Camera flashes burst across his vision, white and blinding. Each one muddled his thoughts further, as if someone were shaking his mind loose. Voices surrounding him overlapped, shouting, panicking, swelling into noise he couldn't separate.
"Hey! Get him back. Get him back."
"Shit! Someone call paramedics fast."
Matthew tried to breathe.
His vision blurred, edges smearing together, but he forced himself to look up. He needed to see the face of the person who had just stabbed him.
What he saw was a kid.
Tears streamed down the boy's face. His eyes were burning with rage. He screamed something Matthew couldn't fully hear and twisted the cold metal deeper into flesh.
Pain flared.
Even as two officers dragged the boy back, he lunged forward again, driving the blade in one last time.
After a brief struggle, they finally pulled him away.
"Let go!" the kid screamed. "He killed my dad! I'm going to kill him!"
Matthew's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees. The world swayed, dark at the edges, but after a moment, he finally recognized the face that had stabbed him.
Ah. Noah.
Blood poured from the wound, splashing onto the courtyard's stone ground, spreading in uneven crimson streaks. The warmth and pain weren't unfamiliar sensations. He forced his mind to clear and crawled forward despite the restraints biting into his wrists.
In that moment, their eyes met, and he felt the urge to say something.
He raised his handcuffed hands, lost his balance, and nearly collapsed before the officers beside him steadied him.
Noah's hands trembled, soaked in blood. The kid had probably never seen this much blood before.
Matthew reached out, took Noah's shaking hands, and wiped the blood—his blood—onto the grey fabric of his hoodie.
Then he placed a gentle hand on the kid's head and looked straight into his eyes.
Noah's eyes were different from his own, not hollow but holding innocence and hatred, with regret and sorrow buried beneath.
There were many things he wanted to say.
He didn't know where to start. He was never good at putting into words what he truly meant. Apologizing felt wrong, a greeting felt meaningless. His thoughts refused to settle.
His vision dimmed.
There wasn't much time left.
So he chose.
"Y-You are not a killer."