at all. The street looked the same as yesterday, same sidewalks, same cracked pavement, same houses that had no idea what he’d done within walking distance of them. It made him feel unreal, like he was walking inside a normal world that wasn’t aware it had him in it.

Every time a car slowed down, his body tensed. He kept thinking about how last night had been chaos, and now it was just… quiet. Ordinary. Like it never happened.

And that was almost worse.

At school, nothing stuck in his brain. The world moved forward around him and he felt like he was just dragging his body along for the sake of it. He wondered if this was what it meant to lose yourself, not all at once, not dramatically, but slowly. Piece by piece, while everyone assumed you were still the same.

By the time he got home, the exhaustion wasn’t physical anymore. It was deeper. Like his thoughts were tired too.

The door to his room closed behind him, and his eyes went back to the closet almost immediately, like a reflex.

It was still there. Still waiting. Still proof.

And suddenly he wasn’t even thinking about the police.

He was just thinking about how this had changed him, and how he didn’t know if he could ever undo it, or if he even remembered how to try. 

Night sat heavy on his chest like something physical.

Matt couldn’t sleep no matter how long he kept his eyes shut. The room felt too small, like the walls were slowly stepping closer. Eventually he gave up. He pushed the blanket off and walked down the hallway, not even thinking about it, just moving.

Chris’ door was cracked open. Matt nudged it wider and stepped inside.

Chris was fast asleep, his face turned toward the window, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. Seeing him like that, calm, unaware, made something inside Matt break.

The tears came before he even realized he was crying.

It was silent at first, just his breathing going uneven, his chest hurting from how hard he was trying to hold it in. But he couldn’t. A small, broken sound slipped out, then another. His hand flew up to his mouth, but it didn’t help.

Chris stirred.

“Matt…?” he mumbled, voice low and groggy.

Chris sat up, confused, blinking at the sight of him standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Matt tried to speak but nothing came. His legs started shaking instead. He took one step forward, then another, and that’s when his body just… gave up on him.

He slowly slipped down to the floor.

Chris was awake instantly after that. He didn’t hesitate, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and knelt down in front of him.

“Hey, hey…” Chris whispered, hands grabbing Matt’s arms.

Matt’s forehead dropped forward as another sob tore through him. He folded in on himself, shoulders shaking hard now, like he had nothing left in him.

Chris pulled him closer, their knees touching, and Matt let himself fall into his chest.

They just stayed there on the floor, holding onto each other. Like a renaissance painting. 

Matt’s fingers twisted in the back of Chris’ shirt, his breathing coming out in short, broken gasps. His voice finally cracked through the sobs.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

Chris didn’t question it. He didn’t push. He just tightened his arms around him, his chin resting against Matt’s head.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The room stayed quiet after that. Just two of them on the floor.

And for a moment, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

Chris’ eyes finally fluttered open, unfocused, staring up at the faint outline of the ceiling in the dim, bluish darkness of the night. The clock on his nightstand glowed faintly, some terrible hour where the world was supposed to be sleeping.

And then it hit him.

Matt. The sobbing. The way his body had folded in on itself on the floor like something inside him had finally caved in. The way Chris had knelt down and wrapped his arms around him, trying to hold him together when he felt like he was coming apart.

His heart tightened all over again.

Chris turned his head slowly, fear and dread mixed with something impossibly gentle.

Matt was there.

Curled up on the floor beside the bed. His body was turned on its side, knees slightly drawn in, like a kid who had fallen asleep in the middle of emotional exhaustion. His face looked softer in sleep, unguarded, stripped of the sharp edges he wore during the day. The faint rise and fall of his back was the only proof that he was even there.

Chris stared at him for a long time.

Something about it broke him all over again. Matt didn’t look like the person who slammed doors. Didn’t look like the person who snapped, cursed, disappeared for hours at a time. He just looked… small. Tired. Hurt in a way that went deeper than words could ever reach.

Carefully, so carefully his muscles ached with how tense they were, Chris pushed himself up from the bed. A quiet creak slipped from the mattress and he froze, staring down, waiting to see if Matt would stir. He didn’t. Just breathed. Slowly. Steadily.

The house was dead silent.

