The court date approached faster than Matthew could have imagined. Randall had made arrangements for when Matthew should get on the stand, what he should say, and how he should say it. Everything was planned. Matthew would tell his heartbreaking tale of love lost by his terrible father, his mother would corroborate, and Randall would yell at the witnesses until they recanted their statements, or at least admitted their accounts weren’t infallible. Matthew walked into the courtroom wearing a rented suit and an overwhelming feeling that when the DA showed the jury pictures of Sari and Jon’s corpses, the police would be dragging him out of the courthouse to prison through an angry mob of screaming PTA parents.
The first day consisted of opening statements by both sides. The DA’s speech was dry and full of talk about eyewitnesses, statements, and justice for the innocent father and daughter now deceased. Matthew’s eyes drooped throughout the oration, despite the knots in his stomach and the spinning in his head. Randall stood to deliver his opening statement and Matthew sat upright, as straight and tall as he could, just as Randall had told him to, and looked at anything but the jury. Looking them in the eye made him appear cocky, arrogant, and guilty, where slouching and avoiding their gaze made him look cowardly, shameful, and guilty. His current posture proved that he was standing up for his innocence, yet not presuming anything of them. Once his sitting position had been established, Randall began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you today because the People have accused the Defendant, Matthew Thorne, of two counts of murder in the first degree. Matthew does not plead you to find him not guilty because he denies having committed the crime. He admits it. But he did not commit the crime of which he has been accused. First-degree murder entails intense planning and meticulous preparation before the act, of which Matthew had none whatsoever. First-degree murder entails utter disrespect for the law and focus on the goal of taking life. Matthew Thorne did not commit first-degree murder. He was abandoned by his father at a young age, a father he had chosen to forget soon after the abandonment. He did not walk through life carrying a grudge against his father, nor did he ever plan or even consider murdering his father if he ever saw him again.”
Matthew tried hard not to squirm, but Randall’s ignorant falsehood made him uncomfortable. How many times had he pictured himself strangling the old man until he choked on his own lies? How many fantasies had played out in his head until he could almost smell the sweat that would pour from them both after the battle had concluded? He shook himself lightly and returned to listening to Randall.
“Besides, even if Matthew had harbored such feelings of animosity—” the word reminded Matthew painfully of Brooke “—he could not have known, at any point, that his father had even been in the same city as he was, let alone the same counseling office. Therefore, the killing was an act of instinct, adrenaline, and, most of all, fear; but it was not a premeditated crime. So, jurymen and ’women, I implore you, find Matthew Thorne not guilty.”
Randall sat and the jury took their notes. Matthew looked at Randall’s oily face, into his beady eyes, searching for some semblance of confidence in them, but he found only nervous perspiration on his brow and dark irises shifting from the jury to the judge to his papers and back again. Matthew exhaled exasperatedly. And this was the man to whom his mother had entrusted his life.
Suddenly the judge was speaking, telling the lawyers when the next meeting would be, at which time the People would call and question their first witnesses before the jury. Court was adjourned.
Matthew led Randall through the swinging wooden doors and down the middle of the benches until they were outside the courtroom. He scoured the crowd for his mother, but it was too packed, and he and Randall were all the way outside the courtroom before she joined them.
“I think that went rather well,” she said, trying and failing to sound optimistic. “Are you guys hungry? I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat, my treat.”
Matthew was about to protest when Randall said, “That sounds wonderful. How about Chinese?”
Despite her son’s emphatic glare, Sarah answered positively and they started off through the maze of hallways that made up the courthouse. Randall soon excused himself to locate a bathroom, so Matthew and Sarah found their way to a bench to wait for him. As soon as they sat, Matthew’s discomfort was uncontrollable, and he had to speak to her.
“The trial is not gonna go well,” he blurted. “Randall is an idiot out there, nothing he says makes any sense, and it’s not like this is a movie where dramatic emphasis can win you the case.”
“Don’t you dare speak against Thomas,” Sarah snapped back. “He is working this case at no cost to us, and he is doing a wonderful job. Now be quiet and think about what you’ll want to eat later.”
“Yeah, I guess I should make every meal count, considering they’re all my final ones ’til I’m convicted.”
