Chapter Text
Matt pressed his hands to his face, his palms digging into his eyes until hot tears spilled out, unstoppable. His hand throbbed, a deep ache pulsing through the skin where he’d split it on the mirror. He wanted it to go numb, but every pulse reminded him it was real. He dropped his hands into his lap, his chest heaving, and that’s when his gaze landed on the laptop.
His throat tightened. He knew what he was about to do, even before he pushed himself up, even before his fingers, shaking and clumsy, flipped the lid open. The screen burned against his wet eyes as he typed, every keystroke jagged and frantic.
The page loaded. His breath stuttered. He scrolled, desperate, until he found him again. Brian White. His chest caved in with relief and dread all at once. His hands were sweating, slipping slightly over the trackpad as he clicked. The map zoomed in, streets forming. He stared, forcing it into memory as quickly as he could.
Further this time. Not down the street, not tucked in a familiar corner. About twenty minutes away. Close enough. Close enough to still matter. He told himself he had time, it was barely 3 a.m. The house was quiet, safe.
He snapped the laptop shut, the sound loud in the silence, and stood. Hoodie first, tugged over his head, shadowing his face. Jeans next, dragging over his legs, loose enough to swallow him whole. He shoved his feet into a pair of Converse, fingers fumbling as he grabbed the cigarette pack and stuffed it into his pocket.
The door creaked softly as he opened it. He slipped out, careful with each step. The air in the hallway felt too heavy, pressing down on him, and he froze. Chris’ door stood closed, still and quiet. Matt stared at it. Just minutes ago, he’d been sitting inside that room, their words sharp and tangled between them. Now it felt both impossibly far away and unbearably close.
Please be asleep, he begged silently. Please don’t see me like this.
He turned away before he could think too long about it, before guilt could drag him back inside. He padded downstairs, the wooden steps sighing under his weight. His head buzzed with static, thoughts unraveling and snapping back together in the same breath. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t want to.
At the bottom of the stairs, something caught him. A frame on the wall, glinting faintly in the dark. He stopped, his chest pulling tight.
A family picture.
He stepped closer. It was Christmas, he remembered it vaguely. The three of them, little triplets, knees touching as they sat around the tree, tearing at wrapping paper, faces lit up with joy so pure it hurt to look at. His parents on the couch behind them, smiling, warm, whole.
Matt’s gaze fixed on himself. That version of him, eight years old, untouched, laughing with a smile too wide for his face. That kid didn’t know. That kid had no idea what was coming.
He lifted a hand to the glass, tracing over his younger face. That baby hadn’t been ruined yet. That baby didn’t carry the filth, the shame, the shadow of his uncle’s hands. He was still pure, still safe.
Matt’s throat closed. He dropped his hand, turning away.
The night air hit Matt sharp in the face, cold enough to sting, but he welcomed it. It kept him awake. He pulled his hood tighter and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, the pack of cigarettes digging into his palm as if reminding him what he came out here to do.
The street was dead quiet, houses lined in silence, all the families asleep behind darkened windows. Matt’s sneakers scuffed against the pavement as he walked, slow at first, then quicker, heading toward the map’s dot burned into his memory.
He lit a cigarette halfway down the block. Smoke filled his lungs, hot, bitter, familiar. He exhaled hard, watching it curl into the night. But his mind wouldn’t stop. The picture kept replaying in his head. He clenched his jaw, dragging on the cigarette harder than he meant to.
Why did it have to be me?
The thought broke through before he could stop it.
Matt froze mid-step, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. The words echoed in his skull, poison, shame flooding in behind them. He snapped his eyes shut, heart hammering. No. No, no, no. He couldn’t think that. He wasn’t allowed to.
Because the second he thought it, the second he let it breathe, it felt like he was saying his brothers should’ve taken his place. Like he’d wished it.
He nearly gagged on the smoke, coughing into the night, clutching at his hoodie with his free hand.
It was better him. It had to be him. Better him broken, ruined, rotting inside, than Chris or Nick. They didn’t deserve it. They never did. If someone had to carry it, he’d rather it be him. He needed it to be him.
But still, he couldn’t stop hearing it, that single poisoned question, replaying. Why me?
Guilt swallowed him whole, heavier than the night itself. His legs carried him forward anyway, down street after street, the ember at his fingertips burning lower and lower. Every drag was punishment, every step closer to Brian White’s house felt like a sentence he couldn’t escape.
He couldn’t believe he’d even let the thought slip. He hated himself for it. But he kept walking.
Matt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, cigarette dangling loosely between his lips as he kept walking. The streets stretched on forever, each one quieter than the last. Porch lights blinked here and there, but most houses were swallowed in the dark, blinds drawn tight. It was like the whole world was asleep and he was the only one left awake.
His shoes scuffed against the cracked sidewalk, steady, hollow. Twenty minutes didn’t sound like much, but out here in the dead of night, it felt endless. Every block stretched. Every step weighed him down.
The cigarette burned low, ash threatening to fall, so he flicked it hard into the gutter and immediately lit another, flame sparking quick. He dragged deep, smoke clawing at his throat, and let it out slow. The bitter taste sat heavy on his tongue, but it kept his hands busy, kept his thoughts from eating him alive.
Except they still did.
Matt kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk, jaw tight. The words came back again, uninvited. Why me?
He clenched his fists, nails biting his palms. He wanted to scream at himself for even thinking it, but the streets were too quiet, too empty. The thought sat there like rot, and the guilt swallowed him deeper.
Better him than them. He repeated it like a prayer with every step. Better me, better me, better me.
The houses began thinning out, yards turning wider, fences taller. He’d already been walking ten minutes, maybe more, and Brian White’s neighborhood was still ahead. Matt checked the street sign at the corner, pulled the map from memory. Three more turns. Seven, maybe eight minutes if he kept pace.
