Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13241709.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      僕のヒーローアカデミア_|_Boku_no_Hero_Academia_|_My_Hero_Academia
  Relationship:
      Bakugou_Katsuki/Midoriya_Izuku
  Character:
      Bakugou_Katsuki, Midoriya_Izuku, Uraraka_Ochako, Ashido_Mina, Kaminari
      Denki, Sero_Hanta, Todoroki_Shouto, Kirishima_Eijirou, Asui_Tsuyu, Jirou
      Kyouka
  Additional Tags:
      Party, House_Party, Fluff_and_Smut, Aftercare, Confessions, Dominance,
      Underage_Drinking, Underage_Sex, Party_Games, Peer_Pressure, Oral
      Fixation, thigh_fixation, Finger_Sucking, quirk_use, saliva, Praise_Kink,
      Bruises, Dry_Humping, First_Kiss, French_Kissing, Sloppy_Makeouts,
      kacchan_is_a_hoe, Rough_Oral_Sex, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Anal
      Fingering, Anal_Sex, Post-Coital_Cuddling, Enemies_to_Friends_to_Lovers,
      Orgasm, Semi-Public_Sex, Loss_of_Virginity, Mutual_Pining
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-02 Words: 5912
****** Devil in me ******
by Acidiic
Summary
     Izuku just wanted to have a nice time with his close friends.
     Parties can get crazy, yeah, he knew that.
     That’s why he tried to stick close to comfort.
     Never would he imagined his night ending up
     sobbing and moaning his best friend's name.
Izuku isn’t a “party person”. He wasn’t really sure what kind of “person” he
actually was, but a partier definitely was not on the list. Still, he was a
people pleaser. Maybe too much, if he was being honest. He was still trying to
wrap his head around the fact that both Ochako and Mina managed to drag him out
of the comfort of his room. He supposed it couldn’t be helped. Both these girls
had a history of being extremely headstrong, so he knew that even if he faked
his death they would find a way to bring him along. Mina always seemed to be
the head of these sorts of events. Not only was she the “Alien Queen”, she also
held the self proclaimed title of “Party Queen”. It seemed fit to throw a party
now of all times, since fourth year classes begin on monday. She felt it was a
good way for all of 1-A to bond and release any stress being a hero entailed.
So now, instead of reading superhero comics in bed on a friday night, he was
sitting in a oval, cheetah printed lounge chair in Mina’s living room as they
talked gossip and got everything set up for the night. He wasn’t even in
“party-approved clothing” as Mina would put it. All he had was his favorite
pair of jeans and a red plaid shirt over a white t-shirt.
 
Black lights filled the entire house and high-beat EDM music blasted as the
girls finished preparing for all the games and events they had planned. Izuku
began to wonder if he could still escape without anyone noticing. He knew the
types of games Mina planned and they always included alcohol that they would
smuggle in, doing something hilariously embarrassing, or both. Uraraka made her
way over to the sulking boy and squatted to his eye level, hands on her thighs.
 
“The party is just about to start, Deku. Don’t you worry, okay? If you feel
uncomfortable about anything that happens tonight, just stick by me.”
 
He nodded, managing to crack a genuine smile. To be honest, it wasn’t the party
scene that really made him on edge, it was who was supposed to be on the
guestlist that filled his stomach with butterflies. His knee began to bounce
uncontrollably at the thought.  
 
Kacchan.
 
Things had been… weird between the both of them. Ever since they began to build
each other up as equals, the disdain they both felt with each other had died
down a bit. However, in exchange for that, Izuku found it hard to focus when he
was around. They’d often study together and gave each other criticism, but when
it came to one-on-one training, Izuku’s mind would shut off when Katsuki would
catch him off guard and tackle him to the ground. Katsuki would violently pin
him down, hands fuming over his chest. Katsuki’s panting, his sweat, the pure
strength and vigor this boy had was enough to send Izuku’s heart through a
loop. All Izuku could do was stare at those intimidating crimson eyes and
shiver as Katsuki’s thighs laid firmly around his sides. His toned arms
hovering over him accompanied with Katsuki’s bruising from the fight sent
Izuku’s thoughts to a very badplace. Each time this would happen, Katsuki would
just scold him explaining why it was stupid for him to lose focus during
battle, fake or not. Even then, out of all the attacks Katsuki would try on
Izuku, it always involved some sort of psychical contact that drove Izuku
insane.
 
It’s so not fair. He whined.
 
He liked Katsuki. He adored Katsuki. He was always his biggest influence, even
more so than All Might. The boy was just so goddamn passionate about everything
he did . Not to mention...really fucking pretty . The way he would glow with
pride when he was victorious made Izuku fall in love ever since they were
children. He was so thankful of Katsuki’s parents’ quirks that seemed to mold
him into a youthful god with perfect skin. Those muscles that mesmerized Izuku
everytime Katsuki would cross his path, the way Katsuki would smirk ever so
slightly whenever Izuku could manage to land a hit on him. Izuku had come to
terms with his feelings a long time ago, but never felt the need to confess.
Confessing to Kacchan ? Suicide would have been faster. Liking him was one
thing, loving him was downright dangerous.Could someone like him even have
feelings like that? All he could do was admire from afar in fear of getting
hurt, emotionally and physically.
 
Izuku held his head in his arms, spinning from all the intrusive thoughts.
Before he knew it, everyone had already arrived at the party. He always did
have a bad habit of losing track of time in the comfort of his own mind.
Instinctively, his eyes darted around for pale blonde spikes. In the darkest
corner of the room, there he was. Leaned up against the corner, hands crossed
to his chest and looking as disinterested as ever. He was dressed just as
casual as him, loose black sweatpants and a tight black tank top.
 
Katsuki’s eyes almost seemed to glow under the black light, and it was made
apparently so when those sultry eyes met his. Izuku responded with a little
hand wave and mouthed the word “hi”, already feeling like his heart was going
to burst out of his chest. Katsuki glared back for a moment, opened his mouth
as if to speak, but then turned his head away to face his friends attempting to
get his attention. Sighing, Izuku stood up to group back up with Uraraka, Mina,
and Tsuyu.
 
“Looks like Bakugou decided to show up after all, i’m honestly surprised. How
did you pull that one off, Ochako?” Mina exclaimed as she began popping off
bottles of vodka and pouring them into shot glasses.
 
“I… didn’t expect him to come. He flat out refused the second I asked him.”
Uraraka glanced over at Bakugou, who didn’t even look like he wanted to be
there at all. Taking a shot glass she sighed. “He’s a strange one.”
 
“I don’t know what you see in him, Midoriya-kun.” Tsuyu added as she brought
the appetizers out onto the table. The wide array of rolls and gyoza made
Izuku’s mouth water.
 
“It’s… not something I can easily explain and make it sound any better. And
please, keep your voice down.” Izuku whispered, blood running cold as he
continuously caught Katsuki staring at him now and then. Izuku never planned on
confessing his feelings to his friends, but they were such a big influence on
his life he believed they deserved to know. Little did he know they were aware
way before then due to how obvious he was, always stealing glances at Katsuki
when he wasn’t looking and the way he would praise him any chance he could in
and out of battle.
 
“Unrequited love, how tragic. Ribbit.”
 
Izuku shared the first hour glued close to Uraraka, then eventually was
surrounded by Tsuyu and Mina on either side. They knew Izuku had problems being
in such a foreign social scene, so they would always act as a form of “security
blanket” for him. It was the most ironic thing, the arguably(by Katsuki)
strongest hero in class 1-A turning to a nervous mess at the thought of a
social gathering.
 
This was the night they planned to make that change.
 
“Alright, everyone form a circle on the floor!” Mina called out, turning down
the music and fishing out an empty bottle from her pantry.
 
Everyone complied, Katsuki being tugged along by Kirishima and Kaminari. Izuku
happened to sit right across from him, but once he realized this he felt it was
too obvious to try to move spots. Mina set a piece of tile down in the middle
of the circle, along with the empty bottle.
 
“Spin the bottle? what are we, seven?” Katsuki groaned, causing Mina’s cheeks
to puff up in a pout.
 
“Congratulations, you can go first, Bakugou.”
 
Kirishima and Sero began laughing, shaking Katsuki’s shoulders tauntingly as
his lip curled into a snarl.
 
Uraraka whispered briefly into Mina’s ear, and Izuku could have sworn her eyes
had focused on him for even just a second. Mina gasped excitedly and ran off
into her room, only to return with a handful of dice.
 
“You guys are going to either love me or hate me for this.” She blushed as she
placed the dice in the middle. A wave of anguish and embarrassment exploded
from the entire circle.
 
“Foreplay dice? Are you trying to kill us?” Kaminari squealed, dragging his
hands down his face. Everyone exchanged looks, some with dread, some
excitement.The only thing Izuku could think about was the possibility that him
and Katsuki could end up picking each other. The thought alone was enough to
make him want to hide under a rock and never come out.
 
Mina clapped her hands in anticipation. Winking, she announced, “Yup! We’re all
going to get to know each other a little better tonight~. Don’t worry, you can
opt to drink instead if you like!” Izuku would be lying if he said he wasn’t a
casual drinker, but if he was to take a drink every time to avoid unwanted
sexual contact, it would end ugly.
Katsuki rolled his eyes, grabbing the dice and giving them a sloppy toss.
Everyone curiously leaned in.
 
“Bite….thigh. Fuck’s sake…” Katsuki swiftly flipped a single finger off in
Mina’s direction as he grabbed for the bottle. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
 
Izuku eyed the bottle as it span, undeniably focused on the direction it was
heading. He held his finger to his mouth nervously, biting the skin as the
bottle slowed. As soon as it stopped, he felt his heart fly into his throat.
 
It landed on him.
 
The moment of silence was quickly destroyed by Uraraka and Kirishima gasping
loudly, both clearly smitten with the result. Izuku bit his lip, but
anticipated rejection. The amount of silence that had passed already was enough
to tell him Katsuki wasn’t interested. He lowered his head in shame.
 
“Here’s your drink, Bakugo-uhh?” Kaminari’s eyes widened as Katsuki crawled
over to Izuku. His figure towered over him, which made the smaller boy close
his eyes in fear and embarrassment. He wasn’t sure if he was about to be yelled
at, or...
 
“Kacchan, you should just drink instead… I know you don’t want to-“
 
“You think i’m the type to back down and take the easy way out, Deku? I’m here
to win this shit. You better enjoy this because this is the most action you
will everget.”
 
Jirou leaned over to Sero, trying not to laugh. “T-that’s not how this game
works oh my god.”
 
Katsuki leaned towards Izuku, his mouth by his ear.
 
“Lean back, shitnerd.”
 
Izuku complied.
 
Katsuki unbuttoned Izuku’s pants, cursing under his breath as he dragged them
down to his kneecaps. Izuku felt like the world was spinning, his body in shock
at what was happening. Scoffing at the nerdy All Might boxers that Izuku
adorned, Katsuki leaned down to Izuku’s bare inner thigh and bit down hard.
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to gasp in pain. He held his hand up
to his mouth again, blushing so hard he could feel the heat burning up on his
face. Katsuki ran his tongue across the swollen wound he had just created only
to bite down again, this time in a new area. Screaming internally, Izuku looked
down to Katsuki only to immediately regret his decision. The glare he received
in return was followed by a strong bite dangerouslyclose to comfort. Katsuki
took the time to suck on the skin, ignoring the cheers and whistles coming from
his peers. As his bites became stronger, Izuku came to the conclusion that the
boy was really just trying to make him utter a sound that will humiliate
himself.
 
Katsuki was finally done making his mark on the boy. He stood up and walked
back to his spot in the circle, leaving the panting green-haired boy with his
pants around his knees and a trail of violent bruises on this thighs. The crowd
around them were left shocked, but undeniably very entertained.
 
“Hey uh, Bakuhoe . You know you only had to bite him once, right?” Kirishima
nudged the boy’s shoulder as he wiped the saliva from his chin.
 
“Hah!? Shut the fuck up, I knew that…” Katsuki growled, smacking the red-headed
boy’s elbow away. Izuku pulled his pants back up as Uraraka used a stray piece
of paper to fan his flustered, freckled face.
 
“I know you’re still shaken up, Deku… but… since Katsuki picked you, now it's
your turn to spin.” Uraraka rubbed Izuku’s shoulder as she handed him the dice
and bottle. As she placed them into his shaking hands, Mina shot a look at
Katsuki that he could only read as “good job”.
 
Izuku hastily threw the dice, gasping as he read the outcome. He really
couldn’t catch a break.
 
“Suck...hands..? W-what?! N-no…I-“
 
The crowd erupted in a mixture of laughter and “ooo’s”. Katsuki’s expression
remained unchanged, as if he was pondering something. Oh, how Izuku just wanted
to run home. Reluctantly, he spun the bottle honestly hoping it would never
stop. It was one thing to recieve something so lewd, but to give it? He was
ready to die. He decided the pressure was just too much for him to handle and
he shut his eyes tight as the bottle began to slow down. Within seconds the
room was filled with hollering. Izuku could make out cheers, roaring laughter,
and cooing from the girls. He opened one eye and was starstruck to find that
the tip of the bottle was directly across from him.
 
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Katsuki’s lip was curled up in an intense
snarl, staring at Izuku in complete disbelief. Izuku began to mentally write
his own obituary as he crawled over to Katsuki, who refused to make eye
contact. The black lights made it difficult to see, but he could have sworn
this boy was blushing.
 
“Remember, you can back out any time Midoriya.” Todoroki had stayed reserved
most of the party, but he could sense the extreme discomfort his friend felt.
Izuku turned to give him a smile of approval, only to have one of Katsuki’s
hands shoved in his face.
 
“Get on with it, fucker.”
 
Izuku blinked twice, then began to admire every digit on Katsuki’s hand, the
form reminding him of renaissance statues. Izuku never told anyone, but he was
absolutely in love with Katsuki’s hands. They were not only sculpted
beautifully, but they just held so much power that everytime he would catch
them in action it drove Izuku absolutely crazy. Noticing Katsuki’s growing
impatience, he acted.
 
He began by slowly licking up each digit, trying his best to focus solely on
the hand and not Katsuki’s face. Katsuki flipped his hand over to expose his
palms, not saying a word. Izuku took that as permission to run his tongue along
the base of the boy’s palm. He could tell he had been sweating, because the
taste of nitroglycerin infiltrated his taste buds and made his eyebrow twitch
in discomfort. It tasted spicy, with a sickly sweet aftertaste. Katsuki sighed
softly in approval, biting his bottom lip. His palms were extremely sensitive
to touch due to his quirk so allowing someone access to them, let alone Izuku,
was unusual. Izuku found the courage to softly place his lips in the center of
his palm, causing a soft shock throughout Katsuki’s body, eventually landing in
his groin. Izuku felt Katsuki tense up to his touch, and he had to admit he
enjoyed witnessing him so vulnerable. It showed his human side, the side he was
most in love with.
 
He needed more.
 
He took his index finger in his mouth and slowly made his way all the way up to
the tip, letting go with a distinct pop.Katsuki’s eyes widened, mouth dropping
slightly at the boy’s boldness.
 
“The fuck…”
 
Izuku continued this with the rest of his fingers, even building up the courage
to look up at Katsuki in between. He had no idea who he was right now. This
wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. All he knew was that he neededKatsuki.
Finishing with the pinkie, a trail of saliva connected the shaking digit to
Izuku’s tongue. This time, his classmates were left speechless. The sexual
tension was very apparent and explosive, to the point where it almost felt as
if they were intruding on them.
 
