Marcelle is attractive.
Marcelle is a football player.
Marcelle is cliché.
Marcelle is a wolf in sheep clothing.
Marcelle is a Christmas fanatic.
Marcelle is just downright annoying.
Matthew Griffin is a certified theatre geek/video game nerd. And...
❝Mother: Would you please tell her that you're not really Santa Claus, that actually is no such person?
Santa Claus: Well, I hate to disagree with you, but not only is there such a person, but here I am to prove it.❞
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Matthew can't find his car keys.
He's been hunting down the set of keys for more than an hour, yet he can't find it. He's been through all the kitchen cabinets [and maybe he's been through the candy drawer more than once]. He's been digging through the couch pillows; he's been disassembling his bedroom.
It's nowhere to be found.
He grabs the bowl of apples in the middle of the kitchen island, discarding the apples to the side to search for the missing set of keys. Still, the only objects in the bowl includes apples and a few outdated slips from Ikea.
"Looking for these?" A jingle of keys in the living room jerks Matthew's attention to it. He sees Harvey standing there in arrogant glory, smirking as if he just won a prize. His other hand is shoved deep into his pocket, digging for gold like toddlers dig buggers.
Matthew leaps forward to grab the keys, but Harvey shoves them into his pocket. He went where no other man will: to the back pocket. His other hand flails to halt Matthew in his step. "No. You're not going anywhere."
"I'm just meeting up with a few friends before I have to go to work," he informs, grabbing hold of Harvey's elbow to pull his hand away from his pocket. He wants his goddamn keys. He thought elaborating will clear his road, but obviously Harvey wants more than just another explanation.
"Not anymore," he says, "you're coming with us to eat breakfast after we take you to your cardiologist."
"Goddammit," Matthew swears. "My bodily infrastructure is fine and I'm not hungry."
"I don't care," Harvey finalizes. "You're coming with us otherwise you can kiss these goodbye." He chimes the keys again before stashing it away in his pocket again.
"You must be kidding me," Matthew drawls, throwing his head back.
"No," Harvey spits, "I've had it up to here with your bullshit teenage attitude. I thought you'd grow out of the behavior as you get used to us, but no."
"I don't want to go to the doctor, Harvey!" Matthew fights, grabbing his temple in frustration. Days like these he wishes he could boil brains with only a look.
Harvey bites down on his bottom lip, but he looks at Matthew as if his dog just died. Matthew doesn't say a word. He scoffs and walks away from Harvey. He takes the stairs three by three, brooding.
Matthew isn't scared of the dark, heights or even clowns. [He may be scared of society, but he considers his fear abide]. Matthew is afraid of the doctor. He isn't afraid of the doctor's needles, he's not afraid of his jacket or his general procedures; he is afraid of his news.