He stepped over Matt carefully, padding out into the hallway. The floor beneath his feet felt colder than usual. Shadows clung to the corners. The whole house felt like it was waiting, watching him move.

Matt’s door was cracked open.

Chris hesitated only for a second before nudging it wider and stepping inside.

The room looked the same as always. Messy. Half-lived-in. Clothes scattered, desk cluttered, curtains slightly open to the faintest hint of pre-dawn light. But underneath all of that, there was a thick silence. The kind of silence that felt deliberate.

He didn’t even really know what he was looking for. Only that he needed to look.

He checked the desk. The drawers. Under the desk chair. Nothing but regular, boring, harmless mess. He crouched down and looked beneath the bed too.

His hands shook slightly as he lifted the corner of the mattress and checked again. Still nothing, just Matt's hidden stash of cigarettes.

And then, without thinking, his eyes shifted to the side of the room.

The closet.

It was slightly open, just barely. Like it had never been closed properly. Like it wanted to be noticed.

A strange feeling washed over him, slow and icy. He didn’t know why. He moved toward it, every step heavier than the last, and slowly pulled the door all the way open.

His breath left him.

On the floor inside was a bunched-up hoodie.

At first, his mind rejected what he was seeing. It tried to make it normal. Just fabric. Just clothes. Just something forgotten. But then the darkened stains caught the dim light. Blood. A shit ton of blood.

He dropped to his knees, the movement so sudden it almost hurt.

His hands hovered above the hoodie for a moment, too afraid to touch it, before his fingers finally closed around the worn fabric. It felt heavier than it should have. Wrong. Like it carried something that didn’t want to be held.

His heart slammed in his chest, faster and faster until it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside.

No. No, no, no…

Time seemed to slow to nothing. The room blurred around the edges of his vision. All he could see was the hoodie in his lap, the quiet horror of it, the evidence of something he didn’t want to name but already understood.

“Oh my god…” he breathed.

His hands started to tremble violently. A sick, heavy weight settled in his stomach, dragging him down. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t imagination.

This was real.

For a split second, Chris couldn’t move.

The world snapped back into motion all at once. Panic flooded through him, hot and sharp, like ice and fire colliding in his veins. Instinct kicked in before reason had the chance to speak.

He shoved the hoodie back into the closet, deeper this time, forcing it behind hanging clothes, pushing it into the darkest corner he could find. His heart hammered so violently in his chest that he was sure it could be heard from down the hallway. He slammed the closet door shut a little too hard, then froze again, fingers still pressed against the handle.

“…Chris?”

It was his mom’s voice.

Soft. Confused. Sleepy.

He turned slowly. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in her robe, hair slightly messy, eyes heavy but worried. 

“What are you doing in Matt’s room, honey?” she asked gently.

Chris opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first.

Words tangled up in his throat, caught behind the horrible image still burned into his mind. Blood. Dirt. That terrible, unmistakable heaviness. His brother’s hoodie. His brother’s secrets.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe normally even though his lungs felt like they were shrinking.

“I— I couldn’t sleep,” he finally murmured, his voice too thin, too strained to sound believable.

“You scared me, I thought something was wrong.”

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

But he couldn’t say it.

He couldn’t even think it out loud yet.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he added, eyes burning now, not from sleepiness but from pressure building up behind them. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She stepped a little closer. Immediately, her expression changed. She tilted her head, studying his face more carefully now. “Chris… are you okay?”

That gentle question was what almost broke him.

His vision blurred. He pressed his lips together, trying desperately to hold it in. He shook his head once, like he could physically shake this moment away, shake the image of that hoodie out of existence.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, barely audible. “I just feel… really bad.”

She didn’t press him. She didn’t interrogate. She reached out and brushed his cheek softly with her thumb, like he was still a little kid.

“Go back to bed, honey,” she said. 

He nodded, even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not after this. Not ever the same way again.

As soon as she turned and padded back down the hall, the tears he had been holding back finally slipped free.

He stood there for a moment longer, staring at the closed closet door. At the secret breathing inside it. At the proof of something he wasn’t ready to name.

Why is there blood on his hoodie? What did Matt do? Who is my brother?