“Uhh… was that good?” Izuku asked, red as a tomato with drool running down his
lip. Katsuki responded with immediately getting up and running to the restroom.
As soon as he left, the girls crowded Izuku and cheered him on.
 
“I don’t know what came over you hun, but that was fucking phenomenal. You blue
balled the shit out of Bakugou!” Jirou exclaimed proudly, exchanging a high
five. Izuku covered his face. “I can't believe I actually just did that. He’s
going to hate me.”
 
Since both Katsuki and Izuku had gone twice, they were eliminated for the rest
of the game. Taking time to cool off, he enjoyed watching the awkward
interactions between his friends and their prompts. Uraraka had to kiss Jirou
on the lips which made for an awkward yet cute moment, Todoroki nearly
combusting in flames as he licked sugar and vodka off of Kirishima’s neck while
biting into a lime. When Katsuki had finally returned, his demeanor had
lightened up a bit. He seemed a bit more social, just ever so slightly. Izuku
even caught a glimpse of him whispering into Mina’s ear, who gasped loudly at
his words. Katsuki put his hand over her mouth, and she nodded understandably,
her fists raised in determination.
 
Some time had passed, and Katsuki had disappeared again. While everyone decided
to continue playing games such as cards against humanity in their own little
cliques, Izuku found it more appropriate to keep to himself for the rest of the
night lest he embarrass himself further. Uraraka glanced over to the hallway,
then at Izuku, then at Mina. As if on signal, she nudged him to get his
attention.
 
“Deku, can you get my phone from my bag please? It's in Mina’s room.”
 
Izuku smiled brightly and nodded, heading towards the unlit hallway that led to
the bedrooms. He hadn’t noticed both Mina and Uraraka giving each other thumbs
up and snickering in victory.
 
“Girl, I didnt even know your quirk could control where that bottle landed the
second time.” Mina squealed, grabbing onto the other girl’s arm.
 
“It was a risk, but I think they'll both thank us later.” Uraraka smirked,
eyeing deku rounding the corner.
 
It was so dark that Izuku fumbled around for his phone to use as a flashlight.
As soon as he turned it on he almost dropped it as he was met with a tall
figure standing right in front of him. The next thing he knew he was grabbed by
the waist and dragged into the closet adjacent to him. He opened his mouth to
scream, but was silenced with a hand firmly pressing against his mouth. The
familiar burning taste made him cringe as he felt a few fingers slip into the
corners of his mouth.
 
“You think you can just get away with teasing me like that, Deku?”
 
Katsuki’s grip on Izuku’s waist tightened as he pulled him closer to his
abdomen, enjoying the confused squeals the shorter boy produced. The fact that
Izuku didn’t even attempt to fight back at this point told him everything he
needed to know. He shoved him against one of the walls of the closet, and
lowered his face against the back of Izuku’s neck. He took in his scent, an
enticing mixture of pine trees and cinnamon made him sigh in satisfaction. The
stupid games Mina planned had set him off, but he had to admit he was thankful.
He was thankful he ended up with him.
 
“Kacchan… why are you doing this?”
 
As Izuku said this he sheepishly bent over to press himself against the bulge
in Katsuki’s pants. Red flags were going off in his mind, but he really
couldn’t care less. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? It was all happening
much too fast, it barely even seemed real. Neither of the boys had taken more
than a few sips of alcohol that entire night. He began to question if Katsuki
was just playing a cruel joke on him, as payback for what he did. Those
thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp pain in his neck. Katsuki scraped
his teeth against the flesh as his tongue followed, the cold chill of wet
saliva on his skin made Izuku shudder. After nibbling on the lobe of Izuku’s
ear, Katsuki finally spoke again.
 
“I need to know... if what you’re feeling for me is true. If you really meant
everything you did back there and not because it was apart of a stupid fucking
game.”
 
The sincerity of Katsuki’s voice made Izuku’s eyes widen in surprise. Of course
he meant it, but the fact that Katsuki was thinking the same thing as him was
baffling. Never in a million years would he believe Katsuki would have had
reciprocated these feelings. Izuku turned around to respond, just as Katsuki
grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him down to the floor, straddling him.
The already cramped space made it hard to breathe, and the feeling of Katsuki’s
hot breath against his chest was not helping.
 
“I can’t stop thinking about your stupid face. The stupid way you mumble battle
strategies everytime we fight. The way you lose your goddamn mind and freeze
the moment I pin you while you stare in awe as if im some god that’s out of
reach. It’s so fucking irritating. If you want me just fucking show me.”
 
Still straddling Izuku, he pinned his shoulders to the wall and planted more
bites on the boy’s neck. Izuku kept his hands on his mouth, tears beginning to
stream down his face from both the pain and the pleasure. A hot, burning
sensation was building up throughout his core, focusing mostly in his dick. As
his pants slowly began to tighten, Katsuki smirked at Izuku’s not-so-subtle
reactions.
 
“You’re like a scared fucking kitten, you know that? You expect me to do all
the work?”
 
Katsuki grabbed one of Deku’s hands and placed them right below his navel.
Izuku’s touch sent a shocking sensation that made him roll his hips and growl.
Katsuki looked down at him with half-lidded eyes and began panting in
anticipation.
 
“Touch me, Deku.”
 
Izuku didn’t hesitate. The low growls and purrs in Katsuki’s voice was so
enticing, almost animalistic. He leaned into Katsuki’s neck, laying gentle
kisses on his adam's’ apple as his hand caressed his entire abdomen. He admired
every curve, every ridge, the way Katsuki tensed up to his touch. He used his
free arm to wrap around Katsuki’s waist, who then began to grind onto Izuku’s
lap, seemingly to the beat of the music playing. Katsuki’s breathing began to
hitch and increase in speed as Izuku lifted up his shirt and planted kisses and
licks from his collarbones all the way down to his hips. Katsuki grabbed Izuku
by the hair and pulled him up to his face, locking their lips sloppily.
 
This was really how they were going to spend their first kiss. In a storage
closet. Izuku thought as he felt Katsuki’s tongue push past his and violently
fought for dominance. Katsuki tasted like heaven, his foul-mouthed lips velvet
soft against his own. So powerful. So perfect. Izuku gripped onto the hem of
the other boy’s pants, overstruck by pure lust. Soft moans erupted on Izuku’s
end, followed by a gentle grip onto the taller boy’s blonde locks. Katsuki
ended the kiss with an aggressive tug on Izuku’s bottom lip, pulling away with
a single strand of saliva connecting the two together. The energy was electric.
 
“Deku. Let me fuck you.”
 
Those words sounded like ringing in Izuku’s ears. A whole new wave of nerves
washed over him, the escalation of the situation he was in was too much for him
to handle. However, he wanted it. Oh, how he neededto feel more of Katsuki’s
touch. Still gripping onto the other boy’s pants, Izuku let out a choked
whisper, sweat dripped down his cheek.
 
“P-please.”
 
After hearing his consent, Katsuki grabbed Izuku’s arm and lead him out of the
closet, into the nearest unlocked room. Shutting the door behind him, Izuku
surprised Katsuki by wrapping his arms around his waist and began kissing his
neck, since it was the only thing he could reach even on tiptoe. He couldn’t
help it, he was just so happy. He didn’t care what anyone said about Katsuki
not deserving him, right now, it was just them. That’s all that mattered.
 
“Get on the bed.”
 
Katsuki pried Izuku’s arms off him, and smirked as he did as he was told. Izuku
propped up onto the silky pink sheets and crossed his legs. He walked over to
the nervous boy, took him by the shoulders and pushed him down, climbing on top
and sitting right on his chest. Izuku tried to hide his face, but Katsuki
grabbed his arms and held them above his head, bloodlust in his eyes.
 
“Hey. Since you loved sucking on my fingers so much, why don’t you try sucking
something else?”
 
God, how Izuku fawned over that commanding, husky voice of his. He opened his
mouth with desperate cock-hungry eyes, sending the message across very clearly.
Pulling down the loose hem of his pants and maroon boxers, Katsuki let himself
free, looking down at Izuku in anticipation and pressing the tip against his
quivering lips.
 
“Look, i’m already hard for you.”
 
Izuku took Katsuki’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pink
tip. Katsuki thrusted his hips forward slowly, then increased in speed so that
he could fuck Izuku’s mouth properly. Tears flowed down Izuku’s cheeks as he
choked every time the tip hit the back of his throat, taking the entire length.
Katsuki let out a soft moan as Izuku sucked in his cheeks to stimulate him
further. The desperate look in Izuku’s eyes was driving him over the edge,
fast. He would look at his innocent face in class and all he would want to do
is blow his load all over those freckles of his.
 
“Fuck… fuck...Deku…D-Deku..”
 
Letting go of Izuku’s arms, he gripped the bed sheets and let out a loud,
frantic moan as thick, hot liquid shot into Izuku’s mouth. Izuku’s eyes opened
wide as he tasted the salty substance and felt it drip down his chin. Without
hesitation, Izuku swallowed hard, wiping the excess off with his sleeve. It
wasn't pleasant, but the expression of pure ecstasy Katsuki had painted on his
face post-orgasm was well worth it.
 
After catching his breath, Katsuki slapped his hands atop Izuku’s chest.
 
“Switch places, it’s your turn.”
 
As Katsuki laid down in his place, Izuku shuddered in embarrassment as he
pulled down his own pants, exposing his already erect cock. Climbing on top,
the other boy laid a hand on his chest to stop him.
 
“No, face the other way.”
 
“Wait...what? But how will you…”
 
“You’re going to be a good little crybaby and let me fuck your pretty ass with
my mouth.”
 
The pure vulgarity made Izuku ascend into oblivion. God, oh god, thank you for
this boy.As soon as he turned around, Katsuki grabbed him by the thighs and
shoved him on top of his face hungrily. He began by circling the skin around
the opening, grinding Izuku’s hips against his face then pushing his tongue
little by little until he was completely in. Izuku squealed, growing accustomed
to the new sensation.
 
“Kacchan…. f-fuck…”
 
Hearing Izuku cuss was music to his ears. As on cue, he pulled out and bit down
hard on one side of his ass. Izuku’s leg twitched involuntarily, eyes rolling
to the back of his head. If he died now, it would have all been worth it.
Katsuki’s hands trailed the unique texture of Izuku’s skin mixed with scar
tissue. Eventually he made his way up the thighs and took a hold of Izuku’s
cock, throbbing from the neglect. Lifting Izuku up slightly, Katsuki dragged
his tongue across the balls and the sensitive skin that connected them with his
hole. He took one of Izuku’s testes into his mouth, pulling away at the skin in
between his teeth. Izuku cursed again under his breath as Katsuki moved back to
where he started. As he entered him again he simultaneously jacked Izuku off,
rubbing his thumb against the wet tip. He used the other hand to spread Izuku
open wider so he could fuck him deeper. Taking his tongue out, he replaced it
with his thumb, slowly pushing in and feeling Izuku tense up around his skin.
Allowing him a few seconds to accommodate the space, he began pumping his
finger in and out which made Izuku gasp loudly, more tears streaming down his
face. He bit his lip, then leaned into him, attempting to get as deep as
possible.
 
“K-Kacchan… just fuck me…” he could feel himself coming closer, and he
desperately wanted the real thing before it was all over.
 
A swift slap to the ass was signal for him to get off and allow Katsuki to
catch his breath. He wiped his mouth, his bangs stuck to his forehead with
sweat.
 
“Yeah?” He growled.
 
“Yeah… I mean… i've never done this before but…”
 
“Great. Me neither. Sit on my dick.”
 
God, he was so assertive.Izuku prepped himself, the pressure against his hole
feeling too intimidating. Taking notice of the boy’s nervousness, Katsuki
placed his hands on both sides of Izuku’s hips, slowly pushing him downwards
onto his cock.
 
“Relax.”
 
Taking deep breaths, every exhale he pushed a little deeper. Katsuki took this
time to count Izuku’s freckles, and how they trailed off to the rest of his
body. He always found them attractive, it made him look that much more innocent
and desirable. Although, he was looking anything but innocent right about now.
Izuku finally pushed down to the point where he was sitting skin to skin. He
was shaking, looking down at Katsuki to let him know he was ready.
 
He started Izuku off slow, fucking him with body rolls and steady thrusting.
Izuku bit his lip, whimpering every time his G-spot was rubbed against. Katsuki
couldn't stop thinking how damn perfect Izuku sounded while being fucked. How
every moan, whimper, and gasp managed to sound so fucking cute and yet so
slutty at the same time. He couldn’t fucking help himself but want more.
 
“Fuck, you’re so perfect baby.”
 
Izuku tried to respond, but all he could get out were loving moans and gasps.
He placed his hands onto Katsuki’s chest, giving him leverage to fuck himself
on his dick. Izuku’s thighs mesmerized Katsuki as they tensed and flexed with
every thrust. He wanted to tear this boy apart, mark him in any way that could
claim him as his own. Grabbing a hold onto the boy’s knees, he thrusted harder.
 
“I’ve wanted you for so fucking long. You think I could just ignore that ass of
yours forever?” Katsuki’s pace quickened, placing his hands against Izuku’s
throat and squeezing mildy. He responded with a rhythmic hip roll that sent
Katsuki to heaven. He grabbed onto Izuku’s shirt, panting heavily. Neither of
them noticed wisps of smoke emitting from in between his fingers before a small
bangblew off a section of the fabric. Katsuki took this opportunity to run his
hands all over Izuku’s chest, thumbing each nipple roughly. He reminisced back
to when Izuku was quirkless, when his muscle mass was near non existent.
 
Damn, was he blessed now.
 
Sitting up and cradling the boy in his lap, Katsuki decided there were still
some spots left to mark. Biting and sucking on the sensitive flesh of the neck
and shoulders, Izuku wrapped his arms around him while continuing to bounce in
his lap. He could feel the boy’s heat against his stomach, coming closer and
closer to the edge. He decided to help him by grabbing onto his hips and
violently slamming him down against his cock, faster and harder, moaning
obscenities into his mouth.
 
“Cum, Deku.”
 
Izuku grabbed onto Katsuki’s back, nails digging into his back muscles and
dragging upwards as he finally came. As Katsuki came immediately after, a warm
sensation sent shivers through Izuku’s entire pelvis. The blonde boy cringed as
he felt the sticky fluid dripping down his stomach. And yet, he held him there.
He couldn’t believe the way this boy made him feel, as if he was holding the
entire world in his arms. To say he had fallen for him at this point would have
been an understatement.
 
“What are we, Kacchan…?”
 
Katsuki’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t exactly planned to go this far
tonight, let alone even get started. Izuku was more to him than just a quick
fuck, no, he was much different. Just this once, he needed to let go of his
pride and allow himself to be transparent. Staring into Izuku’s exhausted green
eyes, he exhaled deeply and laid his chin on top of the boys head.
 
“Ah? What do you want us to be, nerd?”
 
Izuku carrassed the dips and curves on the boy’s back, smiling while beginning
to tear up.
 
“I want it to be us.I want to be able to walk by your side forever and support
all your upcomings, I want us to begin a new chapter in our rollercoaster of a
relationship. Being able to say we were each other’s biggest milestone would be
simply amazing, Kacchan.  Even if we just crash and burn in the end, you would
have been my favorite mistake.”
 
Katsuki gripped onto the boy tighter, frustrated that he could make him start
crying with just those words alone.
 
“How did you end up falling for someone like me, eh?” Katsuki chuckled softly,
wiping away Izuku’s wet flushed cheeks. He interlocked his fingers with
Izuku’s, only to turn away to hide his nervousness. Prepping himself, he took a
deep breath and locked eyes with Izuku, who seemed to look just as nervous.
 
