Head Over Heels

IIII. The Plan

  Will's funeral had come sooner than Matt had expected. Before he knew it, he was putting on dress pants and a white button up in his room. He took his black tie from his dresser and attempted to tie it multiple times, eventually getting it after doing some improvisation. He grabbed his black suit jacket and his car keys before entering his kitchen where his dad sat, not dressed up in the slightest.

   "Hey, um, funeral starts in, like, thirty minutes," he looked over his father's shoulder with furrowed eyebrows, seeing the newspaper in his hands. Instead of responding, his father hummed, seemingly not caring to listen to what his son had said. "Dad-"

  "I don't care," he responded bluntly.

"What?"

    "I have work," he turned around to look at his son, taking in his appearance. "The hell are you dressed up for?"

"What do you think?"

"Watch that tone, prick," he snarled. "You're not going. You've got work to do, too."

"It's not even my real job. It's, like, part time or whatever," he furrowed his brows.

"Yeah, well, it helps put some food on the table, don't it?"

"Barely," he muttered.

  Suddenly, his father stood up and glared, "What was that? Care to speak up, tough guy? The hell'd this confidence come from, huh?" He shoved him back, Matt almost losing his footing. He then grabbed the collar of his button up and yanked him close, "Listen, jerk, I could kick you outta this damn house in less then a second. You want that? Where the hell'd you go after that, hm?"

  Matt stayed silent and his father released his collar, shoving him backwards again, "Change your goddamn clothes."

  Matt clutched his car keys. He squeezed his hand in a fist to the point that his knuckles turned white, to the point that he could've sworn his hand started bleeding. When his father turned his back towards him, he adjusted his keys in his hand, holding them so that the tip was peeking out of his hold. He moved quickly so that he wouldn't regret it and stop himself halfway. He practically stabbed his father in the side of his face.

  "Ah! Shit! What the hell?" He screamed and held his face. As he turned to face his son, Matt hit him clean across the face with his fist and then he fell to the floor. He wasn't entirely sure, but he assumed his father was knocked out. He hurried out of the house and was quick to start up his car.

  "Shit," he breathed out, holding the steering wheel tightly. Now he'd surely get kicked out. Maybe his father would even find a way to press charges. He was screwed.

  Not to mention his hand, too. Matt was in no way a violent person. That was probably the first time he'd ever laid a hand on anyone. He was starting to see why. His hand throbbed while he just about managed to back out of his driveway cleanly.

   After barely avoiding a few crashes on the road, Matt arrived at the cemetery, seeing a small crowd scattered in the parking lot. He pulled his keys out of the ignition and stepped out of his car, throwing his suit jacket on as the cold, fall air overwhelmed him.

  Finding his best friend wasn't difficult. Johnathon was surrounded by many people, people that were probably expressing their sympathy. Johnathon met Matt's gaze and excused himself. They sat down on a curb.

Matt cleared his throat, "I'm, uh, sorry about Will."

"Apparently everyone is," Johnathon scoffed. "People I've never even seen before are here. Acting like they care all of a sudden and- and it's all bullshit," he picked up a pebble and threw it at the ground. "Sorry. Not- not you, of course."