She looked at him, dumbfounded. But then said, "If I asked you the same thing, what would be your reply?"
Now it was his turn to stupefied, he would never reason his death with the truth, let alone with this stranger, his own blood would never know of it. If it weren't for the coincidental presence of Edward that fateful night, even he would've been in the dark. But it happened, and Edward saw it. He couldn't change that.
"Matt?" she snapped her finger at his face, breaking his trance and said, rather annoyed, "you keep blanking out very often. Is it just me or-"
"I'm just stressed, okay," he said, gruffly. He stood up and alongside him, she did as he did, with the bag of dirty, blood-soaked shards in one hand.
"Wait," she said as he reached the door, almost leaving. "Can we talk?"
"What else were we doing all this time?"
"No, like actually talk."
*
Matt sat in the living room, paitently, for their 'talk'. After he had reluctantly agreed to make proper conversation, she had insisted he give her a little time before she freshened up. This moment, he realized that none should ever believe a woman's little time. He wasn't counting, but he very well knew that it was past an hour since she had disappeared into the guest room.
He stared outside, towering from the ceiling to the floor the gigantic glass window gave the perfect view of the city of dreams beneath him, the afternoon light dimly washed over the tips of the skyscrapers, vehicles the size of a toy car speeding in the road blanketed by the snow. The atmosphere was hazy, dull like his current mood.
It was the same boring picture to Matt, every single day, the same boring procedure. It striked him how life would never stop for anyone, it didn't matter if one was left behind or not. Like the city of New York.
There was a little rustle behind him. "It's beautiful."
He diverted his gaze back to the only contrast in his life. Isabelle. She wore a very comical combination of one of his old clothes, a black hoodie and a pink short that reached many centimeters below her knee. Her brown hair was pulled into a messy bun that he was getting accustomed to. In all honesty, she was borderline comical, but Matt always found her funny.....and cute.
"Took you long enough."
She wasn't looking at him, her eyes rapted to the scene before her.
"Isabelle," he said, demanding her attention. "What do you want to talk about?"
She snapped out of her daze and sat opposite of him, smiling somewhat sheepishly.
"Uh yeah, so," she didn't know what to say.
He breathed out, exhausted. "Can you-"
"First," she started, nervously, cutting him off, "I wanted to say a thank you for extending your home as a temporary stay for me. I'm more than grateful for your sudden change of mind and apologize for my vulturous behavior of hitting your head. I swear, I didn't know it was you."
She stopped, letting it all absorb into him. Matt sat stupefied, it was funny how she'd suddenly turned casualty into a formal conversation. He didn't say anything, letting her continue.
"I know there must be a one o' one questions running in your mind, but I must say that I won't have the facility of answering all your questions." She stopped for a breath and continued, "it'll be nice if we could share something about us so in case of emergency we wouldn't need to fret about the other's," she motioned with her hands, not knowing how to put it in words.
"Sudden demise," he completed. She shrugged for a response.
"Okay," he said.
"So, let's start," she said, animatedly. And there, she was back to being the Isabelle he knew. Strangely, it felt better, her being her normal cheery self. It creeped him to find her too formal.
"Well," he started, awkwardly, "my name is Matt?" He was unsure of how he should start but she nodded, as an acknowledgment.
"My name is Isabelle."
He found it stupid, like the forensic psychiatric therapy he underwent at the age of 14. Definitely not something to be reminded of.
"I find this downright stupid, Isabelle," he huffed, "why don't we just cut the cap and come to the point?"
She rolled her eyes, "so much for my formality."
"You just want to know why I tried to suicide," he said, eyes narrowed, having joined the dots already.
She shrugged, "maybe. Maybe not."
"So you tell me about you," he pressed, noticing how she cringed at the sudden question.
"I thought I told you," she said, vaguely.
He shook his head, "you told me your past, Isabelle. It's history and dead. I want your future."
"What do you mean?" she asked, clearly confused. "You talk riddles, all the time."
"We both know that you are contemplating suicide-"
"-And so are you," she said with an eye roll.
He tsked. "That's not the issue now, and don't talk in between. I want to know why you are postponing it and what you want to do now."
"You are literally demanding my future plans."
He shrugged.
She sighed, "For a reason I can't tell you. It's merely days I need to finish it, I just need a place to stay till then."
"How many?" he asked, silently.
She shook her head, upset and sorrow-filled.
His mind went back to his own delayed decision, how much he was alike to her. He thought of it, his attempts to make things right one last time, his attempt to finish his incomplete job at least this one, before he ended it once and for all.
He thought of himself in her shoes shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being stranded alone in an urbanized city which wouldn't give a shit even if you stood on the verge of death. Perhaps stand aside and shove their smartphones and snap a picture for their trending stories on a social platform.
And that's when he made his decision.
"You can stay here," he said, awkwardly, "till you, you know, end it." He opted for a word anything but death, it didn't sound right to his ears.
"Thank you."
He looked at her, and was taken by surprise looking at her, with genuine sincerity and tear filled hazel orbs. It made him even more awkward, he was definitely not a good soother when it came to a sobbing person.
She wiped her eyes, embarrassed, her knuckles all salty wet and glistening. He managed to express somewhat of a smile, though it would've turned out cringy. Since he had forgotten the art of a genuine smile. And then she suddenly brightened up, like a bulb had lightened on her.
"I could cook you food, in return," she was gleaming, as if she had just told the most brilliant idea in the whole of history.
"Umm," he didn't find it a very good idea but nodded anyway. "Okay."
"Wonderful." She was bouncing on the sofa, possibly on cloud nine.
"Okay," he said and stood up, preparing to leave. He wore his black jacket and was contemplating his decision of wearing gloves when she spoke.
"Where are you going?"
"Work," he said, curtly. His infamous mood swing retained back to the moody attitude. Looking outside the window, the sky showing hints of a humbled winter, he decided to not wear the gloves. He was at the door when he remembered something and said, turning behind, "don't open the door for anyone, okay?"
She had followed him all the way to the door, looking like a cat caught on a storm as he turned unexpectedly but nodded.
"Good."
"But," she said and he stopped. "Then how will I know it's you?"
"I have keys," he jiggled the keys at her face making her move a step behind. She nodded, still with a disturbed face.
He shut the door but heard her say, "goodbye Matt. Stay safe."
A light sad smile edged at his lips, knowing he was nowhere near safe.