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pagans( you can burn that paper, boy, but you still gotta show )
(no subject)
Jan. 31st, 2017 10:17 pmThe fact that Max still doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to pay for the apartment he's in— he's been ducking the landlord for over a month now— he probably shouldn't be taking a day off. But he can only do so many days in a row in his car, so he figures it's about time.
Also, it's nice out, so if he's gonna play hooky from work, there's no better day for it. So Max heads to the park, mostly walking aimlessly because he doesn't know what else to do with his day. He could visit Luce, but he knows she's probably busy at the bar. He could head to Whiplash, but mostly he's trying to forget that he technically owns it.
The compromise is finding a bench in the park, sitting on the back with his feet resting on the seat. He's reaching into the pocket of his coat for his pack of cigarettes, realizing that he's actually out, so he doesn't see it... some kid's kickball that comes careening across the park, just missing his head.
And maybe it misses him, but Max startles enough that he flips over backwards on the bench, landing flat on the grass.
Also, it's nice out, so if he's gonna play hooky from work, there's no better day for it. So Max heads to the park, mostly walking aimlessly because he doesn't know what else to do with his day. He could visit Luce, but he knows she's probably busy at the bar. He could head to Whiplash, but mostly he's trying to forget that he technically owns it.
The compromise is finding a bench in the park, sitting on the back with his feet resting on the seat. He's reaching into the pocket of his coat for his pack of cigarettes, realizing that he's actually out, so he doesn't see it... some kid's kickball that comes careening across the park, just missing his head.
And maybe it misses him, but Max startles enough that he flips over backwards on the bench, landing flat on the grass.
(no subject)
Jun. 15th, 2016 11:51 amHe's supposed to start feeling normal any day now.
At least, that's what the shrink keeps telling him. That he'll start feeling like he's leveling out, that he'll feel like he's gonna jump out of his skin a little less. At some point it got so bad that it was pretty much a daily feeling, but Max had drowned it in so much booze that he'd stopped noticing.
It's not normal, not yet. Especially because he hasn't gotten used to the idea of going to a shrink in the first place, of taking pills every day. He feels like any day now, they're gonna tell him he's supposed to be in the loony bin instead, put him in a jacket and wheel him off.
Max feels like he's going crazy when he tells his shrink this, when the guy adjusts his glasses, pauses for a moment and suggests Max find a job. Because being occupied with something might help.
Only, Max hasn't worked in months, since he took a break from McCormick's, and he sure as shit knows he can't go back there. Not just because he doesn't wanna beg Luce for his old job back, but because pouring and serving drinks seems like a bad idea.
The shrink leaves him to think about where he "wants to go from here" and says they'll talk about it next time.
He thinks about it most of the day: when he goes to the park, when he gets bored of that and decides to go grocery shopping, when he ends up making a fucking mess in the kitchen trying to make dinner just for something to do.
By the time Brian comes home, he still hasn't figured it out, but he's starting to warm up to the idea.
At least, that's what the shrink keeps telling him. That he'll start feeling like he's leveling out, that he'll feel like he's gonna jump out of his skin a little less. At some point it got so bad that it was pretty much a daily feeling, but Max had drowned it in so much booze that he'd stopped noticing.
It's not normal, not yet. Especially because he hasn't gotten used to the idea of going to a shrink in the first place, of taking pills every day. He feels like any day now, they're gonna tell him he's supposed to be in the loony bin instead, put him in a jacket and wheel him off.
Max feels like he's going crazy when he tells his shrink this, when the guy adjusts his glasses, pauses for a moment and suggests Max find a job. Because being occupied with something might help.
Only, Max hasn't worked in months, since he took a break from McCormick's, and he sure as shit knows he can't go back there. Not just because he doesn't wanna beg Luce for his old job back, but because pouring and serving drinks seems like a bad idea.
The shrink leaves him to think about where he "wants to go from here" and says they'll talk about it next time.
He thinks about it most of the day: when he goes to the park, when he gets bored of that and decides to go grocery shopping, when he ends up making a fucking mess in the kitchen trying to make dinner just for something to do.
By the time Brian comes home, he still hasn't figured it out, but he's starting to warm up to the idea.
March 11, 2016
Mar. 30th, 2016 01:17 amMax only makes it home because somebody's nice enough to give him a ride. Somebody figures it's safe to pick up the guy on the side of the road without shoes or a phone, or even any cash and give him a ride halfway across town. Max figures it's the first bit of good luck he's had in days. That and the fact that he didn't drive Linda after parking her at Ocean View.
Though, it's not like anybody put the bottle in his hand Tuesday night.
"Thanks, man," Max says, as they stop near the building, and Max climbs out of the guy's sedan, "I... I owe you one."
"Just take care of yourself," he says, and Max nods, though he doesn't know what the hell that even means. The only thing he knows is that whatever happened to him the last couple of days can't happen again. He was supposed to come home, and now here it is, three fucking days later and he doesn't even know where to say he went. There's a black hole there now that sucked him in, and now he doesn't know how to pull himself out of it.
