❝It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.❝
Matthew 9:13
TW: blood mention
3 | M A T T H E W
Bella Ciao is playing on the car radio.
Matthew leans against the car door, smoking a cigarette. Silently, he flicks off the burned ash while trying to survive the agonizing hours of waiting. The sun, hiding behind the trees, scatters its light on the pavement, painting gentle gold on the car's engine, illuminating the Opel emblem. As the school door opens, Matthew perks up, but none of them is the person he is waiting for. Occasionally, a car passes by, but the hum of the engine is just a minimal background noise, drowned out by the hum of Bella Ciao.
Then, finally, he appears.
In torn jeans, an AC/DC sweatshirt, and an apparently empty backpack on his back, Marco approaches Matthew. In the sunlight, his dark skin glints, along with his smirk and cockiness. Marco never takes things seriously.
"What are you grinning about?"
"Dude, I was in PE; everything's falling apart" he avoids the car, throws his backpack on the backseat, and casually sits on the passenger side.
"Playing soccer, huh?" Matthew tosses the cigarette, taking a seat in the warm car.
"Obviously. I'm Neymar's successor" he spreads his hands, just like Neymar does after scoring a goal.
"Not surprised. Though, I haven't been to any of your games yet; I swear I'm getting curious about how you play."
"Relax, you'll be in the front row if you buy a ticket to my game" Marco says grinning. He lowers the sun visor just to adjust his curly, disheveled hair in its mirror.
"I'm looking forward to it!" Matthew starts the car. "I bet you're just as nervous there as you are in general."
"Of course. The essence of the sport is to be tense; the more tense you are, the better performance you can deliver" says Marco.
Coelho won't come out of you, asshole... – Matthew thinks as he fastens his seatbelt.
"So, where are we going today?"
"First, calm down. I know you're bursting with energy; I have no idea how many energy drinks you've had today..."
"Only five!" Marco interrupts as he flips the sun visor. "I'm cutting back; I used to drink ten a day instead of twenty. That's a record for me."
"Okay" Matthew waves it off as he reverses out of the parking lot. "For now, let's go to Beetle's place..."
"I hate him."
"Too bad. We have to."
"I hope someone killed him among those he had trouble with" he yawns. "Let's stop at a gas station; I want to buy an energy drink."
"I thought you were on a diet?"
"Where are the extra five energy drinks? Don't mess around; I'm paying for your gas, just let me have a drink!"
"No."
"Come on! Your dad!"
"You're mentioning the wrong guy. He's dead."
"Your mom then!"
"Well, you can curse her. Go ahead" mumbles Marco as he turns onto the main road. "Did you bring it?"
"Yeah" says Marco, reaching into his pocket. Before handing it to Matthew, he licks his thumb and starts counting the money. "It's all there. Here you go."
Matthew takes the bundle of money from him, the money Marco earned from selling drugs at school. Interestingly, he hasn't been caught so far. At least, this is the only thing that surprises Matthew, as Marco always quickly gets caught in such situations, slips up early, can't lie, and being one of the few black guys in that institution, he faces more attacks than a white drug dealer. There are only ten black students out of three hundred in that high school. They are fortunate as they have the opportunity to study.
However, there is a downside to this...
"You know, my physics teacher pissed me off today."
"What did he do?"
"I got double homework just because I got a C on my test, while Kevin got an F, and he didn't get a single reprimand. He even told me to be grateful that I can study at all. I told him back to be thankful that Chlara didn't give birth to a black kid because then he wouldn't be able to teach either. Of course, he immediately wrote up a disciplinary note."
"Why do you talk back, Marco?" Matthew looks at him, biting his lower lip. "Wouldn't it be easier to stay quiet? You can let it out during soccer practice."
"I have self-respect, man" he crosses his arms." Not like the others; they settle for just bowing their heads when a teacher kicks them, or the whites point fingers at them. They don't mess with me, and why? Because I hit like Tyson. Take that. Besides, they don't dare to kick me out because they think I'm a dangerous criminal who will commit a school shooting, just like that guy did a while back."
"Gabe?"