“Rule number one though. As my boyfriend, you're never allowed to cry like a
little baby anymore, got it? Makes me look bad.”
 
Izuku’s body tensed up in disbelief. Was he hearing that right? His mouth was
gaped open, squeezing harder onto Katsuki’s shaking fingers.
 
“I didn't know I was fucking dating a mime, out with it, Izuku.”
 
As Katsuki caught his own words he immediately clasped his hand over his mouth,
feeling as if he could spontaneously combust right then and there. Izuku leaned
in, not caring about the cum dripping down his leg and planted a kiss on
Katsuki’s cheek.
 
“Anything for you, Kacchan. I’ll be yours.”
 
Katsuki hung his head, trying and failing to hide a smile.
 
“Forever, Izuku.”



Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
es it out. Thumbs it – polished wood, cool silver, bead and loop and
bead and loop makes a rosary. A christening gift from Grandma, very precious,
bought in the town in Italy where Padre Pio was born. It smells like
sandalwood; Matt doesn’t know what sandalwood smells like, but he thinks it
smells something like this.
He sits back on his heels. He should pray, now. “Hail Mary” for strings of
beads, single bead is “O Father”, the cross is… the cross is “Glory be to the
Father” or “I believe in God”, but what about the medallion? He forgets. He’ll
just say “Hail Mary” for the medallion. Maybe God won’t mind.
Hail Mary, full of grace—he FUCKING won’t leave, PLEASE, send somebody over, he
ALWAYS comes back—Padre Pio had stigmata – Matt’s seen the pictures, hands
wrapped in bloody rags. Matt digs the cross into the inside of his palm. What
if he woke up and sudden wounds would open up in his hands like poppies
blossoming? How would he hold a pen, or a fork? Our Lord is with thee—STOP
this, the kids are sleeping, DON’T—Matt flexes his hand. It must hurt a lot. It
must be very brave to hurt so much and be strong. God gave Padre Pio this pain
and Padre Pio took it and didn’t curse God and was strong and holy.Blessed art
thou among women—GOD, please, he’s FUCKING CRAZY, he’s going to KILL ME—Matt
drives in the cross harder. You must be very good to take so much pain.
—and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—make him shut up, WOMAN, I got work in
the morning, J—Jesus.Something in his palm pops to the side – a vein maybe. His
hand cramps. He loosens it.Holy Mary, Mother of God—I’m not resisting,
please—He rubs his thumb over the center of his palm, over a small indentation
there. He can’t see, but he thinks it’s red.
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. The city chatters;
muffled, now. TV playing in another room. Dad used to watch TV when Matt was in
bed. Matt would lie awake and listen to low voices. Try to make them out.
Familiar hum droning on and on like a lullaby.
He stands up. His knees whine like door hinges, like an old person. Matt lies
back on bed. Sheets prick him like stubborn mosquitos. His eyes itch with sand.
The world is a fireplace giving off warmth to the room.
Amen.
 
The days are days again and the nights are nights.
Matt climbs into the comfort of a safe rhythm – prayer, breakfast, bed, dinner,
prayer, bed. Then – breakfast, study, bed, dinner, bed. Food is hard – it goes
up his throat, like sick. With chicken Kiev, that always comes out rubbery and
hospital cafeteria-like, and Brussels, that are vending machine coffee-bitter
and gross, Matt would gobble up big chunks, trying not to let it touch his
tongue. This is like that. Every meal is like that. Matt chews and gags and
swallows, and goes to the bathroom and rinses his mouth in the sink, one, two,
three, four, five times. Toothpaste burns like windshield cleaner. His throat
burns and his skin burns and the world burns.
Matt puts the rosary in his pocket. Runs his fingers over the beads, over, and
over, and over. Hail Mary, full of grace. Is this because of the devil in me?
Why do I see the world on fire? Why do I see hell? I haven’t died yet.
“How are you doing?” Dad asks.
Yesterday was Sunday – Sundays are just days now. No dinners, no Church. Dad
came back very late again. Matt doesn’t get to watch the fights now, but he
remembers – dead eyes, hell-red blood seeping down his face. What Dad is doing
for him. Matt can’t see the blood but it spurts on his tongue, smell-taste,
copper penny and sweet.
Matt imagines telling Dad that he smells blood and he hears something crunchy
moving in Dad’s face. That Braille hurts his fingers and that he didn’t study
today and lied down and recited “Hail Mary” out loud until the city stopped
banging at the window. That some nights the city won’t let him sleep and he
hears—
The boy’s not right. You need to put him in a facility.What facility, ma? I’m
behind on rent, Matty needs new books, he—he’s so smart, he was going to make
something of himself—What about the settlement money?There’s no money, they
covered his hospital bills, therapy, most of his blind crap, but it’s all gone
now. All gone, ma.I have some saved, not a lot, but should be enough to put him
up with professionals.I can’t—For God’s sake, the boy was catatonic for weeks.
You can’t take care of him, Jack.He’s better, ma, he’s learning Braille, such a
brave little soldier, my Matty—He’s a good kid. Stronger than me. I can’t give
up on him.
Matt smiles.
“I’m good, Dad. I’m getting better at this.”
“That’s—that’s good,” Dad says. Sighs, a weight off his back. Matt digs the
rosary cross into the inside of his palm.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Matt says.
Matt read in a book before his eyes have burned: people get used to everything.
He’s strong, he’s smart – he’s going to get better. The world on fire nicks and
burns; Matt rolls the beads of the rosary between his fingers. Come on, Matty.
Get to work.
Devil-thoughts come to him: I’m tired. Braille makes me sick and the fucking
cane is annoying and embarrassing and I don’t want to be strong. Why can’t I be
petty and angry and mean? I can lie in bed all days and do nothing if I want
to.
They say: I am doing so much. I am doing so much. Can’t you see? The world
burns and I don’t say a peep. Why are you always worrying? I’m being strong,
being brave: you should be happy. Why aren’t you happy? I wanna scream: I am
doing so much! Stop worrying. Please, I can’t take the worry. It’s too heavy.
This is his cross to bear. People get used to everything. He’s strong, he’s
smart. A stupid children’s counting-out song. Dumb words put together that make
no sense at all.
He’s going to make the words make sense. He is. Dad doesn’t have to worry about
him.
He just needs to try harder.
 
Three little devils, all dressed in red,
Tried to get to Heaven on the end of a thread.
Thread string got broken, down they all fell.
Instead of going to Heaven, they went to…
 
“Faggot.”
They’re talking about him. He just knows they are.
“Did you see the look he gave me when we sat down, like he’s sooo great? Fag.”
He won’t turn around. He won’t give them the satisfaction.
“I heard that the old man stopped coming. Probably got sick of him.”
“That serves him right.”
Matt turns around.
“What did you say?”
Matt doesn’t care what they think. Nate is bad food sticking to his gums from
not brushing his teeth, and smelly t-shirt because he sweats like a pig running
on the field in full sun, and pus-scabs he always picks off. He’s gross. His
bird-brained minion, Piotr, is a big, dumb lump of body heat and peeling skin
with a squeaky eunuch voice – he’s going through a mutation, bad. Piotr says it
means he’ll have a low manly voice later. Matt says it means he sounds like a
girl. They’re Neanderthals and Matt doesn’t give a dead rat’s ass about them.
But if they think they can say this crap about him, they got another thing
coming.
“Freak,” Nate spits, low but so that Matt can hear him. Piotr guffaws like a
monkey. “I said, you got what’s coming to you. You act you’re so much better
than everybody, you and that wacko old man, Cane. But you ain’t special.”
“His name is Stick.”
“That’s what I said. Wack. Probably why he even wanted you around in the first
place. He’s mental and so are you.”
“I’d rather be mental than stupid, fart-breath,” Matt bites back. He smiles
meanly. “At least I don’t wet the bed.” He takes a dramatic sniff. “Something
smells like pee.”
Nate heats up. Matt can’t really smell the pee on him – but he has, before.
Nate’s a bet-wetter and they all know it.
“Yeah, you!” Nate cries. Sister Constance turns around and shushes him sternly.
Nate stoops down on the bench. Matt continues to smirk at him wide and venomous
in victory.
“Dunno why that old wacko took so long,” Nate mutters. “How could anyone stand
you? Even your mom didn’t want you.”
“My mom is dead,” Matt says, low. His mouth is dry.
“No, she’s not,” Piotr pipes in. Matt whirls at him.
“What do you know? Make like a banana and split.”
They’re sneering at him, right to his face. Matt can’t see them sneering but he
knows they are.
“Yeah, where’s your mommy? You never had mommy, didja?” Nate says gleefully.
“My mom is dead,” Matt repeats.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Nate spews, words coming twisted from his
puckered lips. “She ain’t dead. But why ain’t your mommy here? Oh, right. She
left you and your loser dad.”
“My dad was not a loser!” Matt huffs. Sister Constance shushes them again.
“He was, too,” Nate shoots back. “Your dad was a loser and he got his brains
blown out rather than deal with you.”
“You’re lying,” Matt snarls. “My dad was Battlin’ Jack Murdock, a champion. You
don’t even have a dad ‘cos your mom opened her legs for anybody who’d have
her.” He’s heard, cut-off whispers from the Sisters. “She was a whore and a
crackhead. Didn’t you know?” Matt sneers at Piotr. “Nate is a crack baby.”
Piotr looks to Nate.
“He’s a schizo,” Nate says angrily. “Why’d that old coot even hang out with him
anyway? I bet he liked touching boys.” Nate’s voice goes nasty and smug. “Did
he touch you, Matt-the-rat?”
Piotr snickers and echoes, “Matt-the-rat.”
“Shut up,” Matt hisses.
Nate bends forward and says whisper-loud so everyone but Sister Constance
hears:
“You musta sucked, since he left. You think you’re better than the rest of us,
but you’re not even good enough for a crazy old man that likes touching boys.”
“Shut up!”
Fist goes flying. Crack, burst of pain. A cry, blood-cooper gushing like a
waterfall.
“You brobe ma nose!” Nate bawls. “He brobe ma nose! You psypo!”
Sister Constance materializes at his side, bone-grinding fury.
“What on earth is happening here? You’re in Church.” Hand like a vise drops on
his shoulder and shoves him towards the door. “Outside, now.”
Matt retracts his cane and taps half-heartedly after Sister Constance, cradling
his split knuckle to his chest. Nate drags along, sniffling and gurgling. The
front of his shirt smells like he just won a rare steak eating contest. Matt
smirks and then quickly stops.
They go outside; church air and Priest’s dun-dun-dun voice stay behind the
door. Sister Constance puts her arms on her hips. Her chest is heaving with
furious heartbeat and whistling tight breaths.
“What kind of behavior is this?” Matt sticks out his lip and crosses his arms.
“He brobe ma nose!” Nate whines.
“It’s not broken,” Matt mutters. It’s not; he’d hear it. Too bad. “Don’t be
such a baby.”
“Be quiet,” Sister Constance barks. “Good gracious, look at you, child. Your
entire shirt is soiled with blood. Go to the infirmary, quick, have Sister
Faustina do something about the bleeding. And keep your nose in the air.”
Nate sniffles and stomps away. Matt long hears the blood bubbling in his nose;
good.
Sister Constance turns to him, sending a whiff of lavender closet freshener
still clinging to her veil.
“He started it,” Matt immediately says.
“I don’t care who started it,” Sister Constance huffs. “You should’ve ended
it.”
“I have,” Matt mutters.
Air swish, smack. Matt doesn’t jump away only from surprise. Stupid, sloppy –
Stick would be so disappointed. The sting on his cheek comes a beat later.
“Do not sass me. How dare you act this way in the house of God? He sees all and
shakes his head at you. You behaved outrageously, now, when you’re preparing to
take the Lord into your heart. Jesus teaches to turn the other cheek and to
love your enemies.”
Painful lump clogs his throat. Useless eyes fill with tears. Matt bites the
inside of his mouth. He will not cry in front of Sister Constance.
“Jesus doesn’t teach to slap children either,” Matt says with dignity. His
voice doesn’t even quiver. He raises his chin proudly. “You may have the Lord
in your heart, Sister Constance, but you’re a mean, awful woman and I hate
you.”
Then he turns around, blinking back tears – they stand in his eyes and he can’t
keep them in very long but he won’t cry here – and strides away.
“Come back here this instant!” Sister Constance cries.
Matt does not come back. He has to get away, as far as he can from Sister
Constance’s hateful presence. He rushes towards the dormitory, swinging his
cane carelessly in front of him, too fast and high to do anything. He doesn’t
care; he doesn’t need the fucking cane anyway. Bathroom stall is the only room
with a lock; Matt picks the nearest one and pushes the door latch shut.
He sits on the closed toilet, flings the cane to the side. Stinging tears slip
from his chin. Matt wipes them furiously. He puts his forehead on his knees and
swallows and swallows and swallows, fist-like lump and stupid sobs.
Steps. Sister Constance’s clacking sturdy heels, fake lavender mist. Softer
feet, little bird breaths, rose-scented hand balm – Sister Marianne. Matt rocks
on the seat, tries to focus on her like Stick taught him: mushy oatmeal she had
for breakfast, a sheen of sweat in her hair under the veil. Her hair smells
sweat-sweet and nettle. Turpentine mixed with clean skin smell; Sister Faustina
rubbed her cramped back last night. Nothing lingers like the smell of
turpentine on skin.
“He’s probably hiding in the bathroom again,” Sister Marianne is saying.
Sister Constance sighs.
“You go, Marianne. I don’t have strength for that devil child.”
Wet click; Sister Marianne puckers her mouth.
“It’s that awful old man’s doing. I told Sister he was bad news.”
“What’s done is done,” Sister Constance says heavily. “And what else could’ve
we done? Nothing was working with that child. That man showing up, it was like
a blessing.”
“All devils seem like it,” Sister Marianne days darkly.
“You’re wrong,” Matt mutters. “Stick was a blessing. He’s worth ten of you,
Sisters.”
It’s Matt who’s the devil. Stupid, weak, shit. They want him to be weak. They
made him soft.
“And I pray to the Lord every day to give me the wisdom to know the good from
the evil,” Sister Constance is saying. “And I pray for that child, too.”
“I don’t want you to pray for me,” Matt mumbles with a frown.
“He’s a queer little thing,” Sister Marianne says. Tinny voice, dripping with
pity. Matt hates it. Matt hates her. “He spent too many days bound to bed and
then with that awful man. The problem with him is that he doesn’t have any
friends among his peers.”
“The problem with him is that he doesn’t have the fear of God in him,” Sister
Constance grunts. “We’ve been giving him too much special treatment. It’s gone
to his head, he used to be a quiet, nice boy and now he’s grown unruly and
impertinent. Giving me the lip, thinking he knows better than his elders. I’m
the one to blame, I should’ve been more firm, don’t make an exception for him
because of his handicap. I fear the other children resent him because of that,
too.”
“He’s a queer little thing,” Sister Marianne says again. Matt scowls. He’s no
such thing. “He needs to play with other children, brighten up. He’s always so
somber. Like a little adult. It’s disconcerting.”
Sister Constance’s voice grows low and serious.
“When he first got here, before his… episodes started, I don’t think I’ve seen
him shed a single tear. His father has been murdered and his family – what
little he had of it – didn’t want to take him in, and he never once cried. What
kind of child does that?”
When he first got here, orphanage was ringing noises, million smells, starchy
biting cloths, and starchy nauseating food, and starchy cold Sisters with dry
rubbed-coarse hands. Dry rubbed-coarse hands slicking back his hair,
straightening his clothes, taking his arm in a grip like claw to cross the
street, fixing and prodding him without warning, sharp, brief clinical touches.
He remembers Come, child and Do this, child and Stop whining, child and a
sucking black hole where Dad’s warm presence used to be. He remembers wanting
to be good. Wanting to make Dad proud.
Matt glares and sends in Sister Constance’s direction with force: You’re a
mean, awful woman.
“He’s… different,” Sister Marianne says tentatively. “It’s somewhat
understandable, with his, his episodes and his handicap, but… I don’t know.
Maybe we should sit him for another session with Father Albert.”
“You know how that went last time,” Sister Constance says morosely. “He’s
obstinate. It’s good that he’s taking First Communion now. Maybe Confession
will help.”
“He just needs something to busy his mind with. Idle hands are the devil’s
playthings, especially with children. Maybe he should learn the piano? He could
play at Communion.”
“The child is blind, Marianne,” Sister Constance says flatly. “How will he read
the notes?”
“Oh! I don’t know. But the blind are said to have a good ear for music,” Sister
Marianne reasons.
“Hm,” Sister Constance says consideringly. “Perhaps we should look into that.
I’ll ask Sister Josephine if she’d be willing to sit down with him and walk him
through a hymn or two. Lord knows I could stand to have that child off my
hands.”
Matt sticks out his tongue at the stall door.
“Joke’s on you,” he tells it. “I don’t want your nasty hands near me anyway.
And I’m not going to play the piano. Not on your life.”
Fabric rustling, a sigh.
“Well, no point in wasting more time. You should go get him, Marianne, the mass
is almost over.”
Shuffling light feet, first on wood, then on tile. Rose-scented balm and body
warmth seep through the flimsy stall door.
“Matthew,” Sister Marianne says quietly. “Come out, now.”
Matt sticks out his lip and doesn’t answer.
“Matthew,” Sister Marianne repeats. “Sister Constance is already very cross
with you. Do you want to upset her more?”
Matt thinks about ignoring her and thinks about biting back.
“I don’t care how Sister Constance feels,” he finally says. “She’s a mean,
awful woman and I hate her,” he repeats decisively.
“Oh!” Sister Marianne gasps. “How can you say such a thing? Hatred is a sin.”
Matt thinks about that.
“Maybe I don’t hate Sister Constance,” he allows. “But she’s mean and unfair
and I am cross with her, too.”
“Sister Constance only does what’s best for you,” Sister Marianne says
soothingly. “She’s strict sometimes but that’s because she cares. When you did
something bad, and you say you’re sorry and be honest and remorseful, she’ll
forgive you and God will, too. Come out, now, Matthew.”
Matt considers it.
He unlocks the door. Then he swings it open; he doesn’t stand up.
“Come, go say sorry to Sister Constance. Oh, what did you do with your cane
again?” Matt shrugs. Sister Marianne bends down and fishes for it behind the
toilet, grunting. Matt doesn’t move his leg to let her and feels only a little
bit bad about it. Sister Marianne stands up and puts the cane in his hands with
a tut. “What am I going to do with you? You kids would lose your head if it
wasn’t attached, I swear.”
Matt doesn’t say that he knew where the cane was and that he always knows where
everything is; Sister Marianne can think what she wants about him. Matt doesn’t
care. She’s wrong, anyway, and ignorant, and that way Matt has an edge. Stick
would approve.
Matt lets Sister Marianne usher him out – by hand, like he’s five – and down
the hall where Sister Constance’s waiting like an unhappy pillar of salt.
“There you are,” she says unhappily. “Are you ready to apologize?”
Matt crosses his arms over his chest and raises his chin.
“I’ll apologize to Nate when I have something to apologize for,” he says
coolly. “And I’ll apologize to Sister,” he adds generously, “if Sister
apologizes to me first.”
Sister Constance gnashes her teeth. Sister Marianne turns to her and then turns
to Matt. Matt wonders what the expression on her face is.
“I see,” Sister Constance says curtly. “Maybe you’ll rethink this on an empty
stomach because you’re not having dinner today.”
“I wasn’t hungry anyway,” Matt says, even though it’s a lie. His stomach sucks
around nothing, worrying. “And cafeteria food is repugnant,” he adds, which is
true. He’s learned this word the other day and he thinks it fits very well. The
food is mushy and repugnant.
“Look at mister smart mouth!” Sister Constance huffs. Matt opens his mouth to
protest, he’s not “smart-mouthed”, he’s justsmart, it’s not a sin— “Don’t you
talk back now! You march to the church and sit quietly through the rest of the
mass or there will be very serious consequences for you, young man.” And with
that, Sister Constance strides away, rap, tap, rap, tap, sturdy heels on a dull
wooden floor.
Sister Marianne shakes her head, effusing nettle and rose-sweet sweat.
“Oh, lambkin,” she sighs. “You should’ve just apologized.”
And then she follows after Sister Constance.
 
