Finch.

Nine days until Matthew will marry my sister.
I feel sick, if I’m being really honest with myself.
July in Chicago has never been so cold.
But I’ve decided something, and I’m hoping I’ll go through with it.
It’s such a difficult task though. I hope I don’t end up hurting too much.
I am walking into the bedroom to talk to Eleanor, I’m worried about her. She looks paler than usual and she is hunched over looking sickly. I put an arm around her.
“What is it? Are you alright?”
“No.”
I try to think nothing of it, to be calm. But she always pretends to be so okay so I can’t help but swallow hard.
“What is it, darling? You need to tell me.”
“I was in the kitchen about an hour ago.”
“Yes? And then what?” I’m speaking in the smallest of voices.
“He told me he has the ticket for the bus.”
She said it, but she really only moved her lips.
I breathe in, I breathe out.
“Why would he tell you that?”
One tear falls from Eleanor Mason’s eye.
“I don’t know.”
“Want me to say something?” I ask.
“No, just stay here.”
She puts her head in my chest and her hands in my hair and stays there.
So, he does realize what he’s done.

Eleanor is asleep. I get up from the bed and touch her hair, watch her for one moment.
I stand up, walk out, close the door behind me.
I walk to the kitchen, I need a drink.
It’s late, and I’m surprised to see Matthew sitting at the table with a bottle of rum. He isn’t really drunk, but he’s gone far enough.
“Hey Nick,” He says to me. I just now notice how long his hair is, it is falling in his face and he looks so disturbed.
“Hi Matt,” I say, and take a seat at the table next to him.
“I’m so lost,” he tells me, soaking his lips with rum. I nod, try to be sympathetic. I’m not. It’s unreal how I hate him so.
“What do you mean, Matt?”
“I love your sister, but I’m a bad man,” he says. I can’t believe the words he speaks or the choking in his throat, eating his tears.
“You’re not so terrible Matthew,” I say, patronizing, though he’s probably not understanding.
“Yes I am.”
“What did you do Matt?” I ask.
“Oh don’t act like you don’t know,” Matthew Fletcher says, his eyes narrowing as he puts down the bottle.
“But I don’t know.”
“Oh, no. You remember nineteen ninety nine.”
I do remember the year. I remember everything about that year. What an awful year it was.
“I want you to say it.”
“I can’t,” Matt says, shaking his head back and forth like a dog. I’ve never seen someone so insane, including myself.
“Sure you can.”
“Oh, you want me to say it! DON’T YOU!?” He shouts. I’m surprised he’s shouting. He’s on his feet, but he quickly falls back to his seat, and he pushes the bottle away.
“I don’t like it. I like it about as much as you do,” I say.
“You don’t understand Nicholas.”
“Neither do you Matthew.”
“So, what? Am I just going to sit here and stare at you while you know what I did and while I marry your sister? It’s pretty ironic, huh?” He states. I shrug, take a swig of the rum.
“Only if you want to.”
“I need to tell someone.”
“Then why don’t you say it to me?” I ask bitterly. “And why do you mock her?!” I say, a little too loudly, but not as loud as Matthew’s vigorous shouting.
“Because I hate myself,” he says. He puts his head on the table, and without looking at me, he says it.
I wouldn’t have believed he’d said it if I hadn’t been right there.
“I raped your Birdie.”