“Matthew Angel—”
“Don’t pull the full-name thing on me!” he shouted, spinning to face her and fighting the urge to rise from his seat. “If we continue doing things Randall’s way I’ll be locked up before the jury’s left the courtroom! He’s basing my innocence on a couple of technicalities and sympathy from the jury. But who could feel sympathy toward someone like me? Or at least someone the Prosecution is making me out to be.” He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled it as he relaxed into the wooden bench. “We’re going to lose.”
Sarah placed her hand on his knee and gripped it firmly. “Listen to me, Matthew—you are not going to prison, you are not going to be convicted and you aren’t going anywhere but home. Do you understand me?” She squeezed more tightly. “Just trust Thomas, and he’ll work things out, okay?”
Matthew clenched his eyes shut, then reopened them again to see spots dancing before his eyes. “I’ll trust him. I’ll trust him for you.”
Sarah’s hand let him go suddenly. “Fine.” She sounded angry, and Matthew went quiet. He could only hurt her by pressing the matter any further, which was never an option, no matter the reward.
They sat together in silence, studying the veins in the marble wall opposite them, until Randall returned from the restroom, at which point Sarah abruptly looked straight at Matthew.
“You know nothing of what has been happening around you, do you? Nothing! You’re not as smart or as superior as you think.” Tears were obviously pressing their limits but she was trying her hardest to keep them from spilling over. “I love you, Matthew, you know that. But you can’t just keep doing this to me!” She gave up her fight against the tears and broke down into sobbing.
Randall placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed them gently to calm her. Then he looked up at Matthew with a look of mixed confusion and resentment. “Maybe we should go home.”
Matthew glared at the man outright. “Maybe I should just leave,” he said bluntly. “You two go ‘home,’ I’ll just find somewhere else to go.” He stood and walked straight out of the courthouse and turned onto the street.
He didn’t know where he was going; he couldn’t go home since he didn’t have his key, and he couldn’t think of anywhere nearby where he could hide. He wasn’t entirely sure which neighborhood he was in, and it was already starting to get dark and cold. After walking about five blocks, he sat dejectedly on a curb, hugging his arms tight and trying not to shiver. The cold of the cement slowly froze his behind, and it crept all the way up his spine to spread through the rest of him.
As he sat and froze, he thought. He thought about the people he’d killed, and the people he hadn’t; the people he loved and the people he didn’t. He thought of Brooke, of Josh, of Sari; of Randall, of his mother, of his father; of his teachers, of Coach Dawson, of Natali. There were so many people in his life he hadn’t even noticed before, so many people who had meant something to him, even if he hadn’t really acknowledged them. So many people, so many faces, so many eyes crying at Brooke’s memorial service…all of them so infinitely important yet so small.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his crossed arms. He felt immeasurably tired, now. Finally, deciding he had better start looking for a bus stop so he could find his way home, he stood up and brushed off the backside of his slacks. He was walking back up to the courthouse to ask directions to the nearest bus when a voice called to him from his right.
“Matt?”
Matthew looked up instinctively, though it felt like ages since he’d been called by his nickname so easily. His heart gave a strange leap, though in guilt or in joy he couldn’t decide, as his eyes found Josh, his best friend, running up the stairs toward him.
“Matt! Hey, man, I haven’t talked to you since…” Matthew knew he was about to say “since Brooke’s service,” but the words had gotten lost in his throat.
“I know, right? It’s been ages,” Matthew said, saving him the awkward silence and pulling him, instead, into a huge bear hug.
“You haven’t been at school much,” Josh commented airily, as though he didn’t want the question in his voice to be noticed. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just home, recuperating, you know. And my mom made me go to a freakin’ shrink!” They both laughed heartily at this, as it had once been a joke between them that they would never allow themselves to be forced into psychotherapy.
“I guess that makes sense,” Josh said once he had caught his breath. “You always were the crazy one.” His tone got lost a little, and he seemed far away. Matthew knew why—Matthew had always been the brain before being dubbed “the crazy one”, while Josh had been the brawn, and Brooke the beauty.
Matthew smacked his shoulder lightly then gripped it firmly. “I miss you, man.”
Josh shoved him away. “No homo,” he muttered, a hint of his normal self shining through. “But yeah. It’s weird at school without you around. The girls all seem afraid to go near me when you’re not there to counter me. And Coach…”
“Coach?” Matthew exclaimed suddenly. He had forgotten all about sports in light of Brooke’s death and the trial. “Has he been asking…”
“Yeah. Football just started last week, and he wanted to know why you weren’t at try-outs.”