At recess, Matt sits on the concrete ledge of the fence in the far end of the
courtyard. He’d like to sit on top of the monkey bars, but they don’t let him
on there because he’s “handicapped”, or on the swings, but they’re always taken
by the popular kids, so he sits on the curb.
Matt doesn’t like recess – he’s weird like that. Most kids spent all lessons
counting minutes to the bell, but Matt intends to make the most of them. He’s
going to get into a good high school and they’ll be sorry, but it will be too
late. Matt doesn’t care anyway. The classes are boring and the teachers are
dumb, and he knows all the material already, so instead Matt studies for the
next semester and reads more interesting things; it’s not like they can tell,
with his Braille books. Or argues with the teachers sometimes, that can be fun
too. But recess is a waste of time – if it weren’t for it, they’d be allowed to
leave sooner. And how long can you eat lunch anyway? Matt always spends most of
recess sitting on the curb and kicking up gravel. Waste of time.
So he’s observing. Not stalking; he’s not listening for a specific person, so
it’s ok. And it’s good to have dirt on people, even when he won’t use it. He
doesn’t care about the other kids, but it’s smart. It’s what Stick would do.
Matt pays attention to his surroundings. It’s not eavesdropping if he can’t
help but hear it, right?
They’re talking about him.
“He’s possessed, you know. Like, by a demon.”
Whiny babyish voice and heavy, long hair flapping like a cape in the wind on a
twig-like body: that’s Mary. She’s two years younger than Matt and annoying.
“You’re lying.” Tonia, with voice like a boy and mouth smelling like a fake
bubble-gum lipstick that’s Sister Marianne’s.
“Am not!” Mary cries. “Mickey said that she heard Sister Helen tell this to
Sister Faustina.”
“Mickey is a little liar and attention slut,” Tonia scoffs. “Besides, there’re
no such things as demons.”
“Tonia!” Mary gasps. “What would Sister Helen say if she heard you?”
“It’s true,” Tonia says stubbornly. “It’s just a scary story to tell naughty
kids so they go to church and be good. Demons don’t exist.”
“I don’t know,” Mary says, crossing her arms. “What about that boy, from the
movie? He was a girl in the movie, but they changed it.”
Tonia clicks her tongue impatiently.
“Don’t be stupid. What are you, five? He wasn’t possessed. He was just, you
know.” Tonia swirls her finger at her temple. “Loony.”
Mary hides her chin in her shoulder. Matt can’t prove it, but he knows she’s
looking at him.
“Do you think he’s a psycho?”
“Oh, totally.” Tonia puts on a conspiratorial voice. “He broke Nate’s nose. In
church!”
“Nate’s a butthead,” Mary murmurs.
“Well, duh. But he gives me the creeps. That empty stare of his?” Tonia
shudders exaggeratedly.
“He’s blind,” Mary says quietly.
“So?” Tonia huffs. “He’s creepy. Remember that weird old man that used to come
for him and they’d be gone for hours?” She says low and dark, with badly-hidden
glee: “I bet he took him to, like, perform satanical sacrifices.”
“You said demons weren’t real,” Mary points out.
“They’re not,” Tonia says shortly. “But they’re mental. Who knows what’s inside
crazies’ head?”
Mary says nothing for a moment, boring her shoe-tip in the gravel.
“You don’t think he’s possessed?”
“Yeah, ‘cos he’s not,” Tonia retorts.
Mary’s shoe stops.
“Prove it.”
“How would I prove it?” Tonia asks, indignant.
“Ask him,” Mary says. “Or are you scared? I thought he wasn’t possessed,” she
says with triumph.
“He’s not!” Tonia calls out. “And I’m not scared. But he’s crazy. You don’t
know what he might do.”
“Chicken,” Mary taunts.
“Fine!” Tonia huffs. “God, you’re such a nag!” Mary warms up, her heart beating
faster.
Tonia marches up towards him, pebbles flying under her Mary Janes.
“Hey!”
Matt imagines tripping her with his cane. A high-pitched cry, knees scraping
bloody through her baggy second-hand tights. Instead, he grunts, “Who is it?”
“It’s Tonia,” she says, offhand. She leans against the fence next to him, props
her right foot, the one closer to him, on the concrete ledge. “So, is it true
they performed exorcisms on you when you got here?”
Matt clenches his hand around his cane.
“Yeah.”
Tonia’s head snaps to him.
“Really?” she asks, her voice heavy with skepticism. “So how was it?”
“They stood over me and chanted in Latin,” Matt tells her solemnly. “Then
Priest sprinkled me with holy water.”
“Yeah?” Tonia’s foot taps on the fence.
Matt nods. “But do you want to know a secret?”
Tonia inches closer.
“It didn’t work.”
The foot stills.
“What?”
“I told them I’m all good now, but I lied.” He twists his lips in a snarl.
“There’s a devil in me. I can feel it.”
“I don’t believe you.” She crosses her arms; her heart is quickening in her
chest.
Matt bares his teeth. “Ssasheossa hasseo. Tahnahh.”
“What are you doing?” Tonia demands, her voice wavering a little.
“Deus meus cosmateus,” Matt intones. “Amse kadamse! Shasseeme Spiritus
Sanctus.”
“Stop it!” Tonia squeaks.
“Fasi Hath!” Matt hisses at her.
Tonia shrieks and springs off the fence, Mary Janes crunching on the gravel.
“He’s a freak! Run!”
She bumps into Mary and grabs her sweaty hand, and they both run to the school
screaming bloody murder.
Matt smirks. Stupid girls. That oughta show them.
He traces a circle in the pebbles with his cane. Let them think he’s crazy.
Maybe they’ll be scared that he’s gonna cut them up in their sleep and they’ll
leave him alone. It’s kind of cool, if you think about it. He’d rather be the
psycho over the blind kid. Psycho is dangerous. Blind is just pathetic.
Matt stills his arm. What if he really were crazy? Maybe he is. He’s weird;
crazy people stick out, too. There always was something wrong with him. The
senses—who can smell yesterday’s bagel bits stuck between somebody’s teeth?
That’s freaky. Crazy. Stick said the senses were a weapon, but they could be
both. And he was weird before the accident, anyway. He’s got the devil in him.
But Tonia was right about that, there’s no such thing as possession. That’s
like schizophrenia.
Matt rubs the circle off the ground with his cane. Except he can’t be crazy if
he’s thinking that. Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Right? So he can’t
be crazy.
He jabs the cane into the gravel. It’s just stupid kid talk. He doesn’t give a
damn anyway.
 
On Friday they have mock Confession; except that it’s not mock and they have to
confess real sins. But it’s not the Confession before First Communion. So like
a rehearsal Confession.
Father James is taking confessions. Father James is beer-bellied and
unpleasant; he has that air about him like he disapproves of everything, even
good fun that’s not harming anyone. Especially of any and all kinds of fun.
Matt imagines Father James has had a martial frown permanently frozen on his
face even as a baby – the midwife took him out and exclaimed: “Oh! I’ve never
seen such a discontent baby! It looks like it’s about to berate me for
delivering him wrong!” And if Father James could speak then, he would. He
radiates disapproval.
Sister Helen is supervising them. Sister Helen is like Sister Constance, except
dumber than a box of hair. She thinks screeching like a dying owl makes her
more authoritative. It just makes her sound like a dying owl.
Piotr goes to kneel first. He stumbles through Forgive me, Father and stammers
out his list of sins, repeating himself and saying them like a question; his
sweaty palms slip on the wood of the confessional and leave invisible grease
stains. The wood sucks the smell like a hungry baby.
“And, uh… I lied—I lied about… uh, I don’t remember what, I—is it a sin? I
mean…”
Suddenly it strikes him that he shouldn’t be hearing this. It’s not right. All
this is not right.
“I don’t want to go to Confession,” Matt declares.
Sister Helen blinks so furiously that Matt can hear it; he can just picture it,
fluttering stupid-angry owl eyes. Like his grandmother, but without the spark.
“What kind of nonsense is this again, child?”
Matt crosses his arms and juts out his chin.
“Matt,” he says. “My name is Matt.” He gives her a mean smile. “The blind one.
It can’t be that hard to remember if you only put your mind to it, Sister.”
Sister Helen sucks in a whistling breath, big blotches of heat blossoming on
her cheeks. Matt imagines two red circles painted on perfectly like on a
Russian doll.
“You should say three Hail Marys for that talk.”
“You can’t give me penance. You’re not a priest,” Matt points out, a little
snidely.
Sister Helen huffs.
“Go and confess to Priest James and he’ll tell you the same.”
“I don’t want to go to Confession,” Matt says, louder. A couple closest kids
turn their heads in his direction.
“You can’t take First Communion without Confession,” Sister Helen yaps, nearing
to her dying owl screech. “Stand in the line and wait your turn.”
“Why do I have to tell my sins to a priest?” Matt argues. “If God hears and
knows everything, can’t I just repent in my head? Why there has to be a
priest?”
“Why, why, why,” Sister Helen parrots. Matt clenches his fists. He doesn’t
sound like that. “Don’t ask so many questions and listen to people smarter than
you. God Himself made the Sacrament of Confession.”
“No, He didn’t. Protestants believe in the same God and they don’t have to
confess,” Matt points out, pouting. “And you may be older than me, Sister
Helen, but you’re not smarter.”
Sister Helen lunges to grab his ear but Matt dances out of her reach.
“You shut your mouth and go to Confession right now!” she screeches.
“It’s my life!” Matt shouts back. “You can’t make me!”
“Your life belongs to God and, as long as you’re a child, this institution! You
sit down and be quiet while you wait for your turn to confess or I’ll give you
the beating of your life,” Sister Helen squawks, spit flying everywhere. Matt
wipes a drop from his cheek. Yuck.
“I’ll go to Confession, Sister,” Matt says with dignity. “But since you made
me, I don’t think it counts for much.” Then he sits down and says nothing more
not to give her apoplexy, and also because he didn’t get breakfast today and he
doesn’t want to not get dinner too. Sister Helen’s shaking.
Confessed sins, like worms, crawl into his ears. Matt bites the inside of his
mouth until warm bubble of blood spurts from it. Metallic and nauseating; he
focuses on it. Tries to count all animals scurrying in the Church: there’s a
pigeon drinking holy water from the basin, two rats sniffling a crumb by the
altar, a mouse perched in the wall – a literal church mouse. It’s hard to pick
up everything, the church acoustic is messing with his hearing. Lame excuse.
Stick would smack him for it.
He doesn’t want to confess his sins to Father James. But maybe it doesn’t have
to be Father James he’ll be confessing to; after all, he’s just an intermediary
between him and God. And Father James can’t tell what he says to anyone. Maybe
Matt can just forget it’s Father James in the confessional and speak directly
to God. He will be listening.
The girl before him, Nia or Nyla, with a small shy voice (…I had impure
thoughts for my best friend…) raises from her knees and lays a kiss on the
stole. Matt bites his mouth again. He almost forgets to knock his cane on the
confessional and feel his way around to the prayer desk.
Matt kneels and makes the sign of the cross, mumbling, “In the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Then, more clearly: “Bless me,
Father, for I have sinned.”
The script goes, “It’s been so and so since my last confession” but this is his
first time, so Matt is momentarily stumped.
“Yes?” Priest prompts him. “What sins do you want to confess? Other children
are waiting.”
Matt licks the blood in his mouth. It tastes red.
“I have the devil in me,” he whispers.
“Is this your idea of a joke, young man?” Priest asks sharply.
“It’s true,” Matt says fervently. “The Sisters believe it too. I heard them.”
“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” Priest admonishes.
“Sorry. Is eavesdropping a sin?” Matt asks. He didn’t think so; he hopes it
isn’t, because then he’s been sinning a lot.
“No,” Priest says, “but it’s a rude thing to do. Do you have any actual sins to
confess?”
Matt bites the small wound in his mouth, hard.
“Sometimes…” he says tentatively. “Sometimes I think that I hate God.”
Priest sighs.
“Doubt is weakness. Even Thomas the Apostle succumbed to this human failing;
his example teaches us we must trust in God. You mustn’t question the Lord in
His infinite wisdom but accept God’s will with humility.”
Blood is pooling in his mouth. Matt swallows it like rust-tinged wine. Like
Communion; this is the chalice of my blood. He wonders if his teeth and gums
are stained red.
“I don’t understand why He had to take my dad.”
“It’s not for you to understand…”
“If He had to take my dad, why couldn’t He take me too?” Matt rushes the
question out. “At least we could be together in Heaven. It’s not fair that I
have to live without my dad. I think I’d rather be dead.”
Why do I have to live without anyone who loves me, Matt thinks.
“Don’t say such ridiculous things. This is a serious sin.” Matt pulls on the
wound with his teeth, drawing more blood. “God gave you life and God will take
it when He wishes. Is there anything else you want to confess?”
“I… told a lie,” Matt says, thinking of Tonia. “But it was only because—”
“I don’t need to know your justifications,” Priest interrupts him. “You’re not
the only one who wants to confess today. It’s inconsiderate.”
“Sorry,” Matt whispers. He searches his mind. “Uh… For these and all the sins
of my past life, I ask pardon of God, penance, and absolution from you,
Father.”
“For your penance, say three Our Fathers,” Priest grunts. “Say the Act of
Contrition.”
“Um… O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You and I detest all my
sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell. But most of all
because I have offended You, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my
love. I firmly resolve with the help of Your grace, to confess my sins, to do
penance and to amend my life,” Matt recites while Priest makes the sign of the
cross and mutters something in Latin. “Amen.”
“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”
“For His mercy endures forever,” Matt mumbles.
Priest knocks on the wall of the confessional. Matt puts his hand on the shelf
and pushes himself up, gripping his cane. He takes a step back and then
remembers he’s got to kiss the stole. It stinks with old spit and dead moths;
Matt quickly pecks the air above it.
Next in line, a gangly boy whose name he forgot, kneels on the prayer desk and
says In the name of the Father. Matt sits down on the bench. Maybe he could
take this time to say the penance so he doesn’t forget later, if he’s waiting
anyway. He goes through the prayer three times; it drags on and Matt rushes
through the last one, only a little. There: his sins are forgiven.
He should feel lighter now, purer. Matt searches in him for God’s love or some
holy feeling; his stomach sucks on nothing. He feels hungry.
 
