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...
❝Yes! Yes I do! I like Christmas! I love Christmas!❞
Ebenezer Scrooge
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The walls have yellowed, the wood flaked and chipped, leaving fine splinters in the soles of his socks. The compilation of rooms stench of dust and stale air. The house is in a complete state of inertia, there's a dirty glass on the kitchen counter with dust-fused water, the TV remote controller is still balancing on the edge of the sofa like a pendulum, tempted to tip and fall, but doesn't.
His camera perches on the coffee table, right where he left it before. He never picked up the camera again like his mother asked. To think about it, he never truly did what his mother intended: she meant good to keep him away, but behind the shades she wanted to see him again, of course she wanted. She wanted him to make movies again to cherish his childhood longly forgotten.
She kept him closer by pushing him away.
The narrow stairway that leads up to the first floor causes a slight dementia inside Matthew. He feels like the walls are too close and the steps are too high. For a second he can't use his lungs, for a second there is no air to exhale and there is no beat to his heart. He feels suffocated by his own house, his own chest, his own head.
His room is set up exactly the way he left it—he presumes his mother picked up his things from Harvey's while he was casket-fitting in the hospital. His posters are a little scrambled, but fit to his walls only the way he knows his mother would do it; monochromatically.
His fingers touch the walls flirtatiously, as if it's his first time inside. As if his room is the most amazing thing. But after staying in the hospital a good chunk of your life, a bedroom of your own feels like a gift only the demigods can give to you. The sunlight shudders into the room in battered patterns reflecting a faded pattern on his curtains, cooking up the place like an oven. Compilations of Shakespeare books oscillate between piles on his desk and a bookshelf stuffed with many different movies and books of movies.
He sets his hand on the edge of his bed, resting his fingers on the soft material for a second to admire it. He hasn't slept in his own bed for quite some time now. He's not sure his bed will be comfortable, but when are you ever comfortable?
"Did I do a good job?"
Matthew lowers his weight onto the edge of his bed softly. He watches her attentively with big, fish eyes. She reflects his looks exactly, big, painful eyes, a body on the point of fainting. Her entire wardrobe consists of black, as if she's hiding, but her head is wrapped in a beanie the color of Sahara sand.
"Thank you," he mutters breathlessly. He reaches out for a collective throw pillow decorating his bed like its as normal as pages to a book.
