Poor Decision (that's the name for now)

Chapter I (The eve of my suffering~L)

You glance down at the letter in your hand, fidgeting with a corner. You peer into the window in front of you, dark curtains hiding any further view into the building. Sighing, you walk past the window, knocking on the door with such alacrity that it shakes in its hinges.

"Coming!" replies an irked voice from inside the home. A series of clinks fill your ears as someone unlocks the heavy door. It opens with a flourish, greeting you with much-wanted dry warmth. Implacable to the thought of being denied entry to the home, you shove past him, seating yourself in front of the hearth. Doffing your wet gloves and coat, your throw them at the owner of the home, hitting him in the face with a wet slap.

"Nice to see you, too," you hear his mumble in response to your actions.

You turn, and being in a foul mood, scowl at him.

"I'm glad to know that a benevolent person, such as yourself, would grace me with her presence on such a wet summer's evening," he said sarcastically, "or was that malevolent."

"Silence, you ponderous oaf," you say with a grunt.

"Oh, how will I ever get past the biting insult you've bestowed on me? How charitable of you!" Once again he sasses with a mockingly hurt expression, making your sour mood even worse.

"Please, you don't know how to deal with anything since you never leave this hovel of yours, if you can help it," you spit back at him.

"Rude," he scoffs, taking a seat in a chair, languorous in his affairs.

You plant yourself in one across from him, having dried off some after crouching in front of the fire. You look around the familiar, opulent room. It's dim, with warm lights. The small, two- cushioned, deep mahogany couch sits facing the fire. Two matching chairs, on either side of the couch, are facing at an angle, a wooden coffee table between them and in front of the couch. Scrapes could be seen in the ebony wood of the table, hardly taking away from its charm and soiled by its wounds.The table has simple, yet beautiful, sere vines carved into the round legs, wrapping around their length. The floor, a dark red of an almost black shade, had a layer of dust on it. Much of the home was the same in that aspect. The walls opposite of the fire were home to an impressive number of books nuzzled into a bookshelf, in color similar to that of the table. The walls and ceiling were black, making the room feel smaller. Thick curtains, the same hue of the couch and chairs, block any light from entering the room. The sizable hearth was mahogany as well. Getting lost in the reds and blacks of the room and the warm kindness of the fire, you notice that you have closed your eyes for the first time in three days.

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