Max's head is still pounding, even as he boards the elevator and rides it up to the top floor, putting his key in the lock to the apartment and opening the door.
He's told himself, told Brian and Lucy, that nothing about this is a big deal. He's tried to ignore the fact that he's been trying to ignore how his head buzzes when he walks into a crowded room, how a flask became his go-to whenever he felt like just hiding for days at a time...
He can't ignore this.
Though, it's not like anybody put the bottle in his hand Tuesday night.
"Thanks, man," Max says, as they stop near the building, and Max climbs out of the guy's sedan, "I... I owe you one."
"Just take care of yourself," he says, and Max nods, though he doesn't know what the hell that even means. The only thing he knows is that whatever happened to him the last couple of days can't happen again. He was supposed to come home, and now here it is, three fucking days later and he doesn't even know where to say he went. There's a black hole there now that sucked him in, and now he doesn't know how to pull himself out of it.
Max's head is still pounding, even as he boards the elevator and rides it up to the top floor, putting his key in the lock to the apartment and opening the door.
He's told himself, told Brian and Lucy, that nothing about this is a big deal. He's tried to ignore the fact that he's been trying to ignore how his head buzzes when he walks into a crowded room, how a flask became his go-to whenever he felt like just hiding for days at a time...
He can't ignore this.
I tore my mind on a jagged sky
Oct. 9th, 2015 02:12 amWhen the ash falls, Max isn't ready for it. Even though he's been on edge for days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, when he steps out of McCormick's for a smoke break and the street's deserted and there's ash on the roads, there's a second before it registers.
Three years ago, Max almost died in the street. Three years ago, a soldier with no face pointed a gun at him and it was only luck that got him out of it. Fucking dumb luck and fighting like hell. He should be dead. He should have died back in the jungle, and he should have died that day in the street.
And now he's back to do it all over again.
"Shit," Max says, and he's trying to wipe ash off of his face, even as it continues to fall. But his heart is speeding up and he can't fucking breathe. The siren's going to start soon, and the next thing he knows, he'll be left in the dark again, thrown back into the jungle.
He wants to think that he's lost his mind, that he's out of his head and this is another one of the dozens of nightmares he's had about this place since he left it, but Max knows it's not. As fucked up as he knows he is, there are some things he's never forgotten, some things that he's pretty fucking sure of. And the feel of this place has haunted Max for long enough that he'd know it anywhere.
Max turns on his heels and heads back inside, even though he knows that waiting this out in the bar is risky. Last time, he spent a day and a half in a closet, and they still found him, dragging him out into the street by his ankles.
He sinks into one of the booths, and it's more fucked up than he remembers from just a few minutes ago, the leather of the seats old and cracked, the tabletop worn and dirty, Max tries like hell to catch his breath, to make his heart slow down and push the smell of humid air out of his head.
Three years ago, Max is convinced he left a part of himself in this place, and he sure as shit didn't want to come back to try and find it.
Three years ago, Max almost died in the street. Three years ago, a soldier with no face pointed a gun at him and it was only luck that got him out of it. Fucking dumb luck and fighting like hell. He should be dead. He should have died back in the jungle, and he should have died that day in the street.
And now he's back to do it all over again.
"Shit," Max says, and he's trying to wipe ash off of his face, even as it continues to fall. But his heart is speeding up and he can't fucking breathe. The siren's going to start soon, and the next thing he knows, he'll be left in the dark again, thrown back into the jungle.
He wants to think that he's lost his mind, that he's out of his head and this is another one of the dozens of nightmares he's had about this place since he left it, but Max knows it's not. As fucked up as he knows he is, there are some things he's never forgotten, some things that he's pretty fucking sure of. And the feel of this place has haunted Max for long enough that he'd know it anywhere.
Max turns on his heels and heads back inside, even though he knows that waiting this out in the bar is risky. Last time, he spent a day and a half in a closet, and they still found him, dragging him out into the street by his ankles.
He sinks into one of the booths, and it's more fucked up than he remembers from just a few minutes ago, the leather of the seats old and cracked, the tabletop worn and dirty, Max tries like hell to catch his breath, to make his heart slow down and push the smell of humid air out of his head.
Three years ago, Max is convinced he left a part of himself in this place, and he sure as shit didn't want to come back to try and find it.
[Silent Darrow] For Lucy
Oct. 9th, 2015 01:39 amBrian hasn't come home. He's not answering his fucking phone either.
From the way Brian goes out, from the way he's always working or doing something or someone, some people might think it makes sense that there'd be a night every once in a while where he was MIA. But even if it's late, he comes home.
And ever since people started disappearing, showing up again days later with stories about sirens and static and ash, Max has been on edge. He hasn't been sleeping and more often than in a long time, his heart starts racing and he can't breathe, remembering faceless soldiers and nearly being left for dead in the street.
He's convinced he's going back, and unlike This Man's Army, there's no jail or Canada as an alternative.
Max sent Kimmy home sometime after she put Gus to bed, but now he doesn't know what the hell to do. He paces, he smokes about three cigarettes in a row even though he remembers how Colleen would give him and Brian shit for doing it with a kid in the apartment.