Two little devils, all dressed in red,
Tried to get to Heaven on the end of a thread.
Thread string got broken, down they all fell.
Instead of going to Heaven, they went to…
 
Matt crouches on a fire escape like a gargoyle, head cocked to listen.
Church bells ring in his ears, reverberating through his skull and fucking up
his concentration. Matt tilts his head again, trying to tune out interference.
“…Matthew?” There. Sister Constance’s hoarse bark-like voice cuts through the
hum of the city. When he focuses hard enough, he can hear the phlegm shifting
in her throat. Slimy bump, like a bit of a coughed-out lung. Matt follows it
sliding up and down, disgusting wet pop-smack-pop, with morbid fascination.
“Have you seen him?”
He listens: no answer. A headshake or a shrug, then – harder to hear over the
wind. That’s just making excuses, really, he should be able to hear it anyway.
Sloppy, and pathetic.
Sister Constance mutters “For God’s sake” under her nose. Matt quirks the
corner of his mouth in a smile.
“He’s gone again. I don’t know what to do anymore with that boy.”
“Heavens know how he does it.” Shrill rasp; like a dumb parrot mimicking human
speech. Sister Helen. “I’ve never seen a blind person so good at sneaking
around.” The smile widens into a sneer. Yeah, chew on that. Hopefully choke on
it.
“He may be blind but he’s a teenage boy,” Sister Constance points out; the way
she says it, it’s like being a teenager is some great transgression. “I’m
losing patience for this juvenile rebel act. This is the third mass he skipped
this month…”
Matt stops listening. He swings himself to the next story – somersault from a
half-crouch with a brittle metal bar for purchase, not too skimpy – and lands
on a AC. Matt uses it as a springing board to leap to the building over.
He has to practice, if he doesn’t want all his training with Stick to go to
shit. Stick was an asshole and an old creep who liked to beat up little boys,
but he did teach him useful things. Matt scrapes what he has a use for from
what is worthless to him – mystical bullshit, childish need to please his
memories are colored with, fucking Stick – and that way he can be mature about
it. He wouldn’t go back and erase his training in the end; if not for it, he’d
still be whining and writhing on bed, or have a Sister wipe his ass like he’s a
baby, an invalid. Helpless blind guy. Not even a guy – a pitiful sexless
creature incapable of taking care of itself. But Matt can defend himself; he
can fight, like a man. Without Stick, surrounded by priests and crazy
spinsters, he’d be totally castrated.
Matt balances on a ledge and heaves himself up on the roof, hidden from the
street. Day is not the best time for practice. He’d have to sneak out again
after dark. There’s not much he can do now without attracting people’s
attention; but it’s still a far better use of his time than sitting through
another wasted hour of mass.
“God is dead,” Matt tries out on his tongue.
Nietzsche may be a long-obsolete wacko but he got that right. It’s a fucking
twenty first century – all this backwards religious crap should’ve been left
behind in the old millennium. Any rational man knows that “God” is a nice
little fantasy people want to believe in when they’re too weak and stupid to
deal with reality. A fossilized myth that’s run its course.
Sister Helen didn’t like that, no. Fools never like to have their small-minded
worldview challenged. They’ve been learning philosophy, but God forbids they
think on their own! Literally. Well, “learning” is generous, but Matt’s read a
whole textbook on it, college-level, because there’s not a lot of choices in
the library’s Braille books and he was bored. Saint Thomas Aquinas stuck in his
head. Religion and philosophy, isn’t that funny? Both equally bullshit. He
doesn’t need dead unwashed old farts to tell him about life, and he doesn’t
need dead rambling-drunk bigots to preach to him about life beyond life.
“Unmoved mover,” like Matt couldn’t come up with something better himself.
There’s no great design in the universe, and even if there was, it sure as fuck
wouldn’t prove that some random madman who died on a cross a million years ago
was the son of God.
Matt knows well what the world is – the world is violence, a never-ending chain
of live things feeding on dead, and then them dying too and being fed on.
Pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.A finished sentence, no salvation for the
soul beyond the grave. Maybe, just maybe, something exists other than this
realm, but a human could spend his whole life searching for it and would never
find it, so why try? God, along with every useless thought experiment, should
be put to the ground.
God is dead, Matt repeats to himself and vaults from building to building, over
the heads of New Yorkers too busy staring at their own feet to notice anyway.
There’s no use in wasting time on dead things.
 
Slap, like a gunshot. Matt flinches, from the noise more than pain. It burns
but less than his fury.
“What’s in that head on yours? Do you think that we don’t have better things to
do than chase after you?” Sister Helen screeches. “Answer me when I’m talking
to you!”
“No, I don’t think that at all,” Matt mutters, every word spiked with biting
sarcasm. Most of the time Matt likes his sunglasses – slick and red-tinged,
kinda cool and mysterious vibe – but they cramp the full force of his glare. He
still glares, channeling every ounce of hatred that burns in him.
“Where have you been? Hm?” Sister Helen drills. “Where is it that you disappear
to all the time?” Despite the shrill tone, a curious note rings in her voice.
“I don’t know what are you talking about, Sister,” Matt says coolly. “I’ve
never left. I was here the entire time reading in bed.”
Smack. Matt gnashes his teeth, growl rising in his throat.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Sister Helen spews mockingly. He
clenches his fists. “Well, you’re not the first difficult, no-good youth who
thinks more of himself than he really is this place has seen. In Lord’s eyes,
all men are equal, and you’re not any more special than everybody here. Maybe
an hour you’re going to spend on your knees making it up with prayer will teach
you some humility.”
Matt meditates. God is not listening. He has to stay sharp, stay focused.
Remember his training, for when he gets out of this miserable, dark place and
finally be able to realize his full potential. He’ll leave the claustrophobic
old streets of Hell’s Kitchen washed with piss and blood, leave this whole
stinking, will-sucking city behind.
He used to dream that when he grew up, he’d search for Stick. He’d find him in
some remote, exotic place – it always looked like a scene from North, maybe
because it’s the last movie he remembers watching – and he’d show Stick what he
can do, and Stick would see that he made a mistake, and he’d say, You grew up
to be a worthy warrior, I’m proud of you, Matty—
But these are child’s dreams, child’s stupid fantasies. Stick is an asshole and
Matt doesn’t need his approval. Doesn’t want it. The old man can shove it. Matt
will become so much more than Stick envisioned training him and he’ll make
Stick regret ever leaving him behind.
No, that’s not right either. It’s still about Stick. Matt knows better, is
better than that. Fuck Stick. Matt will leave New York and go—wherever, he’ll
study medicine at Oxford, he’ll graduate from Yale and work his ass off all the
way up to Supreme Court, he’ll be the first blind US Marine, he’ll—he’ll get a
Doctorate in Political Science and be a big name in academia while secretly
making money cage fighting—his future stretches out before him, branching off
in million different directions, white-hot smudges streaking his world of red.
He can do anything, everything he puts his mind to; he just has to power
through these remaining couple years and then he’ll finally live his life.
God is dead, he thinks. Mind controls the body, the body controls the enemy,
and the soul means jack shit. Or something.
Matt feels eyes on him: nose-tingling girly perfume that’s gone sour, cartoony
boobs ballooning like two melons on a thin child’s body. Mary. Wonder what she
did to land herself the same punishment as him, kneeling on the cold, hard
stone. She’s taking it worse than him; her knobbly knees tremble, her attention
wanes and wanders towards him.
Matt sticks out his tongue and flashes her the devil horns. Mary gasps and
knocks her knees on the stone. Her delicate skin is gonna bruise like a peach,
nasty yellow-purple. Matt bites on a smirk, dark, burning satisfaction sinking
low in his gut. The devil that lives there bares his fangs and hisses.
 
