consume me i'm a monster | closed
Hurt was an understatement.
Marek was dead, and it was Mateo's fault.
It felt like only yesterday that Mateo was admiring the boy with muffled laughs as he carried what seemed like a million and one floaties before they departed into the Dunby hotel pool to get to know each other. This kid had dreams -- he wanted to be an astronaut. And he was only nineteen.
Mateo had seen a lot younger die within his home town of Queens, back in New York, and every single time it hurt. Over money? Over jewelry? Why would someone /kill/ over something materialistic?
He was angry. At himself, at the world, at the guy who pulled the trigger -- at a lot of things, so to say. He was stuck in this pose of having his forehead pressed against the wall in his hallway home, fists leaning against it as his heart beat rang loud throughout his ears.
The instinct was to take the description that the news gave of the murderer and locate every single person that wore a red hoodie and not leave them till their face was bleeding.
He was gripping tightly onto the mask that he wore -- the mask that he wore to protect himself, to help protect others.
After five years of doing this, and hearing from people, people that were a big part of his life, how much of a joke it was, Mateo was finally starting to get it. What was even the point if he couldn't protect all?
What the fuck was he doing wearing a costume, at twenty five years old.
His fingers flexed more tightly into his grip, and as his lips curled into a snarl, his arm moved back to deliver a concrete blow into the wall, easily surpassing the drywall to make a hole in the estate. A yell chased after it, one loud enough to leave his throat feeling dried up and strangled. His hand didn't nearly feel as pained, so he punched another part of the wall, then another, and soon enough there were four holes in Mateo's hallway, stopping only because he was hyperventilating from the oncoming tears.
After wiping harshly at his eyes, Mateo picked up the remaining pieces of his Phox outfit that was on the ground, putting them into the wall so they were out of sight in a way (he couldn't bring himself to throw them out or burn them -- something that made Mateo only frustrate himself more).
With sweaty palms, he tried his best to clear his face from tears as he gasped out for air. Marek's funeral was that day, and was going to be the only reason Mateo left his house.
As he dragged himself towards his room, Mateo paused his footsteps before looking up at the ceiling. "Tell him I'm sorry, okay? Just... I'm sorry." The twenty five year old ran the back of his hand under his nose with a nose, trying to force himself to be content with himself as he picked up the phone to call someone to repair the holes in his wall.