Finally, he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number, even though it's late and Lucy's probably at McCormick's. But his hands are shaking and he feels like he's about to sink into the mud.
From the way Brian goes out, from the way he's always working or doing something or someone, some people might think it makes sense that there'd be a night every once in a while where he was MIA. But even if it's late, he comes home.
And ever since people started disappearing, showing up again days later with stories about sirens and static and ash, Max has been on edge. He hasn't been sleeping and more often than in a long time, his heart starts racing and he can't breathe, remembering faceless soldiers and nearly being left for dead in the street.
He's convinced he's going back, and unlike This Man's Army, there's no jail or Canada as an alternative.
Max sent Kimmy home sometime after she put Gus to bed, but now he doesn't know what the hell to do. He paces, he smokes about three cigarettes in a row even though he remembers how Colleen would give him and Brian shit for doing it with a kid in the apartment.
Finally, he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number, even though it's late and Lucy's probably at McCormick's. But his hands are shaking and he feels like he's about to sink into the mud.
Monday morning, and Max thinks he regrets just about everything about the weekend.
Of course, his birthday had come with a hell of a lot of drinking, grass and, eventually spending about half the night in bed with Brian. All things considered, it'd been a pretty alright way to ring in 24. But now, when Max rolls out of bed around noon, he groans as the light hits his eyes, his head pounding.
"...shit," he says to himself, squinting as he scrubs one hand through his hair. He's got to be getting old, he thinks, because he doesn't think he's ever been this hung over before.
No, that's a lie. Sometime after Doctor Robert's and the circus, after the drugs and booze had worn off, he'd spent a couple of miserable days drying out and sobering up before shipping out. But that was years ago, and Max sure as shit wishes he wasn't reliving it.
He hasn't decided if he's gonna call into work yet and take the night off— though he thinks Lucy probably won't give him much grief if he does— but thinks it's a decision best made after a strong cup of coffee.
Jesus, he doesn't even remember Brian waking up and heading to work.
Not awake enough to consider why he should maybe toss on a pair of pants before heading downstairs, Max climbs out of bed, still completely naked from whatever he and Brian got up to last night and pads out of the bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen.
Of course, his birthday had come with a hell of a lot of drinking, grass and, eventually spending about half the night in bed with Brian. All things considered, it'd been a pretty alright way to ring in 24. But now, when Max rolls out of bed around noon, he groans as the light hits his eyes, his head pounding.
"...shit," he says to himself, squinting as he scrubs one hand through his hair. He's got to be getting old, he thinks, because he doesn't think he's ever been this hung over before.
No, that's a lie. Sometime after Doctor Robert's and the circus, after the drugs and booze had worn off, he'd spent a couple of miserable days drying out and sobering up before shipping out. But that was years ago, and Max sure as shit wishes he wasn't reliving it.
He hasn't decided if he's gonna call into work yet and take the night off— though he thinks Lucy probably won't give him much grief if he does— but thinks it's a decision best made after a strong cup of coffee.
Jesus, he doesn't even remember Brian waking up and heading to work.
Not awake enough to consider why he should maybe toss on a pair of pants before heading downstairs, Max climbs out of bed, still completely naked from whatever he and Brian got up to last night and pads out of the bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen.
At some point, he realizes he hasn't seen his sister as much since Christmas.
It's not that big a deal-- he's spending a lot of time in the apartment with Jude and Pru, or at Brian's, and she's living with Steve now. It's not like it used to be, when he could just drop in on his sister whenever.
Okay, so maybe he still can, technically, but the last thing Max wants to do is accidentally walk in on Lucy and her boyfriend by accident. Max is open-minded about a lot of things, but that's definitely not one of them.
He's in a booth by himself at McCormick's tonight, his back to the wall. On his second beer already, he's hoping that maybe Neil will give his sister a break.
It's not that big a deal-- he's spending a lot of time in the apartment with Jude and Pru, or at Brian's, and she's living with Steve now. It's not like it used to be, when he could just drop in on his sister whenever.
Okay, so maybe he still can, technically, but the last thing Max wants to do is accidentally walk in on Lucy and her boyfriend by accident. Max is open-minded about a lot of things, but that's definitely not one of them.
He's in a booth by himself at McCormick's tonight, his back to the wall. On his second beer already, he's hoping that maybe Neil will give his sister a break.
Max can't find his fucking phone.
After a while, after he's finally remembered and checked the pockets of his slacks and his coat, he realizes he probably dropped it. But he's sure as shit not going back near that bookstore to look for it. He's still on edge, even though he knows whatever happened down on that part of Park Avenue probably wasn't as big a deal as he thought it was.
He needs to head home though, needs to make sure he was just seeing things and it wasn't Pru there, as crazy as that is in the first place.
Somehow, though, he ends up at Brian's instead. He doesn't always call ahead, but today, it's not exactly an option. He knocks, running one hand through his hair as he leans against the door frame and tries to calm the hell down again.
After a while, after he's finally remembered and checked the pockets of his slacks and his coat, he realizes he probably dropped it. But he's sure as shit not going back near that bookstore to look for it. He's still on edge, even though he knows whatever happened down on that part of Park Avenue probably wasn't as big a deal as he thought it was.
