Chapter 4
Rain spat down from the sky as he bolted along the streets. It felt like needles against his skin; he couldn’t remember rain ever feeling this bad before. But he couldn’t stop to think, he had to keep running.
The gun shot had ripped him from his sleep, loud and unforgiving. The light rain is almost as loud as it falls to the ground around him.
He keeps running.
Matt couldn’t tell how but he knew his dad was in trouble. He needed to get there quickly. He had to help.
But God had not answered his prayers that night. Matt rounded the corner and could sense the body ahead of him. There were no people between him and the body and yet, he slowed. Clattering to the floor, his cane splashed up water.
Hesitantly, Matt approached the body, no heartbeat to be heard but deep down he knew. Dropping to the floor, he gently felt his fingers over the face of the man lying in the alleyway. All the denial in the world couldn’t brush away the truth. His dad was dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, stench flooding Matt’s nose. But he didn’t care about the smell. He just wanted to be with his dad.
Matt didn’t allow his finger to wander near the bullet hole. The hole was clear to his senses, and he couldn’t imagine much worse than feeling the wound that took his dad from him.
Suddenly, around him, the scene shifted. Buildings disappeared in an instant as if they had never been there to begin with and the surface underneath them melted away into something smoother.
Almost immediately, Matt recognises the space he is in and instinctively shoots up from the ground, alert. It’s Stick’s basement. Something flies at him from behind and he has to role out of the way to avoid being hit by… a dagger? Yes, Stick was moving onto knives.
Matt spun to face Stick, raising his hands and settling into his fighting stance. “That’s it, Matty,” Stick praises, “now don’t get hit. Blood is a pain to clear up.”
A second dagger is launched at him. The metal slices through the air towards him and he begins to sidestep the weapon, though not before Stick has fired another which means Matt has to swiftly jump over it so as not to be caught in the leg.
“Have I been teaching you to run?” Stick demands.
Matt shakes his head. “Then fight,” he instructs.
When the next dagger is thrown at him, he quickly moves to the side before reaching out a hand and catching it, then instinctively using it to deflect the following assault. Following Stick’s requests, Matt hurled the weapon he clutched towards his teacher.
It landed true.
But not in Stick.
Before him stood his dad, heartbeat weakening, and hand wrapped around the dagger lodged in his chest. Horror crept into his throat. Unable to move, Matt stood before his dad as blood began to drip to the floor. “Matty?” his dad’s weak voice managed to stutter.
Hearing his voice more broken than he’d ever heard it before managed to shake him enough that he was able to rush to his dad. A familiar stench of blood clawed its way up Matt’s nose and seeped into his brain. His dad’s knees buckled just as Matt reached him and they were suddenly on the floor with Matt cradling his dad’s head.
Faster and faster, the heartbeat slowed.
“Maybe you’re not useless,” Stick stated, “but blubbering like a baby isn’t going to get you anywhere, Matt.”
“He...he’s dying!” Matt practically screamed.
“So? You killed him once already anyway.”
With that, the heartbeat beside him ceased as a stuttering breath escaped his dad’s lips. Tears burst from his eyes, running down his face and leaving a salty taste in his mouth. “You going to sit there and cry all night?” Stick taunted.
Anger started bubbling through the grief, yet he had no strength to act on it. He didn’t need Stick to tell him how weak that made him. Some time since dying in Matt’s arms, his dad’s body had disappeared and left Matt with blood-soaked hands, kneeling on the floor in front of Stick.
No, Stick wasn’t there either. He was alone.
~~~
Matt’s breaths came in short bursts as he grounded himself back in reality. Sweat beaded his forehead and the rough sheets were damp where sweat had dripped onto them. He needed to calm down. Hesitantly, he reached out with his senses for something to cling to; the first thing he found was Clint’s breathing. Rhythmic and deep, Matt focused on it and matched it.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Eventually his ragged breathing had stopped and he was able to think properly. It had been months since he’d last had a dream that bad. Slowly he dragged himself from bed and pressed his alarm clock. 4 36 it announced. Clint and Laura would not be awake for a while. Laura usually woke around half 7 whilst Clint took another hour or so before he reluctantly made his way out of bed.
Going back to sleep was the exact opposite of what Matt wanted to do in that moment and he had a couple of hours to blow before anyone else would be awake, so he quietly changed into clean clothes and opened his window.
Thoughts swirled around his mind as he climbed through the window. Anger and guilt moved alongside him having followed him out of the dream. (I killed him). The guilt he deserved but the anger he could do something about.
It wasn’t difficult to scale down the side of the house, even carrying his makeshift punching bag over his shoulder. (I killed him). Matt knew that he would wake Laura if he tried to do anything in his room, making outside his best option. Especially with how worked up he was getting.
(I killed him)
A chill sat in the early morning air that nipped against his bare arms and face. He’d left his glasses behind and it was strange to have nothing covering his eyes. (I killed him). Hanging his bag on the solitary tree that stood near the house, Matt took a deep breath to try and calm himself slightly. Settling into a fighting stance, he threw his first punch.
At first, he could feel his movements align with what Stick had taught him. (I killed him). But as he continued, the thoughts in his head shifted from whispers and grew steadily louder. His punches grew more erratic. (I killed him). Technique left him. (I killed him). Anger boiled up more than it had in months. (I killed him). He threw punch after punch, none quite giving him the satisfaction he was after.
I killed him
I killed him
I killed him
I killed him
He needed to scream. He couldn’t scream. Even Clint would wake up to that.
So he did the only other thing he could think to do. His fists began colliding with the tree, granting him, instantly, feeling he had been searching for. To begin with, he didn’t even register the pain that came with every punch, though this didn’t last long and he was soon sitting on the ground, hugging his knees with his head resting on them, back up against the tree. A few salty tears hit the ground as he sat there.
Finally the anger had relented and he was left feeling empty. His hands ached and he could smell the blood on his knuckles and some that stained the tree but he didn’t care.
After sitting hunched over like that for a little while, Matt eventually rose, unhooked his bag, and took himself back to the house. Climbing back in with his newly injured hands had been harder than climbing down, though not by much. He stuffed his makeshift punching bag back into his closet and allowed his ears to stretch beyond his room. Next door, Clint and Laura remained asleep, their breathing relaxing him slightly as he listened.
Running water on his knuckles stung as much as he had anticipated. Having calmed down from the blinding anger, he realised how easily he could have broken a bone in his fingers or hand. Thankfully, he heard no bones grinding against each other when he listened. Less fortunately, the cuts on his knuckles would not be easy to hide and he didn’t even want to imagine what bruising covered them. He would have to come up with some plausible explanation to give them as “sorry I climbed out my window and beat up a tree because I had a dream” probably wasn’t the most believable thing he’d ever done.
He had a little bit of time before having to face that problem, however.
Or he’d thought he did as an alarm clock started blaring beside Laura who quickly switched it off and turned to Clint to wake him up. Matt dashed back to his room before realising a little too late that they were due a visitor.