Marcelle is

#20 Marcelle hates himself

❝First we'll make snow angels for two hours, then we'll go ice skating, then we'll eat a whole roll of Tollhouse cookie dough as fast as we can and then we'll snuggle.❞

Buddy the elf

Matthew can handle many things, failing tests, directing plays, fumbling over his words in front of an entire crowd, but one thing he cannot stand is post operation. He hates being bound to the bed by blankets overweighing him. He hates the constant ache in his hand from IVs and needles [seems like the nurse couldn't spot any other vein in his arm branched with veins]. Most of all, he hates how violated he is—people went into parts of his body not made to explore.

He has no better way to describe his discomfort, the constant war of pain droning over his chest. His chest hurts. His body is tearing at the seams and no matter how he rests, he can't seem to find a comfortable position that doesn't feel like the blunt edge of a bread knife is scratching at scabs.

The room around him is exactly like every other hospital room in existence: the walls are plain white and stained cobalt from the floor to the middle of the wall, as if a flood of water pushed through, not high enough to touch the ceiling. Equipment decorate the room like furniture and the only furniture looks like equipment. His throat is scathed and dry and every time he tries to inhale, it feels like he's being suffocated by a thorn bush.

A rush of nausea washes over Matthew's stomach, clinging to his skin like a summer sweat. The air is humid and heavy, laying over him and compressing his lungs. He wishes he were the kid who'd say stupid things when anesthesia is running out of his system, but rather he's sicker than a kitten that drank a bowl of milk.

"Hey, Matty, take it easy."

The voice belongs to a timid, small frame half the size of what he's used to. Her Pondo figure was put into a bathe of warm water. Her regular small shirt looks like a shirtdress, her once beautiful bronze skin is pale and rustic and her small head is wrapped up in a towel of silk.

She touches his hand to cup it in hers, but he's overcome with jitters and anger and rips his hand away.

"I do not want you here," he mutters with minimal energy, maximal pain. He rolls his head away from her, his body is far too fragile too move . He can't bear to look at her any longer. Any regular joe would've been happy to see his dying mother, but not after what she did. She refused to let him stay with her, support her and she forced him to live with Harvey, even though she despised him herself. She prohibited him to see her in her dire hour and she expects him to be butter in her hands? She refused him to be her son.

He doesn't think so.

"Matt, I'm sorry, okay. I'm so sorry. I can't even," her languages stumble into Portuguese, which is something that barely happens. His mother is a woman of control, at her job, sit still, in the house, come fix the electrical work, over him, clean your room. She stands over Matthew to force his eyes to hers. They're full and sad; not even as bright as he remembers. He can tell the only time her eyes close, is when she's blinking. "I didn't mean to shove you away, you know how I am. I just don't want you to see me die."