His chest tightened as a sob threatened to escape aloud, but he smothered it quickly with his hand and turned, leaving the room as quietly as he could.

When he reached his own doorway, Matt was still there on the floor, breathing slowly, unaware.

Chris stared at him, and the sight of him now felt almost unbearable.

He lay back down on the bed, facing the wall, his back to Matt so he wouldn’t have to look at him anymore.

But his mind wouldn’t stop.

Something terrible had happened.

And somehow… it all led back to the person he loved most in the world.

Chris didn’t sleep. He lay on his back, staring up at the faint outline of the ceiling, every muscle rigid, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The room felt colder than it should. His heartbeat refused to slow down, thudding loud in his ears, in his throat, in his fingertips. Every time he blinked, the image of the hoodie flashed behind his eyes, soaked, ruined, dark with blood that didn’t belong there. Didn’t belong anywhere near Matt. Didn’t belong inside this house.

He slowly turned his head.

Matt was still there on the floor, curled slightly on his side, breathing evenly, strands of hair fallen across his forehead. He looked painfully normal. Like nothing in the world was wrong.

His thoughts raced, branching into darker and darker possibilities. Each image made his stomach twist tighter. That wasn’t his brother. It couldn’t be. Matt was annoying, secretive, emotional, but violent? Dangerous? No. The math didn’t make sense. Yet the blood had been real. Thick. Stiff with dirt. Tangled with a tiny broken twig like it had been dragged through somewhere it didn’t belong.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, hands fisting into the sheets.
Am I in danger?
Is he in danger?
Is someone else in danger?

He didn’t know which question scared him more.

Time dragged. The silence of the house grew heavier, then slowly softened as the world outside began to wake up. A pale line of light crept across the floor, stretching, touching Matt’s shoulder, inching up to his face. Chris watched as his eyelashes fluttered, and then Matt stirred, squinting as the sunlight hit his eyes.

Matt shifted, rolling onto his back. “...Why am I on the floor?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Chris swallowed hard and forced his expression into something neutral. Something normal. His insides were still in pieces.
“You just… came in my room last night. I guess you crashed here.”

Matt rubbed his face and sat up slowly. “Oh. Yeah…” He looked a little confused, like the memories were foggy. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Chris said quickly, maybe too quickly, then turned his head away before Matt could read anything else in his face.

He didn’t mention the hoodie. Not the blood. Not the cold shock, or the panic that had crawled under his skin and refused to leave. He just sat there in silence, watching the morning take over the room, knowing that whatever was going on with his brother was bigger than he’d ever imagined.

Chris didn’t remember most of the school day because he hadn’t really been there.

His body had been in a chair, his book open, a pen in his hand, but his mind was locked somewhere else, somewhere dark and suffocating, wrapped around the image that wouldn’t stop replaying in his head. Every time the teacher called his name, he flinched like he was being pulled out of water. The world felt distant, distorted. He was walking through it like a ghost.

When the final bell rang, it sounded too loud, too sharp. Kids poured into the hallway. He stood there for a moment, gripping the straps of his bag, wondering how everyone else could move so easily while his chest felt carved out and hollow.

He kept seeing Matt as a kid in flashes, laughing in the yard, stealing his phone, shoving him into the couch cushions and holding him there. He tried to hang onto those memories, like if he focused hard enough, they could overwrite what he’d seen. But they wouldn’t. The image of the closet clung to him, stubborn and silent and accusing.

When he stepped into the house, the air felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too still. The kind of quiet that made his skin prickle.

He saw Matt on the stairs. Just his back, moving upward like any normal day. Like there wasn’t something unexplainable hanging between them.

“Hey,” Chris called without thinking.

Matt paused for half a second. Not even long enough to be sure it was intentional. Then, “Hey.”

That was it. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t smile. Didn’t ask how his day was. He just kept walking until his bedroom door shut. Chris stood there longer than he meant to. His eyes stayed fixed on that door. It looked the same as it always had… but now it felt like the thickness of a tombstone.

He finally forced himself to move, going into his own room and dropping his bag on the floor. His hands were shaking as he sat on the edge of his bed. He stared at his wall, at a tiny crack running along the paint, trying to steady his breathing. His gaze slowly shifted to his laptop on the desk.