His legs were tired, his hand throbbed where the skin had split, and smoke curled around his face, stinging his eyes. Still, he didn’t slow.
This wasn’t optional.
Matt’s lungs burned by the time the street finally curved into Brian White’s neighborhood. He flicked his cigarette into the wet grass, watching the ember die out, and stuffed the pack back into his pocket. The street here was quieter than the others. Too quiet.
The houses were bigger, spaced out more, their driveways stretching long and pale under the yellow wash of the streetlights. Trees stood like shadows, their branches scraping faintly against rooftops when the wind moved. Everything smelled damp, like wet earth and asphalt cooling after the day’s heat.
Matt slowed as he turned the last corner, pulse climbing even before he saw it.
There.
Brian White’s house sat at the end of the street, larger than the rest, but suffocating in its stillness. Curtains pulled tight, porch light off. No signs of life, just a dark block of brick and siding against the night sky. The windows were like blank eyes, staring back at him.
Matt stopped on the sidewalk, heart hammering. He shoved both hands into the pouch of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, staring at the house until his chest ached. His fingers twitched, wanting another cigarette, wanting anything to distract him from the buzzing in his skull.
“Better me than them,” he muttered under his breath, like saying it aloud would drown out the guilt choking him.
His jaw locked. His hands shook inside his hoodie. He stepped forward, the gravel crunching under his shoes, every sound amplified in the quiet. The house loomed larger with each step, like it was swallowing him whole.
Matt circled the side of the house, shoes sinking into damp grass. The back door loomed in the shadows, not glass, just solid wood. He cursed under his breath, scanning the yard, eyes darting. Then he spotted it, an old appliance half-buried in trash bags by the bin, wires sticking out like veins.
He crouched, tugging one free. The thin wire bent under his fingers, clumsy and sharp at the edges. He wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans, knelt by the door, and shoved the wire into the lock. His hands trembled, his teeth grit. He twisted, pushed, almost gave up, then click.
Matt froze. The door eased inward. He stared at it, shocked that it had actually worked. For a second, the world felt unreal, dreamlike. But the quiet pressed against his skull, urging him forward.
He slipped inside.
The air was thick, the kind of silence that felt heavier than sound. Moonlight pooled across the tile floor. His eyes landed on the block of knives by the sink. He stepped closer, pulled one free, the sharpest he could find, long and gleaming. It fit too well in his hand.
Matt gripped the knife hard, knuckles throbbing from the cut across them. He padded into the living room, but it was empty, eerily still. His chest rose and fell faster. He started up the stairs.
And that’s when he saw them.
The staircase walls were lined with photographs. Too many photographs. Brian White’s face grinned from all of them, beside his wife, holding their daughter, family portraits frozen in forced happiness. Matt’s stomach twisted. He stopped halfway up the stairs, his throat closing as he stared at the smiling faces.
The daughter. The wife.
He knew the story. Brian White had raped his own wife, beaten her bloody, left her broken. The website registry had all of it. And still, here were the pictures. Still, he kept them on display, his trophies, his reminders.
Matt shivered violently. Disgust crawled up his skin, leaving him cold. He tore his gaze away and forced himself higher, every step creaking under his weight. His grip on the knife tightened until his hand shook.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched long and dark. One door at the end, half-closed, faint breath sounds leaking through. Matt’s pulse hammered in his ears.
Brian White was asleep.
And Matt was already inside.
Matt edged toward the door, every nerve in his body on fire. He could hear it now, slow, heavy breathing from inside, the kind of sleep that didn’t even bother with dreams. He pressed his palm against the wood, fingers curling around the knife tighter, the cut across his knuckles stinging with sweat.
He pushed the door open.
The room smelled stale, sheets tangled on the bed. Brian White lay sprawled across the mattress, mouth half-open, oblivious. The moonlight caught his face just enough for Matt to see the shape of it. Broad jaw. Greasy hair. A body that once controlled everything in that house.
Matt’s stomach turned. He remembered the pictures on the stairs. The wife. The daughter. The bruises he knew they had lived with. The silence they were forced into.
For a second, his body locked up. He stood there, frozen, breath shallow, the knife trembling inches from his leg. His own reflection from earlier flashed in his head, the smirk in the mirror that wasn’t his, the blood on his hands. He blinked hard, forcing it down.
This wasn’t about him. It was about justice.
He stepped closer. The floorboard under his foot groaned, and Brian stirred, a grunt catching in his throat as he rolled slightly. Matt’s breath caught. His chest felt like it was going to explode.
And then, before Brian could wake, Matt lunged.
The knife came down hard, straight into his chest. He felt the warmth of blood spraying his hand. Brian’s eyes flew open, wide, panicked, locking on him for a split second.
Matt pressed down harder.
Brian thrashed weakly, choking, his mouth opening and closing like he could bargain with the air. Matt didn’t let him. The knife rose again, fell again, wet thuds filling the room. His body moved faster than his mind could keep up with, a blur of rage and momentum.
By the time Brian’s arms stopped jerking, Matt’s chest was heaving, sweat sticking to his skin. The bed was soaked, sheets dark and clinging. The breathing was gone.
Just silence.
Matt staggered back, the knife dripping. His ears rang, the rush of blood in his head louder than anything else. He stared at Brian’s body, slumped and still. He couldn’t look away.
He was dead.
Matt’s grip faltered. The knife clattered onto the floor, slick with blood. His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat. He stumbled back into the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the carpet, chest heaving.
The room spun. His cut hand burned. His whole body shook.
It was done. Another name erased. Another monster gone.
But all Matt could think was how quiet the house suddenly was.