A/N: Writing practice.

Summary: Time is as short as life is cruel. And so he will suffer. ONE-SHOT

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Scared

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I look inside of myself and try to find someone else,
Someone who's willing to die.
- I Don't Wanna Die, Hollywood Undead

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Matt is running for his life, or rather driving for it, given the circumstances. He is speeding (too fast, too fast, too fast) down the highway, zipping through cars and leaving them all honking furiously behind him. Matt looks to the rear view mirror, and then his sonar and then his cell phone after every three seconds. He stupidly thinks it will quell his fear. He thinks it will make a difference. But—

I am going to die.

He thinks Mello will call him to say, "You're going to be okay, pal." Or something of the like. But Matt has been racing down the roads for fifteen minutes now, and his phone is as silent as a grave. Why won't Mello call?

Matt just needs someone to lie to him, because he feels insane for even thinking he could pull off such a stunt as this one, or for even thinking he could ding-dong ditch Death's door. He thinks he's insane for even thinking anything. He thinks if he should be killed, he should be killed for being stupid, and not for this. Or not, because Matt really, really doesn't want to die.

I am going to die.

And now Matt is afraid, so scared out of his wits the hairs at the back of his neck are standing. He isn't a bad person. He's gotten good grades, he's got a job, a car, legal money and friends. He's got good morals, like helping a friend in need, like keeping him out of trouble, taking care of said friend when he needed it, and like being loyal to him no matter what. So why the hell are his good morals about to kill him, or are good morals just outrageous to hold on to in life anymore?

He looks at the rear view mirror again, and swallows thickly, with difficulty, a hard lump down his throat. Maybe he is getting too nervous, or maybe the guards are just getting closer and closer by the minute. Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts (not that it works), he stomps on the accelerator, ignoring the fact that he has been on maximum speed for quite a while already.

I am going to die.

He looks at his phone again, and as a hasty afterthought, picks it up to call Mello, dialing a familiar set of numbers. There is no answer from Mello, and although Matt's heart just about drops to his stomach, he manages to dismiss it. He refuses to think that something might have happened to his best friend. It is still too early to tell, so he forces himself to believe that Mello is still… busy. Kidnapping. Like a criminal.

But Mello isn't a bad person, Matt swears.

I am going to die.

Matt swerves his car left and right again past more cars, vehicles, pedestrians and the like. He has a close shave squeezing the vehicle in between a lorry and a motorcycle. The car he's using is rented and he irrationally worries it has a scratch. The people he's zooming past, and Matt doesn't want to injure anyone (because they're good people) at all. This worries him, because he had felt like he could when Mello had handed him a gun.

Mello said that he would need it in... the end. Never mind that Matt has no idea how to use a gun.

The weapon sits beside him in the passenger seat, still locked in a brief case when it should have been out and ready before he had even started the car. The brief case is comically strapped to a seat belt, more because Matt feels he must look out for what might protect him if he ever needs it— which would be soon, Matt thinks, looking at the mirror again.

The cars after him are still getting closer.

And I am going to die.

Matt has no one else to call, and even if he does, what is he supposed to say? "Oh, hey. I'm about to die, so ,uh, please clean out my fridge. I think the milk's going bad." Matt thinks not. He has zero intentions of ever letting anyone else grieve for him while he is still alive (however short that time is left), for it will make him feel more worse than he already does.

Because he is afraid. Because he feels stupid. Because he feels insane.

Because he is going to die.

He wants to cry, but the goggles are still strapped over his head, and to have tears collect in the eyewear, and by extension, his eyes, will be just distracting. Matt needs to maneuver, he needs to get away (get away, quick!) as best as he can, and he needs to live, even if he is going to die. His heart keeps on beating a mile a minute, as if reminding him that someday soon, if not today, it will give out.

His breath is shallow and forced, as if suggesting to him that the air is merely a luxury he has borrowed, and must return tonight. His hands are slippery with sweat inside his gloves, and they feel heavy and leaded, like the weight of his wrong-doings and sins (are there even so many, or is he getting paranoid?) have suddenly quadrupled and dropped on the face of his palms.

Or maybe he is over thinking everything.

It would make sense, since it would explain why the gun is suddenly calling out to him, taunting him, and saying that it would give him just the slightest chance of survival. Matt knows that a slight chance isn't a great chance, but it still it a chance. Maybe he should get the gun.

I am going to die.

He looks at the rearview mirror again, and then at the phone, and then looks at himself. Even past the gold and yellow plastic covering his eyes, he can see only so clearly how pale he is. His eyes are wide, and he still can't hear anything but the (thud thud thud) accelerated pounding of his heart in his ears and chest.

Get the gun, he tells himself.

Deftly maneuvering the car again, he reaches for the case beside him with one hand, blindly feeling st the locks and opening them. He feels for the gun and grabs it, holding it over his hammering heart as if it could ever quiet it. Matt's hand is shaking too much (he's scared), and the cars are getting closer, and the gun isn't loaded, and he is still going to die.

Someone help him, please.

The G.P.S. tells him that he will be facing heavy, heavy traffic. His sonar tells him the rush hour is worse than what he had just zipped and zoomed past, because he is now heading towards the heart of the city. The rear view mirror tells him he will be cornered soon, and his head can't think! Matt needs time to think! He needs a couple more minutes and he'll come up with something, and he won't really have to die!

He yelps as he runs a red light and heads straight into an seemingly endless throng of speeding vehicles. Matt can't see the chasing cars in the rearview mirror anymore, and it doesn't placate him. He knows that if they aren't behind him, then he is surrounded.

Give him time to think! Please, please, please—?

But time is as short as life is cruel.

No one offers him time.

And he swears he's a good person.

He's done nothing wrong.

Not that it really matters.

Because he will still die tonight.

A/N: I didn't check for any grammatical errors. Ah, well. Tell me what you think.

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