He stood, crossed the room, opened the computer. The soft glow hurt his tired eyes as he went to the login page. His fingers hovered over the keys for a second before he typed Matt’s email. Then he started guessing passwords, dates, names, anything emotionally significant he could think of.

Every attempt came back the same.

Incorrect password.

The simple words felt like rejection. Like a locked door being slammed in his face over and over again. He leaned back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. 

That night, sleep still refused to come. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, listening to the walls creak and the wind scrape at the windows. His room felt too big. Too empty. When he closed his eyes, everything came back. The sickening sense that something far bigger was happening just beyond his reach.

At some point his body must have given up, because pale light eventually began to creep across his floor. Morning.

He heard people downstairs. Matt. Matt was downstairs.

His heart started racing.

Chris pushed himself upright. The impulse came instantly, like it had been waiting for him to wake up. He stepped into the hallway, bare feet silent against the floor, and rushed to Matt’s door. His hand hovered over the handle. For a split second, he felt guilty. Like he was about to violate something sacred.

Then he turned it.

The door opened easily.

Matt’s room looked untouched. Like nothing dark had ever existed inside it.

His eyes snapped to the desk first. The laptop. Still closed. Unyielding.

Slowly, like walking toward the edge of a cliff, he turned to the closet.

His body already knew what his mind wasn’t ready for.

He slid the door open.

It was gone.

The hoodie, the proof, the horror, the unexplainable reality of what he had seen, had completely disappeared. The room seemed to tilt around him.

His stomach dropped, cold and heavy, and a strange hollow ringing filled his ears. For a few horrible seconds, he genuinely wondered if he’d imagined everything. If grief and exhaustion had created something out of nothing.

But he knew.

He knew what he saw.

Matt had gotten rid of it. 

A chill crawled up his spine. Chris stepped back, slowly shutting the closet door like it might bite him. His heart pounded so loud he was sure the whole house could hear it. 

Chris lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, mind spinning. The hoodie was gone. Vanished. Where had Matt put it? Did he even know that Chris had seen it last night? His chest tightened, and he felt that gnawing mix of dread and curiosity. Every possible scenario ran through his head, each one worse than the last.

He swung his legs off the bed. As he passed Matt’s room, he froze. The door was open. Empty. Matt’s bed was neatly made, the floor bare. His heart jumped. It was three in the morning. Where the hell was Matt?

Chris didn’t think. He ran back to his room, threw on his converse as fast as he could, shoved a hoodie over his head, and bolted downstairs in his pajama bottoms. The house was silent, too quiet, shadows stretching across the walls. He opened the front door, and a shadow moved across the street. Perfect timing. Matt.

Chris’s stomach twisted. Where was he going? What was he doing at this hour? He hesitated only a second, then closed the door quietly behind him, letting the night swallow him, and started following. Every step was careful, deliberate, keeping the distance just right so Matt wouldn’t notice. The air was cold and sharp, and Chris’s pulse raced with each heartbeat, every instinct screaming that something was happening, but he had no idea what.

The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and Chris felt the weight of the silence around him. His mind went back to the hoodie, the blood, the last night, and he couldn’t shake it. He needed to know. Whatever Matt was doing, he needed to see it, to understand it, before it was too late.

He quickened his pace, keeping Matt in view. The figure ahead was moving with purpose, almost mechanical. Chris’s breath hitched. He didn’t know what he’d do if he actually caught up, if he actually found out what Matt was hiding. But he couldn’t stop now. Not tonight. Not when the answers were right there in the dark, just across the street.

Chapter Text

Chris’ pov

Chris kept his distance, not too far, not too close, just enough that Matt’s shadow stayed in sight. The street felt colder than usual, the kind of cold that got into your bones and made everything sound sharper, clearer. Each step Matt took was careful, deliberate. He wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t restless-walking like when he couldn’t sleep. No, this was intent. He knew exactly where he was going.

Chris swallowed hard, breath fogging in the dark. His mind threw scenarios at him, one after another. Maybe Matt was meeting someone. A friend? No, Matt didn’t sneak out for friends.
A girl? Not possible. A dealer?
The thought hit him so hard he stumbled a bit.
Drugs? Matt?
It didn’t fit, but at this point nothing felt impossible. There had to be a reason, something that made Matt slip out like a ghost while everyone slept.