He needs to head home though, needs to make sure he was just seeing things and it wasn't Pru there, as crazy as that is in the first place.
Somehow, though, he ends up at Brian's instead. He doesn't always call ahead, but today, it's not exactly an option. He knocks, running one hand through his hair as he leans against the door frame and tries to calm the hell down again.
01/02/2015
Jan. 3rd, 2015 04:18 amIt's a full twenty-four hours before the roads are plowed well enough for Max to make it home.
He's got Linda parked at Ocean View instead of at Brian's, but the subways are down when no one can actually get to work because of four feet of snow. So staying put had been the best option. It'd worked out okay, though, even though Brian had sent the nanny home and the day in had included Gus. All things considered, it'd been a better deal than being trapped up at the ski lodge.
Max just hopes Jude and Pru had made it back before things got too bad. He feels kinda guilty, bailing on the two of them when Pru had only just gotten to Darrow, but he hadn't really expected the storm to get as bad as it did. Besides, Pru's usually alright with going with the flow, and she'd seemed as out of her head as Max had been at Kagura.
Bundled up in his jacket, a scarf wrapped around his neck, he'd taken the subway and trudged the few blocks to Ocean View, mostly trying to keep to the street so he didn't have to walk through snow that nearly came up to his shoulder. Jesus, he hasn't seen snow like this since before Princeton.
He pushes his way inside the apartment, pulling off his scarf as he heads to Jude's room, the scent of pot heavy in the air like it pretty much always is these days.
"Hey, Jude? Jude? You home?" he calls, pulling off his jacket as well as he walks into his friend's bedroom without an invitation.
He's not exactly expecting to find what he does, though, which is Jude and Pru tangled in Jude's bed.
"So what? I don't get an invitation to the after party?" he asks, leaning against the door frame.
He's got Linda parked at Ocean View instead of at Brian's, but the subways are down when no one can actually get to work because of four feet of snow. So staying put had been the best option. It'd worked out okay, though, even though Brian had sent the nanny home and the day in had included Gus. All things considered, it'd been a better deal than being trapped up at the ski lodge.
Max just hopes Jude and Pru had made it back before things got too bad. He feels kinda guilty, bailing on the two of them when Pru had only just gotten to Darrow, but he hadn't really expected the storm to get as bad as it did. Besides, Pru's usually alright with going with the flow, and she'd seemed as out of her head as Max had been at Kagura.
Bundled up in his jacket, a scarf wrapped around his neck, he'd taken the subway and trudged the few blocks to Ocean View, mostly trying to keep to the street so he didn't have to walk through snow that nearly came up to his shoulder. Jesus, he hasn't seen snow like this since before Princeton.
He pushes his way inside the apartment, pulling off his scarf as he heads to Jude's room, the scent of pot heavy in the air like it pretty much always is these days.
"Hey, Jude? Jude? You home?" he calls, pulling off his jacket as well as he walks into his friend's bedroom without an invitation.
He's not exactly expecting to find what he does, though, which is Jude and Pru tangled in Jude's bed.
"So what? I don't get an invitation to the after party?" he asks, leaning against the door frame.
There's snow on the TV, and the hiss wakes Max up. He doesn't remember it being left on the night before— he doesn't watch much these days, and can't see why he would've last night— but it's a sound that kinda permeates a room, an apartment. He doesn't really sleep completely through the night these days anyway, and hasn't since before Darrow even, and it's only after about a minute of hearing it that he realizes he's not gonna nod off again and should probably get up anyway.
Padding to the TV in bare feet to turn it off, though, something feels off. He can't put his finger on it right away, but when he walks up to switch the set off, realizes that there's no background sound. No people honking in morning traffic, construction noises or even someone shouting for a cab.
It's fucking eerie, and he doesn't like it.
Because it pretty quickly starts to remind him of two years ago, of the city going dark and the ash falling, the hiss of the TV and the siren.
That goddamn siren.
He goes to the door to head outside and see it for himself, but he only manages to get the door open before it hits him.
All at once Max can't breathe. His heart is racing and he can't get a breath in. Last time, he almost died, there in the street, there in the dark.
"Shit, not again," he says, and he sinks to the floor by the doorway, his back against the frame as he tries to pull himself together.
Padding to the TV in bare feet to turn it off, though, something feels off. He can't put his finger on it right away, but when he walks up to switch the set off, realizes that there's no background sound. No people honking in morning traffic, construction noises or even someone shouting for a cab.
It's fucking eerie, and he doesn't like it.
Because it pretty quickly starts to remind him of two years ago, of the city going dark and the ash falling, the hiss of the TV and the siren.
That goddamn siren.
He goes to the door to head outside and see it for himself, but he only manages to get the door open before it hits him.
All at once Max can't breathe. His heart is racing and he can't get a breath in. Last time, he almost died, there in the street, there in the dark.
"Shit, not again," he says, and he sinks to the floor by the doorway, his back against the frame as he tries to pull himself together.
(no subject)
Sep. 16th, 2014 12:30 amIt's bullshit, basically.
