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There are five stages of grief.
More than that, actually, if Max’s memory serves her right; that’s not a guarantee these days. She used to be able to recall things so clearly, view memories like films in her mind’s eye, but since the storm- since then, she’s lucky if she can call forth a hazy recollection of what she had for breakfast.
And yet she can hear the gunshot ringing in her ears, take in the coppery scent of freshly spilled blood wafting in the poorly ventilated girl’s room as if time has been holding its breath for a year.
Anyways. Five stages.
Denial. Stepping over the bleeding corpse that wasn’t Chloe, couldn’t be, slipping into the hallway after Nathan fled and before David arrived on the scene. Wandering pale and faceless through the courtyard. Refreshing Chloe’s social media. The confusion when an ambulance pulled onto school property without the dramatic blaring of lights and sirens.
Anger. Anger at Nathan. At Jefferson. At herself. At Chloe. Smashing her camera to pieces over the floor of her dorm room, stomping on the plastic bits that wouldn’t come apart. Stewing in her own self-hatred while she watched Joyce and David decide which flowers would adorn their only daughter’s casket.
Bargaining. She wasn’t even sure who she was pleading with; she’d given up on God after moving to Seattle, and none of those new-age movements cropping up around the city had ever drawn her in, but she still caught herself making promises to some unnamed deity in exchange for something. She’d start going to church again, or become a better person, or… or something. Nothing would bring Chloe back, she wasn’t that delusional, but couldn’t something be done about the constant aching in her chest? The heavy bags underneath Joyce’s eyes?
Depression. The twenty pounds she’d shed in the months following the shooting. Kate Marsh slipping notes underneath her door on the days when she couldn’t muster the strength to leave her bed. Matthew 11:28. You’re loved. Here if you need me. Her parents calling the school to perform a wellness check because she couldn’t be bothered to text them back. Breaking her clean streak.
Acceptance.
She thinks this might be what acceptance feels like.
“You my two o’clock?”
The woman’s voice isn’t familiar, but her appearance is; long hair with closely shaved sides, more tattoos covering her body than bare skin, a red flannel covering a homemade t-shirt that reads “fuck capitalism”. Chloe would’ve liked her.
Max nods, rising from the tattered leather couch in the “waiting room”- a section of the main space sectioned off by a patterned bed sheet- and grabs her bag from the floor, slinging it over her shoulder. The woman introduces herself as Cassidy, invites Max to take a seat on a folding metal chair that’s clearly seen better days, and takes a cool cloth to her forearm before carefully measuring a pre-cut stencil to the skin just below her elbow.
“With the detailed ones I usually try to go bigger,” Cassidy explains, pressing the paper against Max’s skin, “gives me more space to work with. But this one’s not too bad.”
She expertly peels away the paper, leaving a blue ink print in its place. “That good? I can move it if you want.”
Max peers down at the stencil and nods. She knows herself well enough to realize she’ll chicken out if Cassidy wipes it off.
“Cool,” Cassidy grins warmly. “You ever get a tattoo before? The pain isn’t too bad if you’ve got a tolerance built up.”
She shakes her head “no”, but the pain of the tattoo itself hasn’t even crossed her mind. It can’t possibly be worse than anything she’s felt in the past.
A past that never happened, riddled with needles and gunshots and the breathless screams of teenagers trapped underneath buildings that wouldn’t budge.
Besides, if the descriptions she’s searched online are at all accurate, it feels like someone pushing into your skin with a razor. That’s familiar enough.
“I can shut up if you want me to,” Cassidy says sheepishly as she rummages through her station, ripping Max from her train of thought. “Been told I talk too much.”
“Oh, no, sorry,” Max’s own voice sounds foreign; aside from Joyce and the occasional chat with Kate through the door of her dorm room, she hasn’t been much good for conversation these days. Mumbling and nodding have gotten her by just fine.
“You from around here? Don’t get me wrong, but you don’t seem like an L.A. girl.”
She shakes her head, careful to keep her body still as Cassidy examines the finer edges of the stencil. “I’m from Oregon. Arcadia Bay.”
“No shit, I know a girl from up there. Steph something?”
The name rings a bell, but Max just shrugs her shoulders.
“Isn’t that where that teacher got arrested or something?”
It isn’t Cassidy’s fault, but the knot in Max’s chest tightens and constricts at her words.
“Yeah. He was my photography teacher.”
She doesn’t mention anything about being held captive in a bunker or watching his protege murder her best friend in cold blood, but the tremor in her voice must say enough; Cassidy gives her a solemn look before turning back to her station, affixing a sterile needle to the gun.
“You ready? Comfortable?”
She doesn’t even have her ears pierced. It feels like she should be way more nervous about permanent body modification.
But she glances down at the stencil once more, taking in the intricate billowing of the sails and the splintered woodwork of the ship itself. She sees Chloe’s name etched carefully into the bow.
Pirates were her favorite.
“Yeah.” Max breathes. “I’m ready.”