Matt turned another corner. Another. Like he was following invisible footsteps only he could see. Chris felt the tension coil in his stomach. Every instinct told him that something was wrong. Wrong in a big, terrifying, irreversible way.

He crept closer, focused on Matt’s silhouette under the flickering streetlights… and stepped on a twig.

The crack sounded like a gunshot.

Matt froze. Slow. Mechanical.
He turned around, scanning the darkness until his eyes locked on Chris.

His expression snapped from confusion to anger in seconds.
“What the fuck?” Matt hissed, voice sharp but low. “Chris? Are you—are you following me?”

Chris felt his whole body jolt, panic rising into his throat.
“No—no, I was just— I thought I heard something— I wasn’t—”
The words collided and tangled, falling apart as fast as he tried to spit them out.

Matt took a step closer, face pale in the streetlight.
“What are you doing out here?” His voice trembled, angry, scared, both. “Why are you behind me? Are you spying on me?”

Chris shook his head so fast it made him dizzy.
“I—I woke up and your room was empty, okay? I got worried! What are you doing out here?”

Matt’s breathing sounded loud in the silence, too loud, and Chris felt the distance between them stretch tight like a wire ready to snap. Matt kept looking at him like he wanted to say something, deny something, run from something.

“Matt,” Chris said quietly, stepping forward. “Why are you out here?”

Matt shook his head fast, like the question physically hurt him. “Go home, Chris.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” Matt’s voice cracked around the edges, barely, but enough that Chris caught it. Matt shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie like he needed to keep them from shaking.

Chris felt that wire between them tighten even more.

“You disappeared,” Chris whispered. “Your door was open and you weren’t there. What was I supposed to think?”
Matt turned, like he wanted to keep walking, like he needed to, but he didn’t move. His shoes stayed planted on the cracked pavement. For a moment he just stood there, staring down the empty street, chest rising and falling too fast.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Matt muttered under his breath. “I shouldn’t… you shouldn’t have followed me.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Chris snapped, louder than he meant to. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on? I’m your brother. I’m not gonna—”

Matt spun around so fast Chris flinched. His eyes were wide, haunted.
“Stop asking,” he said. “Just stop. You don’t want to know.”

Matt blinked as if he was about to cry. “Please. Go home.”

“No,” Chris said. His voice didn’t even shake this time. “Not without you.”

The wind cut through them, pushing Matt’s hair into his face. His breath hitched before he whispered, “Chris… please…”

And for the first time, Chris realized Matt wasn’t begging him to leave.

He was begging him not to follow him further. Begging him not to see whatever was waiting up ahead.

Chris took a step forward anyway. “Where were you going?”

Matt backed up a step. “Don’t.”

“Where, Matt?”

Matt’s voice broke. “I can’t tell you.”

Chris’s breath hitched, his chest tightening until it hurt. The street felt too open, too quiet, like the whole world was holding its breath with him. Matt just stood there, frozen, pale, trembling and something in Chris finally snapped.

“The hoodie,” Chris said, voice barely more than a rasp.

Matt flinched.

Chris stepped closer, fists shaking. Matt didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink.

“You know which one I mean,” Chris said louder. His throat burned. “The one I found in your closet. The one covered in—”

He couldn’t even get the word out. It stuck in his throat like something poisonous.

Matt swallowed hard, eyes darting away, breath hitching like he’d been punched.

Chris’s voice cracked open. “Blood, Matt. There was blood all over it. And dirt. And—” His voice wavered. “What the fuck was that?”

Matt looked like a trapped animal, backed into a corner with no way out.

“Why was there blood?” Chris shouted. His voice echoed down the empty street. “Why was it hidden in your closet? Why… just why?”

“Chris—” Matt whispered, panicked.

“NO!” Chris yelled, fighting tears, fear choking him. “You tell me right now what the hell is going on! Why did you have a hoodie covered in blood? Why did you hide it? Why did you sneak out in the middle of the night?!”. Chris took a shaky breath and shouted the question that had been rotting in his chest since he first lifted that hoodie off the closet floor:

“DID YOU HURT SOMEONE?!”