When he'd moved to New York with Jude, it'd taken him less than a week to get a job as a cabbie. He's been to five places now, since he actually started looking for work again, and has come up with absolutely nothing.
We regret to inform you...
We appreciate you thinking of us, but unfortunately...
Max is starting to wonder whether or not he should go back to Little Yellow Cab, groveling back to his old boss. Maybe he made some mistakes, and maybe he totaled a cab because of his Army uniform showing up out of fucking nowhere, but at the end of the day, he thinks he was a decent cabbie. He brought in a lot of money.
But that guy was kind of a dick, and Max isn't sure he wants to give him the satisfaction.
Headed home from yet another failed job interview, Max is loosening his tie, about to take the subway home, when he decides on a detour. He doesn't fucking know why he does it, but the next thing he knows, he finds himself outside of Brian's new apartment. It's both late enough and early enough that he thinks he'll catch Brian while he's in.
Max knocks on the door, really hoping he remembered the apartment number right.
When he'd moved to New York with Jude, it'd taken him less than a week to get a job as a cabbie. He's been to five places now, since he actually started looking for work again, and has come up with absolutely nothing.
We regret to inform you...
We appreciate you thinking of us, but unfortunately...
Max is starting to wonder whether or not he should go back to Little Yellow Cab, groveling back to his old boss. Maybe he made some mistakes, and maybe he totaled a cab because of his Army uniform showing up out of fucking nowhere, but at the end of the day, he thinks he was a decent cabbie. He brought in a lot of money.
But that guy was kind of a dick, and Max isn't sure he wants to give him the satisfaction.
Headed home from yet another failed job interview, Max is loosening his tie, about to take the subway home, when he decides on a detour. He doesn't fucking know why he does it, but the next thing he knows, he finds himself outside of Brian's new apartment. It's both late enough and early enough that he thinks he'll catch Brian while he's in.
Max knocks on the door, really hoping he remembered the apartment number right.
Veterans Day. [ Dated 11/11]
Nov. 10th, 2012 07:12 pmIn the days since coming back from that hellhole, Max hasn't done much. The first few days, he barely left his room, barely left his bed at all, trying to sleep his days away. It didn't help a lot that any rest he got was interrupted by nightmares.
Even now, faceless soldiers both in the other Darrow and back in Vietnam shoot at him. One night, he wakes when ordinance goes off right next to him on the side of a dirt road, spraying him with mud and shrapnel as it sends him flying. Another night, he's been shouted at by a man with no mouth as he tries to take a knife to Max's face. He wakes in cold sweats and usually can't fall asleep again until the sun's coming up.
But as the days go on, Max sleeps a little more, and the nightmares aren't as frequent. While he doesn't want to leave his apartment yet, he does venture outside of his room. He eats not just when Lucy reminds him that he probably should.
Two days ago, he parked himself on the couch in front of the TV and he hasn't done much moving since. He watches the news, he watches cartoons. He falls asleep when there's late-night TV on-- the channels don't sign off and he's still not used to it-- and wakes up when the early morning guys are trying out recipes and drinking coffee. It's the same shit as yesterday, only the date's different.
There was a time when Max planned on going to a bar and demanding free drinks. Now he's lucky he's even out of bed.
A few beers are still left in his fridge from the last time he went shopping, weeks ago. He cracks one open and claims his seat on the couch again, trying not to think about the guys that didn't make it home at all.
Even now, faceless soldiers both in the other Darrow and back in Vietnam shoot at him. One night, he wakes when ordinance goes off right next to him on the side of a dirt road, spraying him with mud and shrapnel as it sends him flying. Another night, he's been shouted at by a man with no mouth as he tries to take a knife to Max's face. He wakes in cold sweats and usually can't fall asleep again until the sun's coming up.
But as the days go on, Max sleeps a little more, and the nightmares aren't as frequent. While he doesn't want to leave his apartment yet, he does venture outside of his room. He eats not just when Lucy reminds him that he probably should.
Two days ago, he parked himself on the couch in front of the TV and he hasn't done much moving since. He watches the news, he watches cartoons. He falls asleep when there's late-night TV on-- the channels don't sign off and he's still not used to it-- and wakes up when the early morning guys are trying out recipes and drinking coffee. It's the same shit as yesterday, only the date's different.
There was a time when Max planned on going to a bar and demanding free drinks. Now he's lucky he's even out of bed.
A few beers are still left in his fridge from the last time he went shopping, weeks ago. He cracks one open and claims his seat on the couch again, trying not to think about the guys that didn't make it home at all.
For Lucy [ Dated 11/01]
Nov. 3rd, 2012 08:15 pmHe loses count of how many looks he gets on the way back to Oceanview. But it makes sense: his face is smeared with blood, one side of his face is all bruised and swollen and he's limping from where the faceless soldier fucked up his leg. He ignores the few people who manage to ask him if he's okay, mostly because he can't decide whether or not they're real or in his head.
He's not crazy enough to talk to people who aren't even fucking there. He's not.
Max hobbles through the complex to his apartment, leaving a palm-shaped red smear on the door as he pushes it open.
