Chapter Text
Others had it worse, the mantra she repeated to herself over and over.
She thought It wasn't that bad. She was always telling herself that anyway.
Well… it didn't
start
off bad, you know? It never will. But these things always spiral.
They.
Always. Fucking. Spiral
.
At first, it was a once-in-a-while thing. No big deal, right? wrong.
Every few months, she got too tired and couldn't bother to leave her bed and missed one or two plans that had been made. That's fine. But months turned into weeks, and weeks turned into days, and then she practically never hung out with the Party.
And it wasn't like she didn't wanna hang out, because she did. She really did.
It was just too hard. Once you miss a few days, it feels like you're out of place, and then getting back feels impossible. You lose your once oh-so-close connection. A few inside jokes. Other, bigger plans. That stuff. You know?
They never tried on their end anyway, so maybe it was mutual, but that didn't stop her from feeling selfish. Those were her friends, couldn't she just try a bit harder?
Anyway, The only person she even stayed a bit close with was Eleven. El understood her, listened to her, and made it feel like everything was good again. Max had used El as a crutch for so long. But like everyone she's ever loved, Eleven was gone now, and so was Will, halfway across the country in fact, leaving Max to be alone and rot away with everything else in that dumpster fire they call a town.
She liked to think the Party would understand. Obviously, they'd all gone through things beyond human imagination. But they don't understand. They really, really don't. No matter how hard they try.
That leads, somewhat, to her new habit. A habit that started off “not that bad” too, but of course, just like before, it always spirals.
She didn't like to call it self-harm. To her, it was just “the thing I do sometimes.”
It started off as one small cut below her wrist, just to try it out.
It helps some people, maybe it can help me. Was what she had foolishly thought
But after that she had decided right then and there to never do it again. It hurt. How the fuck does this help people?
But later, after a bad night of nightmares and crying and missing her long-gone friends, she had her fuck it moment and did it more, right below the small white scar from her first time. The next morning, she would regret it. But then it became a cycle: cry, cut, regret. Rinse and fucking repeat.
And now, like many before, Max had woken up. regretting all of it. Some days, she wonders if it would’ve been different if El was still here, maybe if she hadn’t left with Will, if she hadn’t moved halfway across the country. But she did. And now Max is alone. She shook off the thought and went back to the task at hand—or, well, arm.
Lucky for Max, she was a self-proclaimed first aid pro (she was not even close to that).
But of course, her luck runs out. She's mid-cleaning last night's
activity
and for a moment, just a moment, it feels like time comes to a halt- like she's in another universe. It's nice. But as if she had of jinxed it, max was proven wrong, hearing her mothers voice-
“Max honey, you have to go soon!” rings throughout the house, scaring the shit out of her and even worse, making her hand slip and dig right into a fresh scab. ouch.
“Shit…” drops out of her mouth as she hisses in pain, watching the blood bead up on her pale skin. She quickly wraps up her arm in bandage and gauze, gets dressed (if you can even call what she did that), and speeds to her bus stop, praying that there's a free seat with no one next to her.
There isn't. She's sat next to a boy who breathes louder than a fucking pig . Why does this always happen to me?
School was the same as always: homeroom, class (pray not to get called on), missing a lesson to talk to a school counselor or whatever the fuck you wanna call them, break (avoid the boys at all costs—if they try to speak to you, even if unlikely, be sarcastic or uninterested and walk off), more classes, lunch, usually skipping last period and going home. It was her routine, and she (somewhat) enjoyed it.
Today was different though. At lunch, her worst nightmare (not really ) became true, as a certain stalker boy tapped her on the shoulder. creepy much?
“Hey, Max, can- can I talk with you?” he said, with so much kindness in his voice. Oh god, how she missed it.
“For sure… yeah,” she said, just to turn, roll her eyes, and start walking away—only to have her wrist grabbed,
fuck, it hurt
, by the taller boy, who was not letting go when she was trying her best to hold back a wince of pain as she screwed up her face.
“This—” he began, but then she cut him off.
“OW— I— can you please let go?” the ginger said, looking at her wrist, praying this wouldn't give her away.
Lucas looked at her funny, let go, and replied, “This is serious, I need to talk to you. and we need to talk about what just happened there.” awh fuck. “I was barely holding on—it shouldn't have hurt. Are you okay? Are you injured?”
Her breath hitched and her stomach dropped. Suddenly everything had felt cold, her hands felt clammy and she wanted to throw up.
God, if you're real, strike me down right now.
Lucas has always been too observational for his own good. And now she was about to start crying in front of him. She had to leave. So Max had done what she knew best. Run away, she ran and ran till she couldnt, till her calves burned and her throat felt like sandpaper, blindly to wherever this took her. Max knew it wasn't “smart,” whatever that meant. But she needed an escape, that whole situation made it feel just a bit too real.
So now she was sitting at one of the shorter ledges of the quarry, tear stained puffy eyes, mud all over her trousers and shoes, not even a clue of the time and a mind filled with thoughts.