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Summary
“Marco! Breakfast ended like an hour ago, get the hell up!” He hadn’t heard that voice in years. It truly was cruel. He bit his lip and hugged the pillow to his face, trying to bury himself further into the fabric, if that was even possible.
“Marco!” The Thatch of his dreams slammed his fist on the door again. Cruel, too cruel. Marco’s knuckles went white with how hard he was clutching the pillow, feeling the fabric tearing under his grip.
Another knock, obnoxiously loud. Marco wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and cry and tell him to get the fuck away, to just stop! He wanted it all to stop! He knew he’d fucked up! He knew it already! Why the hell did they have to keep tormenting him!? Why did he have to see them over and over and know that every time he reached out they’d vanish into nothing but fire and blood!?
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.Marco travels back in time to before everything went wrong. How you ask? I couldn't possibly tell you!