It's like it should be. Like it was that morning he got into his cab for his shift, before the ash. There's no overturned candle on the floor, no bullet holes in the walls from where he should have died.
Maybe he's so goddamned crazy he imagined it. Maybe that copper taste in his mouth and the pain in his leg and side and hand and head... maybe it's not even there at all.
"...fuck," Max breathes, and his voice is shaky and strained, his throat raw.
He walks back to his bedroom and curls up on the bed, the softness of the blanket feeling weirder underneath him than he remembers. He closes his eyes and tries to make the world go away, if only for a little while.
He's not crazy enough to talk to people who aren't even fucking there. He's not.
Max hobbles through the complex to his apartment, leaving a palm-shaped red smear on the door as he pushes it open.
It's like it should be. Like it was that morning he got into his cab for his shift, before the ash. There's no overturned candle on the floor, no bullet holes in the walls from where he should have died.
Maybe he's so goddamned crazy he imagined it. Maybe that copper taste in his mouth and the pain in his leg and side and hand and head... maybe it's not even there at all.
"...fuck," Max breathes, and his voice is shaky and strained, his throat raw.
He walks back to his bedroom and curls up on the bed, the softness of the blanket feeling weirder underneath him than he remembers. He closes his eyes and tries to make the world go away, if only for a little while.
October 31, 2012: Day Four
Nov. 1st, 2012 03:47 pmMax doesn't think he's ever walked so far. Every inch of him aches and with each new step, pulling his boot up out of the mud is just a little bit harder. His neck is covered in angry red bites from a mosquito who drank its fill while Max tried to sleep the night before, and he'd scratch if it didn't mean he had to take his hands off of his gun.
There's mud on his face and on his hands and underneath his fingernails, and he's pretty sure he needs to change his socks, but there's another three miles to go before they'll stop and rest.
There was a time that Max would've said something to lighten the mood, but the jokes all died in his mind about a mile back, when they marched past what looked a hell of a lot like somebody's foot.
"Come on, stop worrying about it. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I could go in the Army and not get shipped to anywhere. Play a lot of cards, learn how to box."
There are gonna be a hell of a lot of 'I told you so's' waiting for it when he gets home.
If he makes it home.
Sometimes he doesn't think he even remembers what home looks like.
Thirty-six hours later and Max is still sitting in a closet in some house off of Randolph street. He had to break a window to get in, but the glass is so dingy and the house so fucked up anyway, that he's sure that nobody lives there. It looks like nobody lives anywhere. Going on four days now, and the only other person he's seen is that soldier. That fucking faceless bastard that nearly shot him back in his apartment the other day.
It took Max the better part of an hour to lose him, ducking down alleys and trying to remember what the field manuals said about what you're supposed to do if you're caught without a weapon.
He doesn't want a weapon. He doesn't want to shoot one again. He won't shoot one again.
The siren comes and goes, the darkness comes and goes. Max only sleeps for maybe five minutes at a time, jerking awake in the near-darkness to sounds that only exist in his head.
He wakes and he thinks about Pru, about that day she hid from everything in that closet in the hallway. He said then that it was because she was hung up on him-- and he'd thought maybe that was the case until that noise she made that they could hear, even thought the door-- but it was never about that. Prudence did a hell of a lot of running, but that was the only time Max had ever seen her hide. And maybe this isn't really like that at all, but he can't help but feel like a fucking coward either way.
"The sun is up, the sky is blue," he mutters to himself, and it doesn't mean he's any less fucking terrified or that he finally gets up, opens the door and walks out to look for something to eat (he's fucking starving). But at least his heart stops pounding and the world stops spinning. He feels a little bit less like he's about to dry heave in the corner.
His timing's pretty good though, because just as all that stops, and the smell of ammunition starts to fade again, Max can hear the siren in the distance, signaling the oncoming dark. He comes to his feet and finally gets a good look around the closet, finding a bag of golf clubs in the corner opposite, tucked behind a few winter coats.
Max settles back into his corner, a white-knuckled grip on the handle of one of the wedges, and he waits. For the fourth night in a row, he waits.
The sliver of daylight leaking in through the crack under the door fades away, and the siren goes quiet.
He doesn't know how many more days and nights of this he can take. And at least before he shipped out, he was able to tell everybody goodbye. Does his sister even know he's gone? Shit.
"I'm so fucking sorry, Luce," he says, though he knows that the words aren't going to make it to her, that they'll just end up lost in the dark along with him. Lost like so many other parts of himself that he ended up leaving back in the jungle.
Max brings up a hand to push his hair out of his face, and when he pulls it away, there's moisture on it from his eyes that he didn't realize was there at all.
Time loses meaning between the sirens, so he's not sure how long he cries after that. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour. Either way, he feels like shit because of it, and his eyes are red when the door flies open and a solider with no face drags him out of the closet by his ankle.
It's just the one guy, just like before, but he can't pull away, he's so fucking strong. Max shouts and screams as he remembers stories told over card games in their tents-- that night he made out with four packs of cigarettes and half his platoon hated him for a week-- about guys disappearing. Guys whose bodies were never found, even when they were still alive, when they could have been shipped back home.