Matt froze.

The night went dead silent.

Even the wind stopped.

Chris’s heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else. Matt opened his mouth, no words came. He shut it again. His whole body shook.

And Chris realized, with bone-deep terror, that Matt wasn’t denying it.

He wasn’t denying anything.

Matt looked like he was going to be sick.

He kept pacing in front of Chris, running his hands through his hair over and over, fingers trembling, breath stuttering. He wouldn’t meet Chris’s eyes. He wouldn’t even look in his direction for more than half a second.

“Okay,” Matt blurted suddenly, the words falling out of him too fast. “It’s not— it’s not what you think, alright? I’m not doing anything crazy.”

Chris stood still on the sidewalk, heart hammering. Matt was unraveling right in front of him.

“It’s just… it’s like this… thing,” Matt said, waving his hands helplessly. “Not even a thing, it’s just some weird group. A bunch of weirdos who meet up and… handle it.”

His voice was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

“It’s like a fight club,” he added quickly, stumbling over the words. “I mean, not a real fight club. Not like the movie. I don’t know. We just… fight. That’s it. That’s literally it.”

Chris watched him with wide eyes, trying to understand, trying to keep up. Matt’s breathing was getting sharper with each sentence, like talking about it hurt.

“I didn’t even want to be in it,” Matt rushed on. “I swear, Chris. I swear. I was just… I was feeling so fucking depressed and it just… helped. The adrenaline. The pain. I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m even involved in this shit.”

He let out a small, broken laugh. It didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like anything human.

“And last time” Matt stopped. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked at the ground, not at Chris. “Last time something… snapped. In me. I don’t know what happened. I was fighting this guy and I just… reached. I grabbed something from the ground, I think it was a pipe or, umm, something metal. And I hit him. Over the head.”

Chris froze completely.

“He started bleeding. A lot.” Matt rubbed his face like he wanted to claw his own skin off. “Everyone freaked out because it’s supposed to be hands-only. No weapons. Ever. And I… I broke that. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

Chris could barely move. Matt was talking so fast he was almost gasping.

“The guy’s fine,” Matt insisted, voice cracking. “He’s fine. He forgave me. Everyone let it go. It’s not,  it’s not anything bigger than that. Just a stupid mistake. A stupid thing I shouldn’t be part of.”

He finally looked at Chris.

His eyes were wild and wet and terrified. Like he was begging Chris to believe him.

Chris swallowed hard, the cold night air burning in his throat. His voice came out tight, almost breaking.

“So… that’s what the hoodie was?” he asked. “It was just… the guy’s blood? From the fight?”

Matt immediately nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yes. Exactly. That’s all it was.”

Chris dragged a hand through his hair. He felt dizzy. “Matt, listen, I, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you anymore. I’m just… I’m scared. I don’t know.”

Matt stepped forward, shaking his head, interrupting before Chris could go any further.

“No. Chris, no— I know.” His voice was unsteady but firm, like he’d practiced this line in his head. “But I couldn’t tell anyone. You can’t… you can’t just take part in some underground fight thing, it’s illegal, okay? It’s illegal. I didn’t want to drag you into anything. And I didn’t want you to worry. I’m fine. I’m good. It’s not…  it’s not a big deal.”

Chris felt his stomach twist. None of this sounded fine.

He stared at Matt, trying to read something in his face, something real, something that would make sense. But Matt’s expression was shaky and pale and trying too hard.

“That’s where you were going?” Chris asked quietly. “Just now? To… that?”

Matt hesitated for half a second.

Then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s where I was going.”

Chris’s chest tightened. That tiny pause felt louder than the entire night. He wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to so badly. He wanted to grab onto any explanation, any excuse, anything that would make all the blood and the sneaking out and the late-night breakdowns make sense.

But something in him didn’t buy it. Something in him was screaming.

Matt’s story didn’t fit. It didn’t lock into place. It rattled.

But Matt looked so scared, so fragile, so desperate for him to accept it, that Chris felt his resistance crumble.

He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he whispered. But even as he said it, the thought formed sharp and sickening in his mind:

He’s lying. He’s lying to me.

And I don’t know why