Orphanage’s settling for the night.
Matt’s bottom bunk because they don’t want to open themselves to a lawsuit in
case a blind kid would fall from bed and break his neck. He used to think it
real funny – now, it just makes him pissed. He asks to watch a movie with audio
description one time and he has to suck it up and realize the real world won’t
cater to him, but suddenly he’s too fragile to sleep on the top bunk! Last time
he checked, sighted people don’t sleep with their eyes open either. He almost
said then that he manages to aim in the toilet just fine. Imagined Sister
Helen’s choking seagull wheeze of indignation. It somewhat vindicated him.
Matt is stretched on his back, arms under his head. Mapping out the ribs in the
bedframe above him by micro-changes in the air flow. Nate chucks a football at
his face. Matt winces, lets it bounce off his forehead. Thwack, thump; Nate
snickers. Nate throws like a girl, but it successfully breaks his
concentration. It would feel good, to throw the ball back and knock out his
teeth. Would feel good for a moment and then would come the questions. Nate’s
not worth it. Matt tosses the ball back limply in a completely wrong direction.
Piotr and Lance, Nate’s stupid lackeys, hoot with laughter.
You’re gonna age out of the system just like me and you don’t even have a
handicap for an excuse, Matt thinks spitefully and finds that he doesn’t feel
bad about it. Anyway, they’ll leave him alone soon enough if he doesn’t engage.
The guys call him a fag and try to trip him up once in a while, but they know
not to seriously fuck with him. Matt had to break Nate’s nose three times for
that lesson to stick, if only because Nate got fed up being that guy who had
his ass beat by a blind kid. It doesn’t matter. None of them matter; in two
years, seven months, and twenty-two days, Matt will be out of Saint Agnes and
free of all this for good.
He waits for the noise to die out. Guys shoving each other and cackling too
loudly. Small kids sniffling. Wailing. God, the wailing. Will someone come shut
them up? Oh, there comes Sister Constance, grumbling – that’s no good, all the
little ones hate her. More wailing. Great. Girls, two rooms down, giggling like
a pack of hyenas on crack. Almost as bad as crying. They put on their stupid
CDs and howl the lyrics out of sync, head-splitting cacophony of tuneless
voices. My loneliness ain’t killing me no mo-o-ore… Ugh, he hates that song. He
hates that music, badly synthesized and teeth-rotting sweet, and worst of all,
worming into his brain so that even his dreams are set to obnoxious pop
soundtrack. Sister Helen bangs the door open with a screech. The only time
Sister Helen is good for something. Girls turn the stereo off but keep
whispering between themselves. Matt doesn’t know what’s worse, Britney Spears
or this, every silly word of their girl-babble as if breathed right into his
ear. Mimi, baby, you know I love you the most in the world, but you can be such
an uptight bitch. You need to, like, get fucked good. She should just fuck
herself with that stick up her ass. Shutup!
Chatter fades away as girls one by one tire themselves into sleep. Piotr’s
snores, he doesn’t need super-hearing to catch that, even breaths stirring the
air in the room. Not faking. Sister Constance’s sleep cough-snorts, Sister
Helen’s whistling inhales. Sleeping. Sister Marianne warm from half a bottle of
sherry in her; she won’t get up tonight. Matt lets the familiar creaks and hums
of the house tide over him, the only off-key sound his own breathing and
Tonia’s down the hall.
Of all the girls, Tonia is the worst. Two years younger than him, three,
technically, going by birth years, but she’s nothing like those wimpy little
middle schoolers putting their heads down at the sight of high school kids. The
kind of girl you see in the movies – her arms linked with a new girlfriend
every week, she and her clique of girls older than her parade around, daring
you to get in their way. Won’t step back in time and they’d trample your feet,
heavy platforms crushing your toes, their laugh noisy and mean. Stinks of
cigarettes like she’s been chain-smoking for a decade, and masks it with sugary
vodka-perfume; charms old creeps hanging out at bodega for it, and drinks it
from soda bottles right in Sister Constance’s face.
Tonia’s been sneaking out after dark; most nights Matt goes out, so does she.
Her heart is fluttering in her chest – the way she pops her gum every time
Sister Helen tries to get a word in, you’d think she wasn’t afraid of anything.
She’s been caught doing worse, too—but he doesn’t care to figure Tonia out.
Enough that she won’t be trouble now. Matt slides from his bunk, carefully
pries wider the window, and slips into the night.
The night city air goes to his head like a sip of Scotch – sewer rot and fumes
and bodily excretions of eight million people stewing in still heat. Near solid
layer of filth steeped through his pores and curled around him like second
skin. New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice. One for a New
York that’s more a promise than a city, that smells like grime and sweat-soaked
leather and childhood. And the other for a New York that’s a fist around his
throat, rust-blood and screams and never-ending sirens. He’s caught in the
space between them, the city walls closing on him and the devil pressing
against the bars of his ribcage.
“God is dead,” Matt mutters. God is dead but the devil lives inside him. Stick
saw it in him. Matt has a rage burning in his blood that’s too old for his
soul. Something black and fucked-up that marks him different from other people.
More beast than man but beyond human, living on the fringes of their small
world. Matt’s world is hell, that’s screams and putrid trash and fire.
Tonia tears into his thoughts like an annoying fly—heels step on a window
ledge, and down the drainpipe. Clever. Tonia’s heart hammers inside her like
she’s going into cardiac arrest. Matt doesn’t give a fuck whatever bad news guy
or dealer she’s meeting tonight. He smelled it on her a couple times, vapid
chemical odor coming off her skin, crushed over-the-counter stimulants snorted
with a rolled wad of stolen cash like coke. Girl’s a lost cause and Matt’s not
going to get sucked into her shit. He stays up, out of sight.
Tonia’s sure feet take a turn by the church and down the path to the
presbytery. What would she… Footsteps stop. Hair swishes around her ears: Tonia
makes sure she’s alone. Just her and Matt’s ghostly presence on a rooftop, a
silent witness. She dashes to the wall and then raps on the presbytery window,
two quick knocks and one thud.
The window creaks open. Shallow pants, asthmatic.
“Get inside,” Priest Albert says.
Tonia grabs his hand and heaves herself up and inside, all under two seconds.
The window bangs shut.
Matt moves closer.
Muffled, but to him clear as a gunshot:
“Has anyone seen you leaving?”
“No, everybody’s sleeping,” Tonia says, blasé. She circles around aimlessly,
her thong-clad feet flop-flopping on the wooden floor. “Can I have a drink?”
“Sure.” Sure. Cabinet door swings open, wood clacking on wood, glass chiming,
liquid being poured. Flop, flop, flop, Tonia’s thongs echoing in the room.
Heavy, even steps, Priest Albert. Flopping stops.
“So what are we doing tonight?” Tonia asks. Liquid sloshing, gulp. Heart
knocking like anxious knuckles on her ribcage.
“I was thinking we could watch a movie.” Level voice, politely inquisitive, the
kind that he uses during sermon. The kind that you speak to children.
“Cool.” More flop-flop-flopping set against the bassline of heavy male feet.
Groan of springs in an old armchair. Single armchair. The thongs clank on the
floor, the upholstery croaks. Matt pictures Tonia curling legs under her,
wedged in the narrow space between the armrest and Priest Albert’s bulk.
Imagines the rough fabric on her bare feet and the heat coming off his body
like a furnace.
TV crackles and flickers to life. Rapid-fire car wreck coverage, talking heads
cut off mid-sentence. Click. Chop, chop, chop, knife on plastic. Food channel.
Click. Woman crying to soft dramatic soundtrack. Lifetime movie. Click. Booming
bass, shrill screech of violins. Heaving, panicked footsteps on a crunching
ground. Blood-curling scream.
Tap, remote set on a nightstand. Even breaths and heartbeat like a hummingbird
from Tonia. Next to her, shallow pants, pumping loud heart. Level. Shifting,
rustling fabric. Faint sizzling static of the TV. The scene cuts off to a bored
detective reading a coroner’s report: abrasions around the victim’s neck,
multiple stab wounds to her abdomen, lacerations to her vagina; Matt stops
listening. Tonia’s still, only her rabbit-fast heart betraying she’s there.
Panting rises over droning voices on the TV. Priest Albert’s bass heartbeat
picks up, not as quick as Tonia’s. More shifting.
Matt tilts his head. Something… something’s happening. Material whispers,
armchair squeals. He can’t tell what’s happening. This far away, with the reek
of New York June night lodged in his nostrils, Matt can’t rely on his smell.
The only thing he has is his hearing.
Tonia gasps. It’s so soft, barely a breath, that Priest Albert may not hear it.
Matt hears it. A sound, squelchy and forceful, like skin rubbing on skin,
except… wetter. It stops. Priest Albert clicks his mouth around… around a
finger. Squelching starts again, smoother and faster now. Pants like church
bells. Nothing from Tonia but dead, dead silence and her hummingbird heart and
stomach-churning wet sound.
Violent smacks, knuckles against something soft and slick. Not slick enough.
It’s so loud. It’s so loud and she’s dead quiet. But her heartbeat, drowned by
wet hammer-pounding. Frantic wheeze breaks into a groan, hoarse and drawn-out,
that tastes like bile on the back of the teeth. Noisy pop, like a pulled out
drain plug. Rabbit heartbeat eases up and settles, a clock ticking just a beat
too fast.
“Do you have cigs?” Tonia asks blandly.
“Oh, God.”
“I wanna go for a smoke. Do you have a pack?”
“Yeah, it’s…” Swallow, tongue wetting chapped lips. “It’s in the pocket, in my
coat.”
Bare feet hit the wood. Thongs shuffle on the floor. Flop-flop-flop, stopping.
Hum of fabric. Something thick. Maybe wool.
“The other pocket.” Hum stops, resumes. Flip-flops tap their way to the window.
“Don’t let anyone see you.”
“I won’t.” Colorless; her heartbeat is a placid white noise.
“And don’t take too long.”
“Just wanna have a smoke,” Tonia repeats.
“Alright.”
Window hinges whine, quick feet slap on the sill and land lightly on the ground
outside.
The lighter flickers. Once, twice. Soft cursing. Third time’s a charm. Deep
breath in; slow, lingering exhale. Slight weight hits the coarse presbytery
wall and slides down it to the ground.
“Fuck.” A sucking breath. Heart stumbles and climbs, up, up, like a frightened
bird fluttering desperately in a cage. Broken inhale; trembling blow of smoke.
Ugly sound rising in her throat, swallowed down. Ash falls from shivering
fingers.
Knock, knock. Priest Albert taps on the window.
Breathe. A little shaky but calming. Butt shimmies up the rough surface,
jarring friction. Brush off knees. Take a last long drag.
Tonia flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, grinds it under her sole,
and goes back in.
 
The TV, the stupid show, is still playing. Something about blood splattered
panties, something about a message from the killer. Matt listens to police
chatter, grunting struggle, and doesn’t listen to anything else. Gunshots –
from the TV or outside? Laughter bubbles at his lips. What’s the difference?
There’s always gunshots.
Matt spurts with laugh, jams a first in his mouth, can’t stop laughing.
Gurgling, ugly sound. Ribcage shrinking and expanding, throat rippling, but
it’s like they don’t belong to him. Like there’s a dumb spasming body and
there’s Matt, hearing what it hears, feeling what it feels, but split, the part
that feels separated from the part that thinks. His brain, chopped cleanly in
half, two perfect white cloves crawling with pink worms.
Someone’s gonna hear, the first thought that comes to him. Thinking is like
wading in mud. His skull is flooded with ankle-high sludge. His chest is
cramping from laughing. Move it. Matt stumbles, teeth sank in knuckles,
straightens his rusty joints. He needs to get out of here. He drops to a fire
escape, loses purchase, lands in the trash and on his left hip. Laugh cuts off.
No air—he takes a big gulp into his lungs, and his side shoots up with fire.
Matt lies on his side, on his sprouting bruises, sick-colored mushrooms. His
hip is fractured. Matt rocks side to side, hisses. Not fractured; just hurts
like a son of a bitch.
He rolls onto his back, kicks his feet under him, heaves upright. Someone
must’ve heard the clamor. Someone is coming. Matt pulls himself up to the fire
escape, the one he missed. He turns his neck and pain stabs him in the meat of
his nape; he wrenched it too. He digs his fingers mercilessly in, digs for the
pain. He’s wasted enough time. Matt scales the side of the building and
scurries away like a battered cat.
 
Matt has seen hell – he lives in the world of fire – and fuck, he’d take it
over going to mass every time.
Words swirl in the church-air that’s suffocating and drowsy like chloroform,
dull, repetitive, useless. He can’t fucking take it. Minutes dragging on and
on, wasted. His entire weight pressing on the soles of his feet, crawling with
frustration to move, shake his arm, leg, do anything but just stand there like
a brainless zombie.
Kindly, level voice, a little scratched with asthmatic wheeze.
“May the receiving of your Body and Blood, Lord Jesus Christ, not bring me to
judgement and condemnation, but through your loving mercy be for me protection
in mind and body and a healing remedy.”
Priest Albert raises the body of Christ. Glorified fucking pastry. He says:
“Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world.
Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.”
“Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the
word and my soul shall be healed,” Matt murmurs along with the choir of voices,
words blurring into unintelligible slur.
Organ thunders. Plentiful wails join in a hymn, something about glory of
eternal life and finding peace and love in God. It sounds like a funeral march.
“May the Body of Christ keep me safe for eternal life,” Priest Albert says.
And he puts the wafer in his mouth. Smack of lips. Spit on a finger. Wet,
squelchy smack—
Glass rings. Liquid being poured. Then:
“May the Blood of Christ keep me safe for eternal life.”
Gulp, swallow. Can I have a drink? Oh, God.
Get a fucking grip.
“The Body of Christ.”
“Amen.”
God is dead, Matt thinks.
After, they spill outside the Church in a bee-swarm. The sun is warm on Matt’s
face. UV rays burning cancer into his cells. He tilts his head up, chasing it.
Priest Albert. Matt stills. Matt hears his voice and he’s saying something, but
Matt can’t process the words. Priest Albert has his meaty hand on a girl’s
small-boned shoulder – Annalise, pudgy seventh grader, parents died in a DUI
accident – and Matt feels her rolling back on the balls of her feet, her
nervous laugh shaking her baby-sized chest.
Hummingbird heart.
Another heartbeat stutters. Tonia, frozen at the church doors like a petrified
rabbit. Matt imagines striding up to her, getting in her face, growling, look
what you’ve done. Look what you set in motion. Tonia moves first of the two of
them; her heart settles into that odd half a beat too fast ticking.
“Anna!” she squeals. Annabelle and Priest Albert both twitch.
Annabelle got her first period a month before, and gross, chunky period blood
bled through her panties into a big-ass stain on her jeans. After Matt, who’d
been smelling growing stink of rust and dead cells and hearing disgusting
sucking noise for hours, Tonia was the first one to notice. She made everyone
call Annabelle nothing but Period Pants ever since; they’re not friends.
Tonia pounces at Annalise in two long strides. Mary follows near-scraping on
her heels; Tonia suddenly got over their big falling-out in January and they’re
back to being inseparable.
“Anna, babe, I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“You have?” Annalise asks dubiously; a small note of hope sneaks into her
voice. Everybody, and especially Period Pants, would want to get into Tonia’s
good graces.
“Sure thing, babe!” Tonia chirps. She links her arms with Annalise’s, pulling
her hip-to-hip, a step away from Priest Albert. “I was just telling Mary, you
have to let me borrow your pink skirt, it’s the cutest. Wasn’t I just saying
that, Mary?”
“Totally,” Mary says gamely, quick on her feet and probably eager to see what
scheme Tonia came up with this time. “The cutest.”
“O-okay,” Annalise breathes out dizzily.
“C’mon, babe, I have to try it on,” Tonia tuts.
“Right now?”
“Oh-em-gee, you’re such a ditzy!” Tonia says, somehow making it sound both like
an insult and endearment. “Yes, dummy, now. It totally goes with my top.”
Mary giggles. Annalise joins in tentatively, wanting to be in on the joke, even
if the joke is her.
“Hi, Priest Al,” Tonia shoots, like an after-thought, careless and on the verge
of insulting. How dare she, how dare she act like all’s cool, how dare she not
scream danger.“C’mon, bitches, we’re leaving.”
Matt steps into her way. Tonia stamps on his shoe with her entire weight,
twists her ankle in a way that must be deliberate. Matt digs his nails into his
palm.
“Beat it, spaz,” Tonia huffs, angry-cat sound. Mary giggles again, resembling
one of those talking dolls with a string. It sounds like a monkey choking on
its spit. Annalise blows an uncertain breathy chuckle.
Last week, it would’ve made him feel like an old chewed-out gum stuck to the
bottom of Tonia’s platform flip-flops. Now, he has her hummingbird heart and
choked sucking blow of a cigarette smoke etched in his brain and he feels hard,
and hollow, and sick, and mean.
“I need to talk to you,” Matt mutters. It comes out low, but not dark and full
of promise of threat how he means it, just inaudible and pathetic. Tonia spews
her harsh, derisive laugh, a whip to his face.
“Ugh, that is so lame. Did you hear that, Anna?” Annalise perks up: grateful to
be included. It smarts how Tonia won’t even talk to him. “It thinks it has a
chance with me,” she whispers theatrically. Blood gushes to his face; he grips
his cane like a baton. “No, Norman Bates, I don’t want to be the next hacked
corpse under your bed.”
Mary howls with laughter, folding in half with an arm over her belly. Tonia
drops her other hand.
“Jeez, Mary, take a chill pill. You sound like a drowning horse.”
Mary bites down on her laugh so abruptly she actually bites her tongue. Salty
tang on tears pinches his nostrils. Matt thought something similar just a
moment ago, but it’s, it’s different, somehow, for Tonia to say it in such an
offhand manner, to dish out casual cruelty to her friend for no reason at all.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeats, more urgent. Tonia scoffs.
“I told you already, weirdo, I’m not—” Matt’s hand shoots up and squeezes
around Tonia’s bird-boned forearm. “Ow! Take your fucking hands off me, you
fucking psycho—”
“You’ll talk to me,” Matt growls, “unless you want me talk about your nightly
activities in front of your friends.”
All heat drains from Tonia’s face. Her heartbeat reaches its hummingbird pace
and pushes past it, going into overdrive.
“Mary, Anna, bounce,” she says coldly.
“What’s wr—” Mary starts saying.
“Are you fucking deaf?” Tonia barks at her. “Fuck off, I’ll catch you later if
I wanna see your pug-face.”
No one moves. Tonia keeps facing off Matt, Matt tastes salt in the air, Mary
looks to Tonia, frozen. Then Mary angles down her face, hiding behind a
mountain of hair, and quietly makes herself scarce. Annalise lingers, breath
bated, then she stumbles and flees. There’s just Tonia and him.
“I don’t know what you think you know—” Tonia starts, low and dangerous.
“Cut the shit. I saw you.” He tightens his grip. “What the fuck are you
thinking?”
Tonia tears her arm away furiously. “You saw me? You’re tripping. If you think
anyone will believe you…”
“Believe what?” Matt asks sardonically. “I thought I didn’t see anything.”
“‘Cos you didn’t,” Tonia says flatly. “Stay out of my shit. Got plenty your
own.”
Matt shakes his head.
“I don’t understand. He’s like forty and a priest. It’s gross. How can you do
this?”
“The fuck you care.” She sets her chin. “What, you’re gonna tell?” it’s a jeer,
belittling, as if he overplayed his hand big time and he’s got nothing on her,
but her traitorous heart skips and flutters.
“Yeah,” Matt says angrily, but it tastes like a lie on his tongue. He pushes it
down.
Now Tonia grabs his arm. Her brittle, child’s hand is surprisingly strong,
claw-like and merciless. He could twist away, easy, but not without dislocating
her elbow. Tonia’s thin fingernails break skin.
“You won’t tell,” she hisses. Her heart beats like a war drum. Matt yanks his
arm; her hooked fingers, four pinpricks of pain, wring his skin tight. “You
hear me? You fucking… won’t tell.”
“Why’re you so freaked if I tell? No one’s gonna believe me, right.”
“Are you retarded?” Tonia barks, short. A wave of shame-burning heat crashes
over him. “You can’t tell.”
“I won’t,” Matt concedes; it tastes like defeat but truer, too. He doesn’t want
to think about it. “But you should.”
Tonia lets him go and laughs; dissonant, wrong. It takes him a moment to piece
why. It’s not a girl’s laugh; she sounds tired and old.
“Yeah? Like you did?”
Matt’s throat seizes up.
“What are you talking about?”
Tonia jerks her chin provocatively.
“You and that old guy?”
“Stick didn’t… he didn’t do that,” Matt says, mouth dry.
She shrugs.
“Maybe he didn’t do that.”
“It was different,” Matt says.
“Whatever.”
“I’m not—”
“What? You’re not like me?” Tonia laughs again; Matt winces. “Yeah, you’re
right. I don’t care what that Stick guy did or didn’t do to you. It’s…
whatever. That’s your shit. And this is mine.”
“It’s not just your shit,” Matt says, accusation ringing out in his voice. “You
want him to—do this to other girls?”
“Sex,” Tonia says tonelessly. “The word you’re looking for is sex.”
“No, it’s not.” Tonia averts her face. “He’s a pervert, a pedo. You think it’s
just you? He’s going to touch other girls.”
“He won’t.” Dispassionate, stubborn. Matt clenches his fists, choked with rage.
“You’re an idiot,” he spits, “or a bitch. He will. You want that? You want him
to touch Mary, P—Annalise? Darla? She’s five.”
“Shut up!” Tonia seethes. “I told you he won’t.”
“You don’t wanna talk about it? That it?” Matt asks. “That’s why you’re being
so damn selfish? You don’t tell, and the next time he does it is your fault.”
“You don’t know shit,” Tonia chokes out, taut and shivering. “He’s not gonna
touch them because he’s touching me! Okay? Just—drop it!”
Matt shakes his head incredulously.
“I don’t get it. Why are you doing this? For booze? Is a pack of smokes worth
that? Or maybe you like it.” Hummingbird heart raps on the inside of his brain.
His throat burns with puke, sick words hurled in stupid anger. Matt wants to
swallow it back but it’s done, stinking all over the gap between them.
Tonia steps up to him, her vodka-sweet breath itching on his face.
“You’re a piece of shit, Matt,” she spews, her voice catching on an angry sob.
“You act like you’re better than everybody but you’re a schizo and a gross
fuck! Don’t tell or I’ll make the rest of your pathetic life here a living
hell.”
She whirls around, a hurricane of cigarette smoke hair and fury and tears, and
leaves Matt here, clenching his fists uselessly.
Most of the congregation has filtered out from the church court. A few hang
back, chattering among themselves, weather, sermon, same bullshit. Priest
Albert is joking with a couple, jasmine-and-sweat smelling woman and a too-warm
man with a heart murmur. Nearby, their kids are clapping and signing a dumb
nursery rhyme, two little angels… The adults burst with laughter. Priest
Albert’s belly-bass booms the loudest.
God is dead, Matt thinks. His left side, the one he fell on, is on fire. Matt
punches it angrily – the bruise ripples with teeth-grinding pain.
Suck it up, you fucking wimp, Matt growls in his head and gets the fuck out of
there.
 