"Ngừng hét lên! Hãy yên tĩnh!" Charlie shouts, and lets go of Max's leg once he's got him down the front stairs and out on the sidewalk, and Max has taken a couple of knocks to the head from the stairs. Sprawled out on the sidewalk, his head pounding, it's almost three full seconds before he remembers the wedge, and even with his vision blurring, he knows he's got to get to it. But he doesn't get an inch before the butt of Charlie's gun comes down on his leg, hard.
"Fuck you!" Max cries against the rough concrete of the pavement, just as another pair of boots walk into his blurry field of vision. Everything starts to go black, even as he fights it. He can't breathe and he can't think, and the world is blurring at the edges.
The boot connects with Max's side and he curls up tighter with an involuntary cry.
Private Billy Shears ate his gun the morning after the ambush.
He'd been fine two nights before, all of them telling stories from their sleeping spots, trying to forget the blisters on their feet and the aching muscles in their legs. He had a girl back home, Rose or Rita or something, and they'd all gotten so sick of him bringing her up that they'd throw their helmets at him.
Shears was going to go back and apologize for not sending enough letters home. He was going to buy her a ring.
Instead, they'd found him during his watch, slumped against a tree, the ground equal parts mud and brain and bone.
They'd all thought about it at one point, but Shears was the first guy who'd done it. The first one who'd given the goddamn war a "fuck you" that it couldn't push back against. He'd found somewhere to run that wasn't jail or Canada.
Some days, they all wanted to quit. Some days they all wanted to take the easy way out, let the world go dark and leave that fucking jungle.
Fuck, it'd be easy.
But Max thinks about Pru in that closet, and Sadie and Jojo and their music, Jude and his walls covered in charcoal sketches, and Lucy. Lucy who already lost Daniel and lost Max twice already. Who visited him every day no matter how fucked up he was or how little he talked, chasing the haze of the blue syringe.
The next time Charlie's boot swings near him to connect with his side, Max grabs it, pulling the Faceless soldier down onto the pavement with him. The other shouts words that Max doesn't understand, and he's pointing his gun, but they're tangled up and he can't get a line on Max without possibly hitting the other guy.
It should be funny, that something from late nights at Princeton, two A.M. trying to wrestle a joint from his buddy who's hogged it for about three turns now, is coming in handy, but the humor is lost as pain rings out in Max's head and in his leg and side. His hands touch metal as they struggle and his hand scrapes against the concrete.
He elbows a blank face, and in the split second that Charlie's stunned, gets a full grip on the gun and shoots.
So much of it is luck. He should be dead. He should have died back in Vietnam, he should have died back in his apartment two days ago, and the faceless soldier should have blown him away just then. Instead, he's sprawled on the pavement, blood seeping out onto the sidewalk.
Max rolls and stands, and pain shooting through his leg threatens to put him back on his ass again, but he manages to stay up.
He empties the rest of his gun into the other guy, shouting at the top of his lungs, screaming until his voice is all but gone. He doesn't even realize he's out of bullets at first, his finger cramped and wedged against the trigger, hands clenched tightly around the weapon.
The street is silent.
He's alone in the darkness.
Max wipes blood off of his face and it smears from forehead to cheek, his legs give out from under him and his stomach turns.
When he opens his eyes, the sun is out and the sky is blue, but his heart still won't slow down.
There's mud on his face and on his hands and underneath his fingernails, and he's pretty sure he needs to change his socks, but there's another three miles to go before they'll stop and rest.
There was a time that Max would've said something to lighten the mood, but the jokes all died in his mind about a mile back, when they marched past what looked a hell of a lot like somebody's foot.
"Come on, stop worrying about it. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I could go in the Army and not get shipped to anywhere. Play a lot of cards, learn how to box."
There are gonna be a hell of a lot of 'I told you so's' waiting for it when he gets home.
If he makes it home.
Sometimes he doesn't think he even remembers what home looks like.
Thirty-six hours later and Max is still sitting in a closet in some house off of Randolph street. He had to break a window to get in, but the glass is so dingy and the house so fucked up anyway, that he's sure that nobody lives there. It looks like nobody lives anywhere. Going on four days now, and the only other person he's seen is that soldier. That fucking faceless bastard that nearly shot him back in his apartment the other day.
It took Max the better part of an hour to lose him, ducking down alleys and trying to remember what the field manuals said about what you're supposed to do if you're caught without a weapon.
He doesn't want a weapon. He doesn't want to shoot one again. He won't shoot one again.
The siren comes and goes, the darkness comes and goes. Max only sleeps for maybe five minutes at a time, jerking awake in the near-darkness to sounds that only exist in his head.
He wakes and he thinks about Pru, about that day she hid from everything in that closet in the hallway. He said then that it was because she was hung up on him-- and he'd thought maybe that was the case until that noise she made that they could hear, even thought the door-- but it was never about that. Prudence did a hell of a lot of running, but that was the only time Max had ever seen her hide. And maybe this isn't really like that at all, but he can't help but feel like a fucking coward either way.
