Thread: Man Of My Dreams (SketchyEquine x Traveler)

You look like shit. Sergeant Harlan squinted at Matthew, taking in the sunken eyes and the grey pallor of the kid's skin. Although Matthew McCoy was nearly twenty-five, his parole officer still thought of him as a 'kid'. The guy was broken and had spent the last two years in the state facility for his stupidity. In Harlan's opinion, Matt should have stayed there longer, but the governor was pardoning 'non-violent' criminals because blowing through an intersection and smashing a woman with your car when you were high wasn't violent and somehow this loser got picked up on the rotation out. I feel like shit. Matthew rubbed at his arms, the overwhelming desire to cut himself feeling like ants crawling under his skin. Harlan handed Matt a cup and pointed to the bathroom. What? Are you fucking serious? I did a drug test last week. And you're doing one today. Go piss. He smirked. And watch your fucking language. A few hours later Matthew was walking to his job. His hands were shoved into his jacket, the collar turned up to keep the wind from cutting into his neck. His mind kept replaying the conversation with Harlan, angry at the insight the cop had. The hard lined attitude that he was given was enough to keep Matt from screwing up and calling his old dealer - he didn't need to screw up the second chance he'd been given, no matter how much he wanted 'just a quick fix'. But on the other side, it infuriated him that the cop had guessed at part of what had addled Matt. So, it's a girl, isn't it? Matt had scowled. What the fuck are you talking about? You. I can tell that you're miles away from here. Sergeant Harlan wrote a few notes on his clipboard. Listen, Matthew. You screwed up. You've got a lucky break and now you're out in the world, trying to get yourself back together. Don't let some slit derail you. I don't know if she's got drug ties or she's one of your previous life's whores, but whatever it is, let it go, man. You've only been out a few months and you have five years of probation before you're totally clean of all this. I'll never be clean of all this. Harlan's eyes narrowed. He set down his pen and folded his hands on the desk, leaning forward to look at Matthew more squarely. That's the kind of attitude that will get you thrown back in jail, and the next time you may never get out. Look - you screwed up. You fucked your life up royally, and now you have to pick up the dregs and try to make something of what you have left. At least you have something left to work with. You're lucky you're not dead. Too. That's what Harlan should have said. Matthew had stared at him across the table, and thought about the girl he had hit. She had been broken, but alive. No one would tell him anything about her, but when he saw her family at the hearings he knew that he had killed her. Sure, she was 'alive', but what kind of fucking life was being hooked up to a machine, a vegetable on a slab, until your body shut down? Shit. I wish I had died, and not her. That night he wanted so badly to buy himself a liter of whiskey and just medicate the pain away, but he knew that if his parole officer found it then Matt would be toast. Instead he made himself some hot cocoa and slammed the glass, then opened up every window in his tiny apartment before laying on the top of the covers and shutting his eyes. If there's a god... please... let me see that girl again. I don't want to be alone. The desert was vast. Tiny sprigs of dead branches stuck up through the dunes, looking like driftwood on the ocean. There was no water, though. Not as far as he could see. Matt shielded his eyes and peered across the monotonous distance. The heat felt like a hair dryer, or maybe like the heat from a car engine. He turned his face towards the sun and he could smell the burning oil and antifreeze of his car engine as it spilled it's life onto the pavement. He could hear her cries in the dark. As he turned his face away from the heat he felt the cool air of the botanical path along the stream bed. He could smell the moss and the grass. He could smell the blood. Oh god, oh god.... dear God. Please, help me... He heard the faint sounds of an organ in the distance and a few strains of Rugged Cross, but it was too far away. He couldn't get to it. He had to go to the crying girl, to the girl he had broken, but the stream was gone and the botanical gardens were far away. Matt started to run across the burning sand. His lungs ached with the strain. No! Don't go. No, please!