Work Text:
Oscar had started crying. He could hear it, he could always hear it, because of how their whole house was made of, like, cardboard or something. And his brother was loud. “Like a pterodactyl,” was what Grandpa always said. Max wished he went extinct with all the other dinosaurs.
Grandpa gave him a stern look. “You don't mean that.” His eyes weren't angry, but the skull on his worn-out shirt was. It was wrinkled and stained and Max could feel every bit of fire coming from its glare. He glared right back. Grandpa was too dumb to realize that it wasn't him Max was staring at, it was his shirt.
Grandpa clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Max,” he sighed, voice as strong and tired as the rest of him, “Why dontcha play outside for a sec while I take care of Ozzy?”
He was always telling him to go outside. “A kid like you can't breathe in this matchbox.” Grandpa had taken out a small, flimsy box that might have been white sixty years ago, but was now stained with age. It was the same vomit-brown of their kitchen walls. All of the safety matches were still inside because “I was the only one of my buddies who didn’t smoke.” Grandpa said he didn’t like the taste, which was stupid because all the beer he drank was way worse than cigarettes. Max never bothered to correct him. He’d just get yelled at.
Outside wasn't much better because whenever he was told to go out it just meant sit on the porch and be quiet. There wasn't anything to do. He'd already peeled all the paint off the railings and torn all the weeds out of the yard and stomped on anthills and thrown rocks at anything that was close enough to hit. From inside the house, Oscar wailed again and Max really wished he had a rock right about then. A neighbor's car drove by; rusted and grey with a broken muffler that made Dad's eye twitch. Puffs of smoke trailed out the end of it.
He didn't know why he started following the thing, it just sort of happened. The car shook as it drove, assaulted by all the shitty gravel that they had instead of actual pavement. There were sidewalks. Thin, cracked, ugly sidewalks that sometimes stopped in the middle of the grass for no reason. No one bothered to ride their bikes on them because of how many people had eaten shit from tripping on all the roots that grew through them. No one except for him. Until Grandpa made him wear a helmet and guards on his knees and elbows because Max kept getting torn up every time he went on his bike.
“I look stupid with this shit on,” he said. Grandpa agreed. “Yes you do, but you're safe.” Max rolled his eyes and tore off his knee guards. “And don't say shit,” Grandpa added. “Fuck this shit,” Max said out loud because no one was there to hear him except the gravel and a dead opossum lying on the other side of the road. He grabbed a handful of rocks and tried to hit its corpse. Most of them landed too far away but one stone hit the thing straight in the eye. The opossum flinched, full of life for just a millisecond, but then flopped right back down. Dead. Max continued down the road
—
St. Rowan was a lot bigger than everyone thought it was. When they heard the name they mostly thought of the big houses with their big driveways and even bigger trees, all squished together into neighborhoods that felt like the corn mazes Dad brought him to.
That's not all there was, though. Max lived in the other part with chain-link fences instead of wrought-iron gates. The houses were much more flat and spread out, like his, where you wouldn't see any of his neighbors from the porch. It was supposed to be nice. It was supposed to be quiet. The large, open grass they had in the back wasn't enough to make up for his brother.
Why’d they even get that fucker, anyway? Wasn't Max enough? He'd heard Dad and Grandpa's late-night conversations in the kitchen when everyone else was supposed to be asleep. They would talk about work and soccer and The War and Mom and while he didn't understand most of it, he could always hear how tired both of them sounded.
“I can pick up a job again.”
“Don't do that, Al.”
“What, am I not allowed to help out my family?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Scotty?”
“It's just…you're…”
“Old.”
“Don't say it like that.”
“No, you're right. I'm old and weak and I couldn't possibly fend for myself.”
“That's not—”
“Exactly! See, I knew we could come to an agreement.”
“You've worked enough for one lifetime.”
“I won't have worked enough until my family’s comfortable.”
“We are comfortable.”
“You're barely keepin’ the lights on.”
“I just need to pick up more shifts.”
