- Matthew, 2001 -

He wrinkles his nose at her breath. Jackie tugs the bowtie and leans back. She giggles. "You look like a conductor."

Matthew tugs at the crooked tie. "It's too tight."

"Oh stop that," she smacks his hand, teetering as she does so, "you'll make me have to do it all over again."

She turns to walk out the door when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Matthew rolls his eyes and walks past her. Jackie catches him by the collar with one manicured finger as she tries to fluff out her bangs with the other hand. "God, these are going out of style so quickly."

Matthew puffs at his own shaggy hair. "Mooooom."

"Yah, yah. Go get in the car."

"I look like a damn girl."

Jackie scrutinizes him and quirks her lips. "Yeah, maybe, Mattie."

"How many times do I have to tell you to quit calling him that?" Robert steps around the boy as he enters the room readjusting his cufflinks. "I didn't name him 'Madeline' I named him Matthew."

"You didn't name him at all." Jackie hiccups indignantly. "Matthew was my-"

"Can we possibly go ten minutes without you mentioning your dead relatives? Matt," Robert scrunches his brow, "go put on a real tie."

"You've never cared about my family!" Jackie raises an accusatory finger, blinking to make sure it's aimed at her husband.

"Oh please, we haven't the time to argue about-"

Matthew steps out into the hall and heads for the bathroom.

"You think I'm not going to divorce you? I swear I'll do it!"

"What would be the point? You've already drunk all my alcohol, what else is there for you to take?"

He finds the drawer full of Jackie's hair supplies and pulls out a long, gleaming pair of scissors. The verbal blows ricochet down the hall, bouncing off chairs, picture frames, doorknobs, before cavorting around the bathroom. All is lost on Matthew, cushioned by his own selective deafness as he calmly cuts off his hair.

...

- Vincent, 2006 -

One wheel on the cart squeaks and wobbles as it trundles painfully down the aisle. Catherine remains expressionless as she goes through the routine. Canada Dry, Shasta Cola, Vanilla Crème. Her upper arm jiggles as she reaches for a pack of Miller. "I don't know what your uncle likes to drink, so he's on his own."

Vince refrains from responding as he walks down the opposite side of the aisle. The bleary linoleum scuffs under his soles. His brows furrow in annoyance at the sound of someone coming. He distances himself further from his mother as a pair of teenage girls passes by wordlessly.

Fuck, I hate her. Like, slut much? First my brother and now my ex, what a bi…

…this can't be happening to me. I swear he was wearing a condom, I swear. Just get rid of it, Dad'll never know...

Vince's headache throbs. Catherine looks askance at them, then at him. "Don't worry. They wouldn't want a loser like you anyway."

He ignores her, glancing up at the piñatas dangling shabbily over his head. A dingy yellow school bus leers at him with its stickered face. He rubs the back of his neck and keeps walking. The wheel screeches in agony.

...

- Logan, 2009 -

The greasy countertop catches the fluorescent lights dully, diffusing now and again for an ancient water ring. Decades of cigarettes have left their redolent traces in the walls and yellowing linoleum, reminding the patrons just how long death can linger.

Logan stubs out the Cohiba in the dingy glass tray and takes a drink. He doesn't like frequenting one bar for too long in a strange place. People start sniffing around. Especially if they think they've seen you on TV. He's a little pleased and a little bothered by his ability to peel off a clean bill. No more crumpled bet money from cage-fighting and other distasteful jobs.

The news natters away on a small set turned to face the barkeep. Heat waves, foreclosures, unemployment, and a missing billionaire. None of it means a damn thing.

Glass empty, bill paid, Logan begrudges himself an apathetic look in the wall-length mirror behind the bar. You sure don't look like a schoolteacher. Definitely not a husband.

...

- Vincent, 2009 -

There's a dim light in the room. He can just make out her soft silhouette, seated on the edge of the bed. She runs her fingers over his cheek and smiles, the corners of her eyes lifting. She somehow seems even lovelier in the dark. He smiles back, tempted to reach up and touch her face too.

Standing up, she walks gracefully over to the window. He sighs and sinks deeper into the blankets, at peace with himself. The blinds are raised with a startling noise, and she shouts suddenly,

"Wake up, wake up! Asshole, wake up."

Light bursts violently into the room, filling every corner with flame.

He jumps to his feet, instantly awake, frantically brushing leaves from his hair. John grabs him roughly by the front of his jacket, and together they crash through the undergrowth, taunting cries rebounding off the trees.