"The sun is up, the sky is blue," he mutters to himself, and it doesn't mean he's any less fucking terrified or that he finally gets up, opens the door and walks out to look for something to eat (he's fucking starving). But at least his heart stops pounding and the world stops spinning. He feels a little bit less like he's about to dry heave in the corner.
His timing's pretty good though, because just as all that stops, and the smell of ammunition starts to fade again, Max can hear the siren in the distance, signaling the oncoming dark. He comes to his feet and finally gets a good look around the closet, finding a bag of golf clubs in the corner opposite, tucked behind a few winter coats.
Max settles back into his corner, a white-knuckled grip on the handle of one of the wedges, and he waits. For the fourth night in a row, he waits.
The sliver of daylight leaking in through the crack under the door fades away, and the siren goes quiet.
He doesn't know how many more days and nights of this he can take. And at least before he shipped out, he was able to tell everybody goodbye. Does his sister even know he's gone? Shit.
"I'm so fucking sorry, Luce," he says, though he knows that the words aren't going to make it to her, that they'll just end up lost in the dark along with him. Lost like so many other parts of himself that he ended up leaving back in the jungle.
Max brings up a hand to push his hair out of his face, and when he pulls it away, there's moisture on it from his eyes that he didn't realize was there at all.
Time loses meaning between the sirens, so he's not sure how long he cries after that. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour. Either way, he feels like shit because of it, and his eyes are red when the door flies open and a solider with no face drags him out of the closet by his ankle.
It's just the one guy, just like before, but he can't pull away, he's so fucking strong. Max shouts and screams as he remembers stories told over card games in their tents-- that night he made out with four packs of cigarettes and half his platoon hated him for a week-- about guys disappearing. Guys whose bodies were never found, even when they were still alive, when they could have been shipped back home.
"Ngừng hét lên! Hãy yên tĩnh!" Charlie shouts, and lets go of Max's leg once he's got him down the front stairs and out on the sidewalk, and Max has taken a couple of knocks to the head from the stairs. Sprawled out on the sidewalk, his head pounding, it's almost three full seconds before he remembers the wedge, and even with his vision blurring, he knows he's got to get to it. But he doesn't get an inch before the butt of Charlie's gun comes down on his leg, hard.
"Fuck you!" Max cries against the rough concrete of the pavement, just as another pair of boots walk into his blurry field of vision. Everything starts to go black, even as he fights it. He can't breathe and he can't think, and the world is blurring at the edges.
The boot connects with Max's side and he curls up tighter with an involuntary cry.
Private Billy Shears ate his gun the morning after the ambush.
He'd been fine two nights before, all of them telling stories from their sleeping spots, trying to forget the blisters on their feet and the aching muscles in their legs. He had a girl back home, Rose or Rita or something, and they'd all gotten so sick of him bringing her up that they'd throw their helmets at him.
Shears was going to go back and apologize for not sending enough letters home. He was going to buy her a ring.
Instead, they'd found him during his watch, slumped against a tree, the ground equal parts mud and brain and bone.
They'd all thought about it at one point, but Shears was the first guy who'd done it. The first one who'd given the goddamn war a "fuck you" that it couldn't push back against. He'd found somewhere to run that wasn't jail or Canada.
Some days, they all wanted to quit. Some days they all wanted to take the easy way out, let the world go dark and leave that fucking jungle.
Fuck, it'd be easy.
But Max thinks about Pru in that closet, and Sadie and Jojo and their music, Jude and his walls covered in charcoal sketches, and Lucy. Lucy who already lost Daniel and lost Max twice already. Who visited him every day no matter how fucked up he was or how little he talked, chasing the haze of the blue syringe.
The next time Charlie's boot swings near him to connect with his side, Max grabs it, pulling the Faceless soldier down onto the pavement with him. The other shouts words that Max doesn't understand, and he's pointing his gun, but they're tangled up and he can't get a line on Max without possibly hitting the other guy.
It should be funny, that something from late nights at Princeton, two A.M. trying to wrestle a joint from his buddy who's hogged it for about three turns now, is coming in handy, but the humor is lost as pain rings out in Max's head and in his leg and side. His hands touch metal as they struggle and his hand scrapes against the concrete.
He elbows a blank face, and in the split second that Charlie's stunned, gets a full grip on the gun and shoots.
So much of it is luck. He should be dead. He should have died back in Vietnam, he should have died back in his apartment two days ago, and the faceless soldier should have blown him away just then. Instead, he's sprawled on the pavement, blood seeping out onto the sidewalk.
Max rolls and stands, and pain shooting through his leg threatens to put him back on his ass again, but he manages to stay up.
He empties the rest of his gun into the other guy, shouting at the top of his lungs, screaming until his voice is all but gone. He doesn't even realize he's out of bullets at first, his finger cramped and wedged against the trigger, hands clenched tightly around the weapon.
The street is silent.
He's alone in the darkness.
Max wipes blood off of his face and it smears from forehead to cheek, his legs give out from under him and his stomach turns.
When he opens his eyes, the sun is out and the sky is blue, but his heart still won't slow down.