"Him. Three years ago, he got expelled, and the next day, he shot the teachers and students with an AK-308. He wiped out half of the school, man. Lucky I was sick that day, even though I hate being sick, but it really came in handy then."
That morning was a massive tragedy, terrified parents, sirens, blood, and a young guy they hanged for his crime.
"Do you think he would have shot you? Another black guy?" Matthew whispers.
"Bro. If your brain goes haywire, would you remember that I'm around you? You'd shoot me like a reflex, even though we're colleagues and friends."
"You know what it's like when my brain goes haywire, Marco."
"I know, buddy... But..."
Marco's speech is interrupted by a sudden thunderclap. Matthew sees a black sports car in the rearview mirror. Another bang.
"Damn. They're chasing us."
"There's a gun in the glove compartment. Use it wisely, baby."
"Do I look like someone who can't handle a Glock-47, dude?" Marco exclaims, grabbing the gun hastily. "It's loaded, right?"
"It is, just do it!" Matthew steps on the gas and takes a right turn. Marco rolls down the window, stretches after a deep sigh. The driver of the black car barely manages to make the turn. "I knew it. Benny's gang. Their license plate starts with a B."
"Take care of them."
"I'm on it, man!"
The sound of the gunshot gets swallowed by the silence of the streets, shaking the city's residents who applaud this excellent performance with screams and fleeing. At the same time, the bullet doesn't pierce the wheel of the car but only falls onto the road.
"Damn, I missed. Turn around!"
Matthew does so. He curves to the left, leaving tire marks on the smooth asphalt. Marco takes a deep breath. The wind catches his curly hair; he confidently raises the pistol and fires it again.
The bullet hits the black sports car's wheel like a bullseye. The steering wheel spins in the driver's hands, and the vehicle, leaning over a sidewalk, skids. The driver tries to resist, but the sports car, tilting towards a jewelry store, slides. Shards fall onto the windshield and hood, and people retreat in fear from Bradley's Jewelry store.
Marco proudly sits back in the passenger seat.
"I don't understand why you doubted me" he blows out the air, putting the pistol back in the glove compartment.
"You don't need to play James Bond; it was just a little chase. Benny's gang always screws up; these guys were no different." Matthew mutters quietly.
"But why didn't they shoot? How can they be so incompetent?"
Marco's voice reaches Matthew's ears with difficulty. No... Not now! Matthew swallows. He tries to breathe evenly, but somehow the air doesn't reach his lungs. His heart is pounding wildly; anxiety embraces him. His throat constricts; an invisible weight presses on him. His ears are ringing. It's damn hot in here.
"Matthew... Come back!"
Marco's words reach his ears muffled.
He finds himself in a small room. White light. It crashes into his retina, destroying his nervous system, but he can't turn his head away. A metal frame holds his neck tightly, his hands and feet tied to the bed.
What is happening?
Figures dance around him, appearing and disappearing alternately. Matthew watches the shadows tense, but none of them has a face, at least not visible in this lying position. Then the Hungarian national anthem starts playing. Matthew shudders. He clenches his fists. No, he doesn't want to hear it! He wants to cover his ears, to break the radio from which this horrible song seeps out.
"Brayden. Three fifty! Don't move so much!"
No. He doesn't want to hear this!
"Three hundred fifty victims, Brayden, you deserve a commendation."
No... He doesn't want to hear this!
"Three hundred fifty sacrifices, a new record."
He didn't kill anyone... He didn't kill anyone!
The metal presses against his throat as it descends. The clothes are made of thin, breathable fabric, so he feels where it's heading. It makes contact with both his collarbones. Then it moves downward, approaching his heart. He enjoys the pleasant warmth for a while, but when the metal pierces his skin, pain tears apart every inch of his body. He screams. The metal frame, idly lingering on his neck, now plunges deeper, pushing his head down onto the bed. He's choking. Blood runs down his arm.
The figures constantly change, the anthem starts over and over again, and the light emits an increasing frequency.
Three hundred fifty sacrifices...
He killed them all...
But... He didn't mean harm. He didn't want to be like his father.
The nation has been punished For the past and future!