mateo knows what itâs like to see nothing but fear reflected in peopleâs eyes when they look at him; his mother right before sheâd killed herself, the nuns at the orphanage that took him in, the neighbours that once held nothing but affection for him. he knows what they had seen, because he sees it too when he looks in the mirrorâthe vacant stare, the smile with too much teeth. when heâd moved to phoenix, he had done his best to bury that side of him ( heâs a good liar, his mother had made sure of that ) but every so often his control slips. mateo thinks of the way amandaâs gaze had darkened when sheâd seen his bandaged handâno doubt putting two and two together after discovering the shattered remains of her bathroom mirrorâand heâd half-expected to see the same suspicion in this strangerâs eyes.
thereâs not a lot that surprises mateo these days, but hearing laughter in response to his violence takes him aback, although he maintains the even smile. once the surprise settles, mateo finds himself left with a mixture of relief and curiosity, unable to help himself from wondering what kind of person isnât rattled by casual violence. â luckily for most people, i donât anger easily. â itâs not trueâmateo knows anger like an old friend; some days, the constant itch under his skin is the only reminder he has that heâs aliveâbut itâs close enough to the truth; boys who grow up angry learn how to keep a tight rein on the monster within. he glances towards the broken glass of the machine, offers the stranger another sheepish grin. â i guess iâm having an off-day, though. â
he gets the answer to his earlier thought soon enough though: the kind of people who arenât bothered by casual violence are people who are capable of it themselves. against his better judgementâmateoâs spent too long trying to bury the monster within to let it loose at the first sign of acceptanceâhe smiles, taking a step back as he gestures vaguely at the machine. â be my guest, please. â
Nate had no choice but to accept violence at a young age, having no choice but to fight for whatever he got both metaphorically and literally. Nate learned early on that to get respect, you had to earn it. He got it through countless fights, Nate usually always winning with either a bloody nose or a black eye to show for it. It isnât hard to upset Nate, even the wrong look could piss him off. It was calming him down that was the hard part. Between the abuse he suffered for years at the hands of his father and his hunger for power, it all helped create a monster who needed to be fed by cruelty and violence.
Needless to say, Nate had no problem doing that.
Unlike most criminals, Nate especially loved to get his hands dirty. If anyone betrayed him or did anything that pissed him off in the slightest, theyâd get the shit kicked out of them. Once Nate fought, he didnât stop. Not until the person was on the brink of death. It helped that he imagined his father being the one he was inflicting that violence to. It only further fueled the rage inside of him.Â
So that was what he did, calmly walking over to the machine. He could hear his fatherâs voice taunting him in the back of his mind and that was when Nate felt himself grow upset all over again. He punched the glass, not even feeling the slightest bit of pain. He didnât feel much of anything when he got into these moods. He punched the glass again and again until it all finally broke. That was when Nate paused out of shock for a moment, finally snapping out of his daze.
âGuess I donât know my own strength sometimes,â Nate replied, the lie flowing so effortlessly off his tongue.
Nate knows all too well how dangerous he is.