“Your son needs a father.” That shut him right up. Max couldn't see them, but he knew Dad was looking absently at his hands. “Maggie can't do it all.”
“Please don't bring her into this.”
“Why not? She's my daughter.”
“She's my wife.”
“And you vowed to take care of her.” Dad sighed and rubbed his hands over his face—it was extra loud because of how dry and calloused his skin was. One of the kitchen chairs scraped against the floor. The grunt that followed it couldn't have belonged to anyone else but Grandpa. “Nothing can stop me from taking care of my family.” Bottles clinking…the sink running water… “I'm gonna crash.” That was Max's sign to scramble back to his room. Grandpa used to sleep on the couch, but his back had gotten so bad that they had to move a spare mattress into Max's room. He couldn't stand the snoring.
Sometimes when it sounded like he was choking on a chainsaw, Max crept out of his room and slid out the front door. He would usually roll around in the grass or mess with a neighbor's dog that was always chained up outside. He never went far, especially at night. He'd heard enough stories of things creeping in the woods, both from Grandpa and Mom. But today was different. Today the sun was shining high in the sky, killing any shadows that might’ve been lurking around St. Rowan, and so Max made the decision to walk into the woods.
The trees were massive, like the redwoods in California that his teacher was talking about last week. All they got in St. Rowan was stupid oaks, and not even the cool, twisty ones that turned into dense forests. It was just dead grass and crushed acorns and a few hundred trees scattered around. The least this stupid fucking town could give him was a forest that was fun.
What did he even do to deserve all this? A baby dinosaur for a brother, a Grandpa who teased and snored and had a gut the size of the moon, a dad that was always too tired to pick him up, and Mom…well Max thought she cried more than Oscar did but she was at least nice enough to do it quietly. He could always tell when it happened because she'd stay in her room for hours and then come out with her eyes looking like they'd been scribbled all over with red marker. She'd take Oscar from Grandpa and muster up a smile and then she'd see Max sitting on the couch after he'd finished playing outside and her face would wrinkle up. Grandpa would usher him into the bathroom to take a bath.
“Your momma doesn't like it when things get dirty,” he'd explain. Max would stare into the water. “But I was just sitting.”
Max could get as dirty as he wanted without any of them around. Just to prove a point, he flopped onto the grass and rolled around, covering his arms and legs and face in dirt. Like a worm. Filthy. Wriggling on the ground. Fuck you, Mom! She wouldn't ever let him back into the house if she saw how dirty he was. He liked that. The woods were where he belonged. No Mom, no Dad, no dinosaurs. Just him, alone.
—
People who were scared of the dark were stupid. It was just…well it was just dark. What was there to be scared of? Monsters weren't real. They were stories to keep him inside and out of trouble because apparently, that's all he knew how to do.
“I just don't understand,” Mom had said. Dad was there too. It was during the day that time, but Max still wasn't supposed to be listening. He was grounded. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing, Maggie.”
“He's so angry all the time.”
“He's definitely got a temper.”
“He hurt that little boy, Scott.” Max sneered. Charlie…little Charlie. That freak. They were on the soccer team together and Charlie wouldn't leave him the fuck alone, so he made Charlie leave him alone, bloody nose and all. Mom freaked out which was dumb. It's not like Max broke anything.
“I don't know what to do with him.” She said it so sadly. “I don't know.”
Max wanted to tell her that she could shove a stick up her ass. Grandpa said it a lot, mostly on the road when everyone was either moving too fast or too slow (the only speed that was good enough was the speed that he was going).
Why did he have to be the one with the problem? It was always you're too loud or too mouthy or too messy and never Sorry for being an annoying idiot! He was the fuck up and everyone else was fucking perfect all the fucking time.
