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The Painting of Matte
Matt's lungs looked clear but he still struggled to breathe. Doctors didn't know why but they were running tests. I mumbled words until my mother promised to call me if there was any change and hung up. Unwelling to look at the oily stain creeping over the ceiling, I numbly ascended the stairs to my room. Paint smeared across the carpet in wide, bloody lines. It thickened near the desk where a slow cascade of viscous red dribbled out between broken, metal latches. My feet padded over the carpet, squelching wetly into the pool beneath the desk. The suitcase lay bare, the bookside so neatly stacked over it now sprawled on