“Crap.” Matthew smacked his head and sat back down on the steps. He hadn’t gotten very far up them. “I can’t believe I forgot. It’s been all I thought about for, like, three years, and my chance finally comes and I blow it.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Josh said, sitting beside him. “I think everyone understands. Nothing’s been the same, not since Brooke. Coach knows how close we all were, how much it must have affected you. How much it affected me…”
Matthew had a sudden flash. Brooke had gone to Josh’s house that day, after Ira yelled at her. Josh had called him, upset about what had happened…Josh had liked her.
“Josh…”
“Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? And all dressed up?”
Matthew’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. He had forgotten that he was still dressed for court, that he had been before a judge only minutes earlier, pleading for his life. What could he say? Luckily, this was decided for him, as Josh’s mom strode up the stairs to stand beside her son.
“Joshua, honey, let’s go home already, I’m tired…” she spotted Matthew and beamed at him. “Matt, hi! I haven’t seen you forever—you guys haven’t had a fight have you?” she added quickly, looking thoroughly worried.
“Nah, Mom, chill,” Josh said dismissively. “You wanna come over, Matt? We can get you outta that get-up, and catch up on whatever’s been going on. Want to?” He and his mother looked at him expectantly.
“Sure!” Matthew said enthusiastically. He loved Josh’s place—both his parents were more than happy to accommodate the singular reason their son hadn’t flunked out of high school already, and they always allowed the most incredible amount of privacy of anyone Matthew had ever seen. He followed them down the steps eagerly, hopped into the car behind Josh, and they drove off.
In less than half an hour, Matthew was sitting on Josh’s huge bed, wearing a pair of his own jeans he’d long since forgotten there or loaned to Josh and one of Josh’s old tee-shirts. He was barefoot, cross-legged, and reading a magazine, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks.
Josh kicked open the door, carrying a large plate of food in his arms and a sandwich in his mouth. Matthew leapt off the bed to help him with the plate, both by helping Josh make it to his dresser, and to help relieve it of some of its weight. Stomach full of bagel bites and mind clear as the sky outside, Matthew flopped back onto Josh’s bed and stared up at the stucco ceiling.
“Why haven’t I been here in so long?” Matthew asked to ceiling. “It’s so peaceful here, way better than it’s been at my place.”
“What have you been smoking, dude?” Josh asked through his sandwich. “We both know it’s way better at your place—your mom’s hardly even home!”
Matthew’s stomach grumbled, digesting the food through an uncomfortable pang of guilt. Where was his mom now? Still with Randall, or had she sent him away? Was she crying? Did she miss him?
“Besides,” Josh continued, picking a couple brownie bites off the plate, “you’re mom’s single, so she’s not always having conferences with your dad about everything. She can make up her own mind about things.”
Dad...
Matthew lurched off the bed and, before he had any chance of stopping himself, vomited all over Josh’s carpet.
“Ugh, sick!” Josh shrieked, leaping immediately onto his chair and keeping his feet off the floor.
Matthew was shaking all over, staring into the regurgitated bagel bites without seeing anything. His mom…single, alone, without him. Why had he just run away like that? After all her help? And his dad, his Goddamn dad…why had he done it? Why not just report him, take Sari from him, make him pay for real? Why had he let it happen?
His shoulders shook more violently, not just from throwing up, but from crying.
Josh called through the door for his mom to come help them clean, then he climbed carefully onto the bed next to Matthew. He was saying something, something Matthew couldn’t really hear. From far away, he seemed to feel Josh’s strong hand on his back. They were kids all over again, Josh comforting Matthew while he secretly cried over his father, Matthew praying all the time that no one else would ever see those tears.
Matthew sat up and buried his face in Josh’s chest, both boys wrapping their arms tightly around each other. Matthew was praying again, just like he had as a kid, but now it wasn’t for no one to see him—it was that Ira would never take Josh away from him.
Matthew was lying on Josh’s bed again, wearing a different shirt and a pair of loose pajama pants. Josh was in the bathroom and, by the sounds Matthew could hear echoing down the hall, he had just finished a shower and was sifting through the drawers for all his post-wash products and potions. For a guy, he sure was concerned with his looks.
