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...
This is not a mandatory chapter, but if you like happy endings, you can finish it.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For Carli Please stop hating me, I had good intentions
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
7 months later.
Matthew always had a hesitant fear towards elevators. The sheer fact that it's a moving box hoisted up by ropes and ropes only scares the shit out of him. What if the cables snaps? What if you're stuck in between two levels and you can get out? What if the oxygen supply runs out?
He holds his breath, pressing his eyelids shut with his fingers. The thick glass frames rest on his knuckles, digging a small trench in his skin. The mechanism grows to a slow stop, opening the doors into a grand hall with velvet carpets and golden Victorian patterns scrawled across white wallpaper. The hallway leads up to the door he hated seeing, the door he still hates.
He touches the front pocket on his jean to check for the key he is meaning to give back. It creates a small, cold bulge on his side, the thought of giving it back gives him discomfort. Maybe he doesn't want to give back the key? Maybe the key weighs him down like an extra leg.
He settles in front of the door he searched for, running over the number again and again. The penthouse was a marvelous place to live in if it weren't such a horrible time of his life. Matthew assured himself life would've been better going back to Brazil, until he remembered his grandparents are dead and his aunt lives in a jacal.
[He adds another mental note to his to do list: help aunt Marina out of the jacal, it might just slice her up if it collapses.]
He doesn't knock, he shoves the key into the slot and without putting in an ounce of thought, he unlocks the door. He knows: if he doesn't force this visit down his own throat, he'll run away with his tail between his legs. The time between unlocking the door and swinging it open beats unbearable pain to his head, like a migraine of bad memories.
