He dreamed vividly, more than most people realized. Maybe because most people assumed Matt had been born blind considering how well he coped with the lack of sight in his everyday activities. But that wasn't the case and though it had been a good sixteen years of a lack of vision he still recalled colors and images from the memories of the child that had been able to see.
He still saw his father's face, weathered and roughened by years of hard labor and taking beatings for a living. If his father had an unbroken nose and less scarring across his right eyebrow he might have looked a lot more like Matt and this was what Matt was told.
"You look kid, real good," said the old man, and Matt's eyes danced down over the former champion's body slow. He was just the same but in his other dreams Matt never envisioned his father with the wound that killed him. Not once, not ever, yet here he was standing before Matt with a red stained shirt ripped at the chest where a bullet had snaked through Jack's heart.
His breathing had become labored and his eyes burned hot when he reached out to touch his father's chest and then..
He woke up. Everything was dark but it always had been for Matt, so he expected it and merely closed his eyes after a single breath passed his lips. His chest ached fiercely, like he was feeling the pain from that very gunshot wound he had seen in his dream.
"Ya nevah were a light sleeper," he heard the voice but how had he not heard them enter? Hell, how had they entered anyway?? And furthermore, how in the hell was there light seeping through his eyelids like this?
And that was when Matt opened his eyes and saw the ghost of his father at the foot of his bed.
And the shadows of the darkened room, and the light slivers slipping through the drawn shut curtains over his window and the very vague, shadowed outline of everything else in his room. He clutched at his chest and hot tears began pouring down his cheeks.