Josh’s mom had elected to call Sarah after she and Josh’s dad had finished cleaning up Matthew’s mess. Though he felt terrible about putting them through it, Matthew could not have been more grateful to them for letting him stay. Facing anyone at this point seemed ludicrous, the very thought made his stomach squirm uncomfortably again. He had sat, crying, with Josh for nearly an hour afterwards, and he now felt extraordinarily tired and empty. How had he allowed all this to happen? As if committing double homicide and letting his mom down hadn’t been enough, he’d also ruined his moment of freedom with his best friend and placed a burden on their family.
He thought about the next court date, when the Prosecution would call witnesses who would testify against him—how would he survive it? Short of exposing Ira, he’d never escape jail time, and he was certain even Josh wouldn’t stick by him through a murder rap.
Josh entered the room silently, pajama pants hanging low about his waist so his boxers showed above them and his top half bare. He tossed his soaked towel onto a chair in the corner of the room—which was also decorated with dirty clothes, clean clothes, and a schoolbag—then climbed haphazardly onto the bed beside Matthew. He snatched a pillow, punched it a few times, then curled up with it and stared into Matthew’s face, trying to find something to study. From this angle, Josh looked like a big, muscular teddy bear, and Matthew had to endure a hard smack upside the head when he dared to tell him so. Though the hit hurt, Matthew couldn’t help but smile—he knew for a fact that no one else in the world had ever seen Josh in this way, and probably never would until the day he dropped his tough guy act and owned up to the embarrassing fact that he was actually a compassionate person.
“So,” Josh said quietly, so no one but Matthew could hear, “what the hell happened that made you freak out like that? Are you sick?”
“No…” Matthew hesitated. How could he tell him without telling him everything? “It’s kind of a long story…I don’t really wanna talk about it…” He hated being evasive, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to protect Josh from Ira, and the only way he could do that was to keep him as far removed from the situation as possible.
Josh was visibly irked by Matthew’s refusal to explain, but he tried to look nonchalant nonetheless. “Whatever,” he said, snuggling into his pillow. “Lemme know if you wanna tell me.”
Nothing more was said, and soon Josh’s breathing became deep and rhythmic, which was Matthew’s cue to start physically trying to sleep—Josh’s snoring was probably one of the world’s worst things to endure, so the sooner he tuned out the world of sound through deep slumber, the better. Though his mind was very active, he soon forced himself to shut down and allow for rest.
But his active waking mind turned into active dreams, as he dreamt of playing, of all things, baseball; of feeling the firm resonance of the bat in his hands as he cracked the tiny rock of a ball into the deepest regions of the woods behind the field; of the pain in his legs as they pumped harder and harder, trying so desperately to reach first base, second, third; of sliding triumphantly into home plate with only a moment to go before he would be tagged out; of Josh coming out of nowhere, jumping up and down in the air and tackling him on the ground to pull him into a hug. The whole dream was amazing, the feeling of everything as the elation flooded his body.
But it was all wrong, wasn’t it? Why was he winning at baseball? He was terrible at baseball, he’d never hit the ball in his life. And Josh running and jumping to hug him? Never happen—not in public.
Everything about the dream felt so inescapably wrong, the wonderful feeling was almost immediately replaced by a deep, heavy foreboding—everything was out of place, everything was unreal, this couldn’t be happening! Fear inundated his every sense and, before he knew it, he was running, legs working harder than ever before, harder even than during the game. But he wasn’t moving. Why? Why couldn’t he escape? He screamed, screamed until his lungs would burst, screamed until his very brain would collapse for lack of oxygen. Something was nearby, something trying to hold him back, trying to keep him from leaving the inherent wrongness. He struck out at it, whatever it was, tried to get it away from him so he could escape. The thing was shouting at him, and for some reason the sound was excruciating, so Matthew closed his fingers around the thing to stop the sound.
“Matt—” the thing choked, gasping for breath.
Matthew’s eyes sprang open instantly at the sound of the voice. It was barely distinguishable, but he knew it—Josh. Matthew was on top of him, hands wrapped around his throat, strangling him. He let go immediately, though somewhat against his better judgment—the dream was still swirling dangerously close to his consciousness—and scrambled away from him so quickly that he lost his balance and fell off the bed. His head hit the edge of Josh’s open closet door and lights popped before his eyes as he wailed mutely, trying desperately to turn over and crawl back to the bed and to Josh.