The summer goes by like a whip of a lash and the leaves dry up and shrivel and
grow over with frost like mold and die. Priest Albert moves to another parish.
A couple months later four different girls accuse him of molestation, aged
seven to thirteen. Matt overhears it through the Church grapevine. Priest
Albert is placed on “retirement”, which means he can’t say mass but stays
helping around the parish. Imagine that, Sister Marianne whispers to a Sister
with flushed cheeks. One of the girls slits her wrists in a school bathroom.
Imagine that.
 
One little devil, all dressed in red,
Tried to get to Heaven on the end of a thread.
Thread string got broken and down he fell.
Instead of going to Heaven, he went to…
 
People are arguing under his window.
No, Matt reevaluates, the dorm window is two stories up and the wind is
sweeping from the North-East, carrying the voices. Two blocks down. It sounds
like they’re arguing right under the window. Listen, fucker, I want my money, I
don’t have it, you gonna pay one way or another, yada, yada, yada. The fight’s
gonna get physical any moment. Oh, here it goes—swish cuts the air, crack-
squish of bones on cartilage, more swearing. Matt imagines the metallic tang on
his tongue. He can’t feel it, but he bets he could if he stuck his head out of
the window.
He rolls onto the other side, presses the meat of his palm against his ear, for
what good it does him. Whining of tendons, squish-buzz of the outer ear, oh,
and the yelling and bone-snapping under the window. Matt sighs. A floor up kids
are smoking pot, the sweetly-rot fumes slipping through the cracks of the leaky
ceiling. Shoddy construction work. Matt feels nauseous and half high. Can you
get stoned on the smell alone? The curls of smoke dancing high in the corners
must be an illusion created by his overimaginative brain. This itching
wakefulness is nothing like the happy lull of weed anyway.
Snorting laughter that fades into hysterical hiccups. Matt winces. That’s Mia,
from Intro to Philosophy. She chews gum during lectures, cartoonish smacks and
too much saliva, and spits it into her half-drunk Starbucks cups, fake
fruitiness and rubber mixing with nauseating caramel-like sweetness. God, he
hates her. She doesn’t live on the campus, she stinks of exertion-sweat and
cum; halfway through, she slapped Asher from Room 309 away, mumbling, God, it’s
like you’re fingering a joystick, and that was funny. Matt doesn’t want to stay
tuned for the round two.
Across the hallway: Andrea-call-me-Andy is not back yet, or won’t be back. The
roommate whose name Matt doesn’t care enough to find out is watching something
on her laptop. Squeaky crackling voice distorted by crappy earphones. Some
stupid YouTube video. Matt tries to follow it, but it’s just words, and he
keeps tuning into a bored cashier rattling off totals in the bodega Matt
sometimes buys burnt, ashtray-flavored coffee at. Mia and Asher attempt stoned
sex. Mia keeps saying she doesn’t feel her cunt and snort-laughing.
Matt wonders what time is it. His clock is on the nightstand. He can just about
reach it if he stretches his arm, but he has to prop himself up to press it.
His body feels like a bag of stones. Someone out there must be wondering the
same, saying to a friend or a stranger, shit, what time is it, it’s New York.
Bored cashier, dudebros fighting, a girl hurling out her stomach on the curb, a
group of loud, drunk teens. Fuck, I’m feeling the munchies, do you think that
gyros stand on 51st is still open, I got a crazy craving like a preggo chick.
Dunno, dude, what time is it, midnight? Bitch, are you for real, it’s like
three in the morning… There.
Less than three hours, then, until he has to get up. If he falls asleep right
now—which he won’t. He can maybe soldier on for one or two hours, tire himself
enough so he catches a couple moments of sleep before his alarm rings. Wake up
bleary-eyed and more exhausted than before, roll out of the bed and try to get
his brain back online. If he won’t sleep through the alarm. It’s been happening
more and more. His brain is on right now; he can probably make it through the
day, just a little more pissed, a little more impatient. It’s good enough.
Andrea-call-me-Andy’s roommate slams the laptop shut. Mia’s banging on the
wall, yowling like a slaughtered pig. A woman trips and smashes her face on the
subway steps. No point wasting more time waiting for sleep that won’t come.
 
Fogwell’s is a long way, and Matt hasn’t set his foot there since his dad was
alive. His gym is a sleek, modern thing, no dried blood and the sweat sweeter
and fresher, nose-tingling whiff of newness. Well, “his gym” – Matt stole the
keycard off the cleaning lady, stood still in the door until he mapped the
layout of the cameras and figured out all the blind spots. It probably would be
easier to sneak into an old school boxing club, place with less security
but—this way is more fun. Or something.
Matt stares dumbly at nothing. He forgot the tapes. He sighs. Swallows
something hysterical and useless clawing up his throat. It doesn’t matter. It
doesn’t matter. He can do without tapes.
He swings at the bag. Not much force. Knuckles flare up. He wrings his hand,
kneads the bone. It’s ok. Hits the bag harder, swish-gnash-groan. Line of fire,
pulsating along the impact. It’s fine, it’s good. Helps with focus.
Blow, blow, blow. Stinging-hot pain, a millisecond delay, like a lagging radio
transmission. He gets in the zone, swing, pain, exhale, it’s good, it’s
grounding, there’s just his body and the bag. Restless, hissing creature
scratching under his skin. Skin breaks, blood splashes on leather and at the
back of his tongue. No good, he’ll have to wipe it after. The creature peeks
its tongue through the edges of his split skin. Fists burning, lungs
contracting, skin itching. He’s a bag of skin with stones in his hands and the
creature sitting where his heart and stomach and a human set of lungs should
be. The creature is moving and breathing for him. It hits too hard too fast.
Something crunches wetly and his hand roars like ripped in half.
Matt bites on the inside of his cheek, swallows the salty-rust blob. He touches
the knuckles of his bad hand gingerly – stab-pain shoots up to his wrist. He
bites again, digs his thumb in. Pushes past the phantom burning rod, feels for
fracture. Second knuckle, hairline-thin, like reverse spider-web. Lucky. He
thinks he can keep going. Punches the bag purposely with all his strength,
grinds his teeth so hard his ears ring. The fracture line shrieks, but it’s ok,
he can take it. He hits the bag again. The bones rattle, and it’s more
concerning, he can fuck up his knuckle for real. Rearrange something
irreparably. It’s stupid, he needs his motor skills, it’s stupid to fuck up his
hand like this. The creature howls, unappeased. Matt lets out a long exhale.
He’ll take the long way back. Maybe the miserable wet night air will settle it
for a while.
 
Andrea-call-me-Andy is crying.
Wailing, shuddering chokes of air, snot moving up and down her throat crying.
Matt’s head hurts. He counts the minutes until Andrea-Andy swallows back her
sobs, smears her mucus on her sleeve and knocks on the door. Wonders what is it
this time. It’s all the same. Andrea-Andy howls, wipes her face furiously on
rough fabric, towel, maybe. Matt imagines her tear-blotched face rubbed raw to
the bone. Wonders where the roommate is. Click of a door, thwomp, thwomp,
thwomp, those chunky heeled boots that all girls seem to wear now sinking in
the carpet. Shaky inhale. A knock.
Matt lies stock still in the bed and thinks about staying like that, listening
to the knocks taper off. He imagines bumping into her tomorrow, oh, yeah, I was
out last night, sorry, and Andrea-Andy-in-his-head frowns, squeezes through a
thick throat, oh, sure, like Matt ever goes out, like it’s a believable story,
and it’s so thin and cringy even in his head, and coming up with a half-decent
excuse is exhausting. Getting up is exhausting.
“Matt?” she whispers, and Matt sighs, pushes himself up. What is wrong with
you, be a friend, be a fucking human being. The creature digs its claws into
the meat of his chest, tries to pull him down. Whiny bitch, Matt thinks without
heat, throws it to the creature like a bone. It sinks its fangs into the petty
insult, chews on it, pet monster munching on a treat. Matt lingers, makes sure
the creature’s satisfied—pathetic, annoying, bore—and goes to answer the door.
 
He takes Andrea-Andy to McDonald’s, the closest place open at this hour, like
he did that first time he found her sobbing in the bathroom at a party, her
breath stinking of cheap beer, when the only instinct in him was to keep her
safe, so he offered her food and listened. Good Samaritan. The fast food stench
is like a metal kebab cart in 90 degrees heat over dead rats rotting in the
sewer. It’s ok, Matt smells it four blocks away and inside is warm.
Andrea-Andy spits rapid-fire words in between McNuggets and melted vanilla-like
ice cream. Matt entertains himself by distinguishing as many different people’s
hair in her food as he can. He counts five. Andrea-Andy’s talking—her vocal
chords thrum, lips smack around different sounds, his ears are picking up the
vibrations in the air. He can’t make out words. He thinks he shouldn’t call her
Andrea-Andy in his head. He thinks he should be listening. He can guess what
she’s saying – Nikki, again, calling drunk at five in the morning, she said she
was gonna overdose, I don’t know what to do, parents, dropping in just to tell
her how much they disapprove of her life choices, I want to howl when I see
that sneer on my mother’s face, the bitch won’t even fucking tell me out right
what’s wrong, like she doesn’t think I’m worth bothering, maybe school, I feel
like a failure, I can’t flunk another semester, I think I’m too stupid for
college, but I can’t do anything else, and I don’t know what I can do with my
life if I’m expelled…
At first Matt tried to calm her down, to help. Don’t pick up the phone, Nikki’s
not your responsibility anymore, she broke your heart a long time ago and you
need to let yourself heal. They’re your parents and I know it’s terrible,
sometimes people who love you suck, and it’s hard, but you can’t wait around
for their approval. You’re not stupid, it’s normal to struggle with school, you
have a lot on your plate, I can help you with studying if you want. He stopped
with time. He sits through her whining, hums at the right times. She revels in
her issues and he’s just a rubber duck to her.
Broken, useless, trash, the creature sings. Matt’s too tired to shut it up.
It’s right anyway. Something’s wrong with him, what kind of person listens to
their friend’s heart breaking and only feels hollow and tired.
Andrea-Andy quiets for a moment, chews slowly on a McNugget. Tang of nervous
sweat.
“You want some?” she asks, and it’s not what she means to say.
Matt realizes he’s hungry. He tries to remember when he’s eaten last—bagel from
a stand, tasting of urine from the clerk’s unwashed hands. Two dollars fifty,
so Matt ate it all. That was this morning. What, almost twenty hours ago?
He thinks about lifting his hand and reaching out and taking a piece of
McNugget that tastes of dead animal, and putting it into his mouth, and
chewing, and swallowing.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m not hungry.”
The pit of his stomach sucks, acid juices eating at his esophagus. The creature
chews at the walls of his body, scraping in ulcers with its razor teeth.
Fasting is supposed to be good for your soul. Mind sharpens, divorced from the
profane. The feeling of hunger is just stimuli, information sent to his brain,
neither good or bad. Mind controls the body.
His control is slipping. Matt can’t even will himself to raise his hand.
“And how are you, Matt?” Andrea-Andy asks, and means it, because she’s a better
person than him.
Matt imagines opening his mouth and saying, I broke my knuckle yesterday. I
can’t sleep. I think my feelings are broken and I don’t know if it’s something
to fix.
His throat is thick and useless. She doesn’t care about his broken knuckle. And
what can she say to that? Put it on ice, idiot, you know it your damn self
unsaid, irrelevant and redundant. That sucks, have you tried sleeping meds? No,
I don’t know why, there’s this itching under my skin and it won’t let me rest.
Too much, too personal, awkward and almost pornographic. He doesn’t want her to
know that about him. That’s cruel, you don’t even give a shit about me, do you?
Fair, deserved. Matt doesn’t want to hear her say it.
Waste of words.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Same old.”
“Right.”
The silence stretches on, uncomfortable and pressing. Matt squeezes his broken
hand. What do people talk about? He tries to dredge it from the murky cesspit
that is his brain. He used to know this. He knows it. The last movie they
watched, what they did last weekend, school load. Matt doesn’t watch movies,
doesn’t have any friends, can’t remember whatever they’re learning right now
and couldn’t care less. He thinks he didn’t use to be like this. He used to be
a person.
“Do you mind if I went for a smoke?” Andrea-Andy pipes up and Matt leaps at it,
pathetically grateful.
“No, not at all,” he says. “I’ll go with you.”
It’s freezing outside, Matt doesn’t smoke. He goes after her anyway, huddles in
his woefully inadequate parka next to Andrea-Andy as she clicks the lighter and
takes a deep, relieved inhale. Nicotine sharper now, but it’s always there,
sunk deep into her skin and hair roots. Her high-heeled boots stamp on the
poured concrete. Rap, rap, rap. Nuisance. Bore. Matt doesn’t even like her.
She’s just a habit. She reminds him of Tonia. God, he hasn’t thought of her in
years. Where did that thought come from? Andrea-Andy shivers in her too-skimpy
skirt, blows a tremulous breath of smoke. She could be Tonia, so babyish and so
old, lighting cigarette after cigarette from the crinkled pack from Priest
Albert’s pocket. Tonia, fourteen and high out of her mind on a cocktail of
Ecstasy and rat poison and coke, hauled off to juvie in condemnatory silence.
Matt doesn’t remember her last name. Doesn’t remember what “Tonia” stands for.
He wonders if she’s dead and if he could ever find out if she was.
Hummingbird heart and stock still, like Matt has been, like Matt is. He hasn’t
thought about Tonia in years. His mind feels thick and muddy. He doesn’t try to
chase this half-a-memory. It’s like a bad radio transmission, alien and buzzing
with interference. Matt listens to Andrea-Andy’s heart, ticking like an
impatient clock, focuses on the inhale-exhale rhythm. Cigarette smoke hangs in
the air like a solid mass. Matt inhales. The roof of his mouth tastes like an
ashtray. He imagines the walls of his respiratory track blackening with smoke
like an inside of a chimney, sticky dark sludge oozing to the bottom of his
lungs. He takes a deep breath.
Andrea-Andy whirls at him, grips his arm.
“Promise me we won’t fall out of touch, Matt,” she blurts. “I don’t want us to
be those people who finish school and stop speaking. When you get into Law
school and I’m still repeating third year, promise me you won’t forget about
me.”
“I won’t,” Matt says. He wonders when lying became his first instinctual
response. He thinks about the world of fire pressing at the back of his
clenched teeth, and his dad’s gaping, empty silence shaped like the ghost of
his mother, and he thinks that maybe wickedness is something he was born with
cursing through his blood.
 
