It's a depressing sunset from that East L.A. street bench. Mat gazes at his arm, freshly pierced by thick blood-sucking needles, ignoring the traffic, the busy people walking up and down. The cigarette smoke he inhales is his best chance at fighting that damn headache. He tries to think about something funny, like Dr. Tod's hilarious laughter and clumsy appearance. It doesn't work at improving his bad mood.
He's been thinking of Brittany ever since Hector mentioned her. She lived right next door from the last foster home he ever stayed at. They both were at that age and she was the only one who ever understood him.
He doesn't remember much about the losers who were getting paid from the government to keep him under their roof, but the highlight of that one year was that girl next door. Brown hair, fair complexion, sweet face. They were friends then until she had to leave her abusive parents for a waitressing job. They kept in touch for a few years, exchanging emails and sharing their own unique perception of the world. That's probably how Hector knows about her and that's why he must be a with law enforcement. How else would he have access to such raw information?
He doesn't remember much about the losers who were getting paid from the government to keep him under their roof, but the highlight of that one year was that girl next door. Brown hair, fair complexion, sweet face. They were friends then until she had to leave her abusive parents for a waitressing job. They kept in touch for a few years, exchanging emails and sharing their own unique perception of the world. That's probably how Hector knows about her and that's why he must be a with law enforcement. How else would he have access to such raw information?
Mat and Brittany kept in touch for a few years when Mat was working shitty jobs, survival jobs. But he always had enough money left for that internet cafe and a chance to write to her. Until his nervous breakdown, when he thrashed that stupid restaurant kitchen he was cleaning. He did some time in as well as out, visiting shrinks and psychiatrists and every other scientist who was convinced he had all the answers. Manic depression they called it, this reaction of his to the insanity of the "normal" world. After that, she disappeared. She was never into him, right? Yet, he forgets he still carries a small photo of her in his worn-out empty wallet.
He throws the cigarette bud in the street where it vanishes under a truck tyre. Time to move on, not stay in the past. Yea, she was the love of his life, but who hasn't had a childhood sweetheart their world would be much better with? It's not good being stuck in the dreams of the past which do nothing but limit the future.
"Time to move on", Mat instructs himself.
It seems like a good idea if he actually met Marty for that drink downtown.
It seems like a good idea if he actually met Marty for that drink downtown.
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