Imperfectly perfect

Chapter Two- An Alternate View

POV SWITCH- Matthias

The soft sound of pencil hitting paper filled me with peace and tranquillity.

I was alone; the gentle ticking of a small blue clock on my desk filled the air, the only sound in my soft wooden workspace.

I love my job, it's so comforting to me. The smell of freshly plucked paper and pencil lead leaves me breathless with joy.

Most people wonder how it feels, to constantly be alone. To me, it's normal- a few years being so has allowed it to become a habit.

At times, I long for the comfort of a partner. Someone to love, to pamper, to cuddle when times get rough.

My mother, poor woman, sets me up on countless dates. I go and meet the girls, out of courtesy, but I don't have the heart to tell her that I prefer men over woman. No, that would truly break her heart. Though she has my sister Fleur, (A kind soul with a laugh that lights up any room) she looks to me to provide her with grandchildren.

"Fleur has a...free-heart, I can not expect her to have children so soon! Matthias, you are lonely; you must find a wife and give me petit-enfants (grandbabies) before I get too old!"

Always the same thing, always the same expectations.

Sometimes it gets too tiring and I'm so close to telling her the truth, but I'm too scared.

That's the point. I'm always too scared.

Too scared to tell my mother.

Too scared to talk to men.

Too scared to work with other people.

Fleur says that its "malsain" (unhealthy) to be alone as much as I am. She works as a psychiatrist, you see. She offers to give me free sessions but I always decline. What could be worse than having to tell your own sister what's bothering you?

So instead I retire here, in my country house- a large log cabin with windows onlooking a crystal blue lake.

As I stare into the large mirror on the wall, I notice dark patches underneath my stormy blue eyes. I guess that's what happens when you stay up all night finishing a project...

I swiped a hand across my trimmed ginger beard in thought, debating whether to shave it of or not.

I dislike my hair, the ginger (or strawberry blonde as my mother loves to say) locks seem too fussy to be short yet too flimsy to be long.

For years now, my family have been trying to convince me to shave my beard but I like the feel of it.

I like the feel of the soft prickles tickling my hand, the comforting texture that helps me think.

I sigh once more, if only I could talk to people like my family seem to do. There is never a dull moment when they're around yet when I'm alone that's all it seems to be: dull.

Oh how I wish,
I could find a man,
One that adores me,
For me being who I am.

I hope I find them soon.