Matt comes back to his room, his unmade bed that smells like sweat and
restlessness, his scattered books that sound like Sister Constance’s pregnant
silences. Matt has classes in a couple hours. He won’t get any sleep. He should
make use of the time, do some reading. The ugly part of him says: you don’t
need this, it’s stupid, boring, stuff you could bullshit through in your sleep.
Waste of time. You’re too smart for this. The creature whines needily.
It’s true, and it’s an excuse. Pride, sloth. The creature bares its teeth and
growls. He would’ve called it the devil, once. Stupid superstition he’s drunk
with his mother’s milk. He wonders if his mother stuck around long enough to
breastfeed him. Babies who never had breast milk don’t grow right, he’s read
somewhere. There’s something lacking. Maybe it’s that hollow space inside him,
sliver-cracks in his undernourished bones, is where this black, ugly thing
slipped in. Filled the void in his ribs, steeled his spinal cord, grown in his
body like bad nail, until Matt couldn’t tell where the creature ends and he
begins. Maybe the devil inside is him.
The city howls outside, like a hungry dog, and the creature answers, clawing at
the bars of his ribcage desperately. Matt squeezes his crushed knuckle. The
creature quietens. Someday the lousy scraps Matt throws it won’t be enough.
It’s outgrown its ribbed cage, fattened with nights pounding at the bag and
mean, awful thoughts, and the city assaults his body, demanding he let it out.
Something has to give.
 
Don't get excited, don't turn red.
Instead of going to Heaven, he went to…
 
Shuffling, short breath, rapid movements. Angry.
“Did you say something to someone?”
“No.” Tremulous, stubborn. Hummingbird heart.
“Then why did the Child Services show up at our door?” Abrupt swish, bony
fingers squeezing tender flesh painfully. “Have you been spouting this
disgusting tales to people?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Voice thin, breaking. Sniffle. She’s crying again.
That’s on him. He did that.
“Don’t lie,” a bark. “How could you make up such a horrible thing?”
“I didn’t,” weak, pleading. “I didn’t say anything, Mommy.”
“God hates little girls who are dirty liars. He’s looking down on you
thundering. Why would you do something like this to me? To our family? There’s
no worse sin than breaking your parent’s heart.”
Choked sob.
“I’m sorry.”
“Apologize to your father. I can’t look at you right now. I don’t know where
this wickedness comes from. We didn’t raise you like that.”
Footsteps slapping on a tile floor, fainter and fainter. Just two heartbeats
now. Hummingbird heart and deafening gong.
“I didn’t say anything,” the girl says quietly. Hummingbird heart beats faster
in her thin little chest.
Slow steps, booming and deliberate. Spitting hiss.
“You’re gonna wish you didn’t.”
“Matt?”
Matt blinks. Foggy’s heartbeat, steady and familiar like a favorite song you
listened to too many times, comes into focus. A wave of heat, uptick from his
regular body temperature. He’s concerned.
Matt opens his mouth, meaning to say something reassuring. One block down, a
little girl is crying.
“Do you think that sometimes the law is not enough?”
He doesn’t know how Foggy is looking at him right now, but he has a good guess.
“Uh… you mean, in theory?”
Matt licks his lips. “Yes—yes, in theory.”
Foggy relaxes his weight against the kitchen counter, thumbs at the neck of his
beer.
“Well, yeah, obviously. Law’s not… some higher ideal, it’s created and
interpreted by people. By its very nature it’s imperfect.”
“But do you think…” Matt hesitates. “Do you think that when the law fails,
sometimes we need… we need to take extralegal measures, to set it right?”
Foggy’s a beat too-fast heart is very loud in his ears.
“Matt, where’s this coming from?”
“It’s—nowhere, just…” Matt blows out a shaky exhale, waves his hand vaguely.
“I do think that sometimes it’s up to us to pick up where the law leaves off,
yeah,” Foggy allows. Matt lets out a breath, starts to say, Exactly.
“Extralegal’s not the same as illegal, though.”
Matt closes his mouth.
“Right.”
“Is that not what you wanted to hear?” Foggy asks, his voice brimming and
cautious.
“No, I-ah. I agree.” Matt nods decisively. “The law is far from perfect, but we
shouldn’t take it upon ourselves to decide when it’s convenient to follow it,”
he says and almost means it.
This is the moment where Foggy asks, Is something going on with you? Except, of
course, he won’t ask. Foggy will try to cheer him up or take his mind off
things if he thinks something’s up but he won’t ask. Matt is—grateful
(relieved); he doesn’t deserve a friend like this.
“Well, good to have this out of the way, since we’re supposed to be, you know,
lawyers,” Foggy quips, right on cue.
“Come on, Foggy, you know that lawyers are just people who know how to commit a
crime without actually breaking the law,” Matt shoots back, grinning.
“Not us,” Foggy says good-naturedly. “Not since you roped me into leaving a
real job to start up Sisters of Mercy’s sanctuary for the downtrodden victims
of the system,” he says and Matt laughs, says, “Roped you in?” and it’s good,
it’s so simple and nice, and Matt wants nothing more from life.
The girl is still crying.
 
Church bells.
There’s one Catholic church in the walking distance from his apartment. There
was one Catholic church in the walking distance from home, his first and only
home, in Hell’s Kitchen. Matt follows the sound, follows the footsteps trode in
the pavement by short, bouncy steps, and the ghost of a child’s excited
chatter. He feels his dad looking at him, stronger than ever.
For a split-second, Matt thinks if he’ll be struck down the moment he crosses
the church’s threshold. Nothing happens, of course—he’s not the only devil who
walks this place.
He makes the sign of the cross and takes a knee, limbs clumsy and stiff like a
doll’s left unused for too long in the attic. The church is almost empty, just
a priest and an old lady kneeling in the nave. Matt holds his breath, waiting
for someone to walk up to him, tell him he’s trespassing, that he needs to
leave. But that’s ridiculous. Church is for people. Matt has every right to be
here.
He takes a seat in the back, thinks maybe he should kneel. But it feels wrong
somehow, so he stays in the seat.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing here.
He thinks he maybe—what, expected some sort of divine wisdom to descend upon
him, make him reborn, eyes open and certain in his purpose.
A cough echoes in the empty silence. The air smells like incense and his
childhood. It’s just a church.
Maybe he should pray. He doesn’t know how. How do you pray to a God you’re not
sure is listening?
Matt searches in himself and the prayers are there, formal and something to
lean on when you’re grasping for words.
O Father who art in Heaven… Anachronic, stilted, perfunctory. Maybe—Hail Mary,
full of grace… it’s always been with him through the nights of violence and
terror.
He chases the thought away. Matt doesn’t remember any more prayers. He searches
for saints, hours spent studying hagiography, bent over books like a 15th
century monk. Saint Jude, the most popular patron saint of desperate cases.
Saint Philomena’s always been his favorite, though. Just thirteen, bestially
tortured, and unyielding in her beliefs.
But it feels wrong, to pray to her. She should be a shining ideal, but
instead—she’s scornful, putting him to shame. Matt, with his weak and wicked
heart, how can he stand in front of her and ask her for understanding?
It’s not that Matt doesn’t have the strength to resist temptation. It’s that
he’s not sure he wants to resist it.
He can’t pray for help to a God he turned away from all these years. He has no
right to haunt this holy place.
When in fear, God is dear, his grandmother’s voice echoes in his head. Matt
hates to be a cliché.
He goes to leave. By the church doors, there’s a rack with votive candles,
their burning knots sending smoke and prayers to the sky.
Matt pays for a candle. The row of flames flickers before him, tiny sparks of
heat. It’s difficult to pinpoint them. Matt feels with his fingers to gauge
them. The wave of warmth sways. Sizzle and pinprick of pain.
“Shit.” Matt retracts his fingers. Makes the sign of the cross. It’s probably a
sin to curse in the church. He can almost feel the ghost of his grandmother
panting disapprovingly over his shoulder. He dips his candle until he feels it
catch fire, a swishing start of a new line of heat. Matt places it carefully on
the rack. Stands there for a moment, feeling the warmth ripple on his skin. He
supposes he should say a prayer for intention. Maybe for a soul. Dad’s face,
the last thing he saw before the chemical ate on his eyes, flashes before him.
Matt dredges out the foggy words from the edges of his memory.
Eternal rest grant to him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May
he rest in peace. Amen.
Barely nine and standing over his dad’s grave, clutching the frayed words like
a hand of a distant relative. Whispers, whispers, whatever will happen to the
poor child now, Sister Josephine herding him away, children shouldn’t witness
such things. Saying intently the prayer in his head, but still hearing the
whispers. Wondering what was written on his dad’s grave. He wanted to ask but
couldn’t voice the words. Wondering if he tries hard enough, can he list all
the flowers laid in the sprays, can discern underneath their sweetly stench and
five-feet dirt the smell of his dad’s corpse rotting.
Matt puts his hand in the fire.
The sting of pain lags a beat too late. Matt hisses, jerks his hand away. What
the hell. Burnt skin whines, pulled taut and tender. Matt puts his finger in
his mouth, sucks on it. It doesn’t even hurt that much. It’s just—there,
immediate. Nerve endings flicked alive. He’s centered. He’s calm.
Devil, devil, devil, voices whisper. He knows what this is, knows that it’s
probably so much worse to do it in church. Your body is God’s gift, Sister
Helen’s voice, Priest James’s voice. It is not yours to do with it as you
please. Is it the devil’s pull to the fire? God, that’s almost biblical.
He used to feel the devil like a physical weight in his chest. But maybe he’s
been thinking about this all wrong. Maybe devil is not a rotten creature living
inside you, maybe devil is that drink you have to take your mind off your
problems, maybe it’s that ten-dollar bill you don’t give to a homeless person
because it’s too cold to stop and dig through your wallet. Maybe devil is
listening to a little girl’s cries and turning a deaf ear.
No, that’s not right either. Justifications, he’s still falling on
justifications. Writing in an ideology to validate his own wants.
But—take away absolutist morals, take away this dark, rabid creature in him
hungry for blood. What remains is that little girl, irrefutable and unthinkable
to talk away. Not Tonia, but like Tonia. God. He listened to a little girl
before and he buried it down. He’s not letting a little girl cut herself into
pieces again.
He’s been quoting Thurgood Marshall at Foggy. Does the same principle not apply
here? There’s another quote tugging at him: never see a need without doing
something about it. It was Sister Marianne’s favorite saying. He thinks it’s
Saint Mary MacKillop who said it first, though from the way Sister Marianne
told it, you wouldn’t know. He used to repeat it after her, not really thinking
about the words.
The devil, the violence – that’s secondary. The ends don’t sanctify the means,
but maybe this is a necessary evil. Or maybe he’s falling on sophisms again.
Matt doesn’t care. He doesn’t care for his soul anymore. There’s a need and
something must be done.
And oh, by God, he will enjoy doing it.
 
Matt stalks his prey to the old tracks, staying high in the metal branches and
brick crowns of the city. He staked the quarry’s place of work, hours stock
still in the dirty alley across the street, but it turns out he didn’t have to;
the stench of booze hangs after him in the air leading Matt straight to him
like a neon red trail spray-painted in the woods. More useful, to him. He leaps
metal crate to metal crate, the screech-boom like a gunshot to his ears, but
the man is too plastered to take notice. Matt could stand in front of him and
shoot him point blank and he’d be dead before he realized. Not that he’s going
to do that.
He wants to drag this out.
He stills, not hesitant but reflective. The devil thrums beneath his skin,
itching to stretch its limbs. The moment he lets it loose, he can never shove
it back in. It’s too big, he is too big to hide in his meek skinsuit anymore,
it’s always fit him wrong, tearing red at his knuckles. Matt tries to box
himself, wedge his hulking body into narrow spaces, 8-5 job, one-bedroom
apartment, little dive haunt, this life he desperately wants for himself and
which he still navigates like an unprepared understudy pushed to the stage he
never expected to find himself on. But the devil lurks, low in the pit of his
stomach, ready to leap. Ready to pounce, not if, but when.
Matt closes his eyes behind the blindfold, allows himself a moment of grief.
It’s been a good life. A small life, and half not real, wishful thought he let
himself run with too long, but a good life. Maybe in a kinder world, Matt could
help people with his wits not his fists, run a little local practice, make a
difference to a handful of down-on-luck strangers, and it would be enough. Meet
a girl, marry her in his childhood church, make a family of his own and love it
with all he’s got, and never feel the night calling. It would be a good life.
He opens his eyes. This is not a kinder world. It’s the only world that he has.
Matt only has his fists, and a broken heart, and violence pumping through his
bloodstream. He grinds his knuckles, tunes into his prey’s body, tangling legs,
drunk mumbling, feet scraping on gravel. Wakes something in him, some bone-deep
instinct he tried to exorcise that now he greets like an old friend. Crunch of
bone, squash of eye-socket, howl of mangled genitals, justly vindicating – it
all sounds appealing in his mind. But he knows, knows in his soul where the
wickedness lives, that it’s not a place for cool thought. He wants to set
loose, red-tinged pounding fury, carve in justice of his own the only way he
knows how. Matt exhales, casting out an excess of thoughts and scraps of
humanity. Leaves only stone calm and burning red violence. His body leads,
descends on the prey like a black bird of vengeance. Matt’s world narrows to
movements. Raise your fists. Snarl a breath.
Let the devil out.
 
 
 
…BED!
End Notes
     Dark Places is absolutely miserable. It’s the best book I’ve ever
     read.
     Comments make me forget I’m dead inside<3
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
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