Chapter Text
Max was such a fucking moron.
He was a self-destructive screw-up who should have known better than to put himself in such a dangerous spot. He was careless, foolishly handing out keys to his neglected little heart, letting in the world while vehemently pretending otherwise. He was cynical enough to see the futility in hoping, but stupid enough to eagerly blind himself to it. He ignored his better judgement and tread too far into blissful uncertainty, and now that he found himself paying the price, he had no one to blame but himself.
These were the things looping through whatever callously detached piece of Max’s consciousness remained as he had the bravery knocked out of him once again. He’d somehow let himself forget what it felt like to be brave. It fucking sucked.
All it took was one comment out of place, one modicum of disrespect before the wrong set of ears, until he was forcibly reminded. His father’s fist fell again, and all Max could think was, this is what you get. Three months out of the heat, and any self-preservative instinct you had is out the window.
This is what you get.
----
Max sat in his room, curled up and shaking beneath the covers on his bed, playing out the day in his mind. It had begun normally. His parents worked, leaving him alone with some comic books he’d conned from a convenience store until the afternoon. When the jostling of keys sounded from outside the front door, said books quickly found the underside of Max’s bed, lest he be caught indulging himself in prohibited forms of entertainment. His mother arrived home about an hour before his father. She didn’t greet her son as she shucked her work jacket and heels, beyond a disinterested glance to confirm his presence on the living room couch, opting instead to make her way to her special kitchen drawer for a little something to “unwind” with. Max didn’t care enough to peek at which illicit vice she’d chosen for today, but the rattling of a pill bottle as she slunk to the bedroom and closed the door behind her indicated something sedating and long-lasting.
Sighing, Max hopped off the couch and returned to his own room to continue his reading, assuming he’d have time to once again disappear his comic whenever he heard the front door signal his father’s arrival.
Perhaps he’d been too confident in his ability to remain attentive to the sounds of the apartment, because once he hit the good part of the story, the world was gone to him. He lay on his stomach on the floor, bringing the book closer to his widening eyes as the plot twisted before him. By the time his bedroom door flew open, it was too late to hide anything, and Max had no choice but to fling to his feet and meet his father’s furious gaze.
“You little shit, why didn’t you answer me?”
Great. Clearly he’d come home angry; there was no chance now for a confrontation-free evening. Max cursed in his head, but aloud he only said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you...”
Apologies never sounded sincere coming from Max, but he and his father both knew this was a scripted game. As long as he said and did what he was supposed to say and do, he’d be fine. Nevertheless, his father narrowed his eyes at Max’s noncommittal tone.
“Your bitch mom is already high off her ass, without even starting dinner. I don’t have the patience for any attitude today.”
Max flinched at his father’s overt resentment for his mother. As often as he’d been privy to it over his ten years, he couldn’t help the darkening of his expression any more than he could help his protectiveness over his nonviolent parent. Perhaps no child is born without even an ounce of love for their parents, and Max’s needed direction; it was his curse that “nonviolent” to him meant “deserving of love”.
Of course, Max’s father interpreted his child’s sullen glare as some of that “attitude” he hadn’t the patience for. Max realized this as he watched his father take a step forward, but before his transgression could be broached, his father cast his eyes to the ground, where the comic book still lay.
Shit!
“Max.”
Shit, shit, shit!!
“... Yeah?” Max took a step backwards to match his father’s approach.
“Where did you get that?” Christ, that look in his eye screamed ‘danger’. He had to tread carefully. He had to divert blame. Max’s eyes involuntarily flicked between his father’s face and his hands clenching at his sides as he advanced.
“I found it on the ground outside the convenience store, when you sent me off to buy milk the other day,” Max swallowed, knowing how to weave in enough of the truth to skirt suspicion. Unfortunately, his father was not in a mood to be placated.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, kid. You either bought that trash with my money, or you stole it like the little thug you are.” Max’s retreat was halted by the wall behind him. He knew there was a chance he could get the man off his back if he doubled down. He was great at telling stories, a master manipulator. What those goddamn angelic councilors and teachers saw as his primary flaw, he considered a means for survival. He could have built a solid story to justify his panicked lie, enough of a cover to absorb his father’s ire. He was incredibly practiced at defusing the man in front of him, and if he could just calm down, it would come so naturally to him.
But as his father’s shadow fell over him, his only thought was, why should I have to?
Only a week before, at that godforsaken summer camp, his manipulative streak had been met with an unexpected kind of reverence; his boldness and his maturity inspired respect; his searing intelligence was a source of pride, not just from himself, but from the people around him! Why were the parts of himself that endeared him to those other campers and councilors the things that needed to be hidden? In his own home? From his own parents?