As he shakily brought himself to his knees, supporting his weight on the loosely hanging comforter, he could see Josh slide off the bed and onto the carpet beside it, out of Matthew’s sight. Matthew shuffled over to him carefully, his head throbbing if he moved too quickly, and looked at Josh’s face—it looked like it had recently been flushed a deep shade of purple and was just starting to slowly fade back into its natural tone. He was breathing deeply, gasping really, toned chest heaving in the pale light of the room. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Matthew, who had cold sweat and a few tears streaming down his face.
“What…the hell…is wrong with you?” he breathed. His face was a collage of tan, pale, and red, of confusion, anger, and pain. His breathing was ragged and sharp—Matthew had done some serious damage.
“Josh, I…” Matthew sputtered, avoiding his friend’s eyes. What could he possibly say to explain himself? He couldn’t finish his sentence, instead staring blankly at the beige carpet, his mind focusing relentlessly upon the fibers and his heavy, terrified breathing. Uneasy silence filled the room and seemed to weigh itself upon the two boys.
Josh broke the silence once his breathing had returned to normal. “I think it’s about time you started explaining yourself, Matt.” His almond eyes were staring directly into Matthew’s so he couldn’t avoid them. Curse him—he knew his every weakness, didn’t he? Matthew’s posture relaxed, shoulder slouching painfully against Josh’s bed. He looked at him once again as he thought of what he could tell him. Josh’s throat was red and steadily swelling. Purple, finger-shaped bruises would definitely be clear by morning. A shiver sped the length of his spine.
He breathed deeply to shake himself to life again, and began to relate the story, starting with Brooke’s death, though he of course left out any indication that he himself was probably the killer. He talked about Angie, which led to meeting Jon again. He started to cry again when he talked about the murder, but it wasn’t, in any way, from remorse. He couldn’t remember it happening, after all—Ira held all the memory of the incident, Matthew couldn’t access it. He purposely neglected to mention Sari.
As he finished, Josh was staring intently at the wall above his desk. A heavy silence filled the room, hanging like a thick, rain-laden storm cloud. But no matter how heavily it lay on him, Matthew dared not break the stillness. Once again, it was Josh who spoke up.
“They let you out on bail for a first-degree murder charge?” he asked.
Of all things on which to focus! He was relating a story of murder, and his listener could only think of stupid technicality? Matthew had to suppress a smile—only Josh.
“Yeah,” he said tentatively. “I’m still technically a kid and I live at home, not to mention I don’t have a driver’s license, let alone a passport, so they figured I wouldn’t be at risk to run for it. Plus, since it was a parent…” His voice faltered, but he regained it quickly, hoping Josh wouldn’t notice it. “They didn’t figure I was likely to do it again.”
Josh nodded slowly. “Explains the monkey suit.”
Matthew waited for more, but when nothing came, he finally asked, voice shaking:
“I guess I should go now, then, right?”
Josh turned his head sharply to look at him, eyebrow raised skeptically, like he thought Matthew was joking. “Go? What are you talking about, dude?”
Matthew couldn’t keep up the quietness anymore and exploded, fighting incredulous laughter as he did. “I’m kind of a murderer, here, Josh! Do you really want someone like that in your house? Someone like me? Especially after…” He couldn’t say the words, so he motioned to Josh’s bruised neck and sufficed it to say, “I could have killed you!”
Josh snorted arrogantly. “Right…you, kill me. That’ll be the day.” He gave Matthew a sideways smirk. “Admit it—you like me too much to off me.”
Matthew chuckled along with him at that after punching him in the arm, but it wasn’t entirely real. Matthew loved Josh like a brother, but Ira…what did Ira think of him? Did he pose a threat? Ira was the one he had to be afraid of.
He had to fear something in himself.
“As for you leaving,” Josh continued, heaving himself up from the floor with some heavy support from his desk chair, “it’s late, and my mom’ll be pissed if she finds out you left before she could microwave you up some breakfast wrap thingy. You do whatever the hell you want, but I’m going back to bed.” And without another word, he flopped back onto the comforter and started drifting back into sleep.
Matthew shook his head a little at Josh’s carefree attitude about everything. Only he could turn murder into a reason for sleep. But Matthew was beginning to see pink light through Josh’s blinds. Hadn’t he read somewhere that most dreams occur between midnight and three AM? Maybe they were safe for the night…but just for the night.