Mathieu (White Flame Trilogy) - By Paula Flumerfelt Page 0,3

were merely cosmetic. He’d changed the curtains from an ugly green to a deep red and the bedspread was now a lovely shade of purple as opposed to the drab brown it originally was. Other than that, the room was just a shell: bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, and end table.

Climbing into his bed and tucking himself under the puffy comforter, he closed his eyes. The world of dreams was just beyond his consciousness…but there was something else, too. Whenever he reached the cusp between the states of consciousness, another plane was always there, pulling and inviting him in, wrapping him in a warmth and care.

Often he was tempted to fall into it, but never before had he allowed himself to drop into the other realm. Tonight though, was different. He could feel it. The warmth was more like loving arms pulling him back to the bosom.

In all honesty, he craved the comfort that it was offering, but it seemed…dangerous. Forbidden.

What is it, though…?

Fighting the other plane’s call, he settled into the realm of unconsciousness, falling into the darkness of sleep.

~*~

The sunlight filtered in from the outside world through a somewhat dirty window, waking Mathieu with it. Groaning, he slowly got out of his warm, comfortable bed, his body protesting. He trudged to the tiny bathroom attached to his room and pulled his shirt off, the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling under his skin. His pants came next and he looked at himself in the full length mirror, clad in just his dark blue boxers.

The skin of his knee and shin was bruised to a faint purplish color from making contact with the wall the night before, however it was mostly hidden by his tattoo. The ink had originally been just a fanciful idea to set him apart from the rest of the kids in the orphanage, but after winning a bet with the local artist in the next town over, he had gotten it done for free. He didn’t regret it. The tattoo was a blood red tribal that started on his lower back and wrapped around his right hip and down his entire leg.

Smiling at his reflection, he yawned and moved to the sink, turning on the water. It flowed coolly over his hand, making his fingers tingle slightly. Mathieu leaned over the basin and splashed water onto his face. It woke him with a pleasant jolt, causing him to blink rapidly a few times.

Today was going to be a battle with the others; he was going to pay for attacking Darrel. The orphanage dealt with its own through a rigorous internal justice system that kept the peace. It was never anything obvious like an old fashion beat-down, but it was normally a punishment in stages, starting with being alienated from the rest of the group, being checked into the wall in the halls, just little things like that. Then it would be sabotaged duties, messes left to be cleaned, innocuous possessions broken. How difficult things got depended on how severe the crime was. Mathieu could expect no less than accepting Darrel’s duties, being the errand boy, his few pictures smashed, more bruises to come and isolation. None of it was personal, however. The hand of justice in the orphanage was fair and swift. It wasn’t going to be an easy time.

He looked at himself in the mirror again, pulling his hair over his shoulder and braiding it loosely. The braid hung to just past his collarbone, long and pure white. It contrasted with his lightly tanned skin and purple eyes. He knew how he looked and he was okay with it. Never once did he wish he looked like anything other than himself.

Wrinkling his nose, he turned away from his image, going back into the bedroom and opening the dresser. Mathieu pulled out a white tee-shirt and a pair of tight jeans, pulling them on quickly. He needed to get his day started as soon as possible. Taking a deep breath, he went to the door and pulled it open, only moderately ready to face everyone else.

Looking left and right before ducking into the hall, Mathieu strode towards the kitchen.

The portraits seemed to be following him with their eyes, accusing. It wasn’t his fault that he’d had to hurt Darrel. He’d been asking for it. There was no way that he was going to let this get to him. Not now.

Rebekah was in the kitchen when he entered, working at making breakfast for the five