For the first time, Max felt that the truth was in order. And before he could convince himself otherwise, he let it slip.
“I didn’t buy it,” he began, “but I didn’t steal it either. The cashier kept a bunch of change from the old man in line ahead of me. He probably owed the guy like thirty bucks back but only handed him a five and some change, and pocketed the rest. The old dude left without noticing, and I threatened to call the guy back and tell him, or the police. He let me take the comics, provided I keep quiet. It was a fair trade.”
Max’s confession was met with silence. He couldn’t tell if it was from disbelief or if his father was simply stunned to see him not backing down. He opened his mouth to defend his actions a bit more, but only ended up biting down hard on his tongue when his father’s closed fist slammed into the side of his face. He fell to the floor clutching his cheek and tasting blood.
“You disgraceful little bastard!” His father roared. “You have the audacity to brag to me about that like it’s something to be proud of!? Do you need another lesson on proper behavior!?”
Max stared up at the looming figure of a rage-filled man, weary from work and looking for a fight. He knew there was one way out of this, and it took a long moment to fully acknowledge it. Apologize! Apologize, you idiot!
Instead, Max stood. He crossed his arms, raised his chin, and set a demeaning glare upon his father, spitting “I’m not sure a guy who hits his kid when he’s feeling small is qualified to give lessons on proper behavior.”
Civility was hopeless now. And so was hope.
Hope that Max might be seen, heard, respected. Hope that the world wasn’t truly as cruel as he’d remembered it being every single day before summer camp began three months ago.
It took only ten minutes to cow him.
His mother dozed apathetically in the other room. His father soon left, rubbing his knuckles and cursing under his breath. Max stayed huddled there on the carpet for some time before dragging himself to his bed and letting the tears finally fall.
----
As midnight quietly passed, Max eased open his bedroom door and peeked in all directions. The apartment was silent and still, save for the subtle swaying of the floor beneath him, indicating what he assumed to be a symptom of head trauma. He slowly made his way to the kitchen, careful not to stagger into and break anything in the dark.
It took longer than he would’ve liked to reach the kitchen bar, and even longer to pull himself onto a stool without slipping off like a drunk. His stomach gurgled impatiently – he hadn’t had a chance to eat before encouraging his father’s wrath – so he grabbed a banana from a bowl on the counter. He hated the things, but it was probably the safest food to eat without waking anyone. A bag of chips or even an apple would draw far too much attention, and while he didn’t think he could be justifiably beaten for enjoying an apple in the kitchen, he wasn’t about to risk it.
As he peeled the banana his eyes caught a glinting on the counter to his right. The green numbers glowing on the microwave clock, reflected in the screen of his mother’s cellphone.
A cellphone. Max gazed at it wistfully, wracking his brain for a magic phone number to make this hell disappear. 911? Hell-to-the-fucking-no. Max had no interest in getting the cops involved. It would ultimately be far worse of a headache for him than the one he now suffered. If he was even taken seriously, he’d be fed to the state. CPS and their bullshit foster factory couldn’t possibly stomach an older-than-his-years wiseass like Max. And he knew for-fucking-sure that he couldn’t handle their condescension and artificial compassion.
But who else was there? Any family he had outside of his parents lived in India, and any adults he knew from his parents were just as fucked-up in the head as them. Peers or teachers from school? Like hell they’d care enough to lift a finger. Even the kids he’d grown close to at Camp Campbell lived too far away to be able to reasonably help him. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think they deserved to be sucked into his family drama, not when they had their own to deal with.
He needed an out. An “exit” option, one that wouldn’t ask him if he was sure he wanted to leave before he pushed that big red X. Max prided himself on his ability to survive independently. Even if it was a role he’d been forced into from the time he could fucking walk, at least he knew he could take care of himself. And right now, knowing he couldn’t get out of this on his own, he craved an escape that he could meet fully on his own terms.
Unfortunately, as a brown-skinned ten-year-old victim of abuse and neglect, the universe didn’t work that way for him. And although he knew he was being foolish, thinking of him as anything but a potential temporary stop on his trip out of the deepest goddamn pit of hell, his vision blurred slightly as a gullible, idiotic, and unbearably kind red-haired man and his big cheesy smile came to mind.
Out of options and desperately aching for a glimpse of genuine kindness, despite his prideful self-insistence to the contrary, his fingers closed around the cellphone, and he limped back to his room to find a particular phone number.