Something in the distance rustled a bush, causing Max to sit up from where he lay in the dirt. The trees started to whisper…shhhhhhhh…shhhhhhhhhhhh…he was left out of their secrets. Being afraid of the dark was stupid and Max wasn't stupid no matter what his teachers thought. It would've been better for them if he stayed in the woods and got eaten by a bear…but he was hungry and it was cold and he left his jacket at home…
Oh what the hell. He jumped to his feet and began stomping back through the woods, using the twinkly stars as his guide.
One night Grandpa took them all out, out of their matchbox and into the large, inky world. They drove to a field that was a few miles behind their neighborhood and then laid out in the truck bed. It’d taken a lot of convincing to get Mom to go through with it. She thought it was too cold and also four months pregnant but Grandpa just said that was “Bullshit.” Dad never argued with either of them. He brought a blanket so Mom could curl up in his arms like they used to do on the couch a long time ago. Max squeezed himself in between them and Grandpa. They all looked at the stars together.
They all seemed so bright that night, but they paled in comparison to the headlights of his Dad’s truck.
He dragged his feet to the passenger door. His Dad looked halfway between ripping the wheel off and passing out. “Why?” he said in a raspy whisper. It could’ve had a gazillion meanings: Why did you run off? Why can’t you stay put? Why are you like this? Max crossed his arms. “I dunno.” Because who the fuck even cared? He thought it would’ve brought them more relief. Just one less thing to worry about.
“Max, you can’t just—” Dad’s hands unstuck themselves from the wheel and gestured toward the sky. He wasn’t being selfish for once, why couldn’t anyone else see that? “I can’t go outside?”
Dad sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” There was a subtle you know that’s not what I meant underneath his words that just pissed him off more. “You could’ve gotten lost or hurt, or something.” His hands went right back to white knuckling the wheel. Not turning the key because…well, who even knew why? Max was tempted to crawl over and just stomp on the gas, though he was sure that wouldn’t go over too well. He looked out the window instead. “Who cares?”
Dad finally turned to look at him, expression as unreadable as it always does, voice betraying any ambiguity he had. “I care, Grandpa cares…your Mom cares.” Max knew he should’ve stopped himself from snorting. He might not’ve been the smartest kid, but he was pretty sure caring was usually more than just saying good morning and feeding him. “She’s going through a lot, bud.”
Ugh! Max hit his fists against his legs. “Everyone always says that!” She was always sad or tired or sick so he wasn’t allowed to complain about anything. He just wanted her to chill out for once so she could read to him in bed or something.
Dad didn’t have anything else to say. He turned the key and backed up, bringing them right back down the gravel road that made it feel like his brain was rattling around in his head every time the wheels grinded against it. “Just give her a break, okay?” Give her a break?! He'd rather break his fucking arm! As soon as she started coming out of her room and reading to him before bed or at least kissing him on the cheek before she tucked him in he'd start giving her a break.
But Max didn’t want to argue with his Dad because that always just made his stomach hurt. There was no winning with him, or losing. Just weird silences that would last for days. Max huffed. “Okay…” The car continued bumping down the road.
—
Grandpa was leaning against the front gate as they pulled in, a dark brown bottle dangling from his fingers. He smelled awful when Max got close enough to catch a sour whiff. Grandpa clapped a hand in his shoulder that he tried not to shake off even though it was way too heavy and way too mad. “Glad to have you back, Maxy.” Max had to keep his mouth shut now that he was out of the woods. No Whatevers or Shut ups or Fuck yous…but that didn’t mean he couldn't push past Grandpa and shove the door open like “some entitled punk.” He wished their house had a second floor so he could stomp up the stairs. Stomping to his room would have to do.
“Max!” Dad called after him. Mom was sitting on the couch scribbling in her journal and she picked her head up. Red, angry circles lined her eyes. He slammed the door to his room before she could say anything.
There was a small cough from the other side of the wall. Oscar. That fucking piece of shit. Max bit his pillow and screamed. They should've been mad at Oscar, not him. Oscar was louder and needed more attention and Mom couldn't ever leave him alone because of some stupid shit called SIDS that honestly didn't seem like such a big deal. It was just Maxwell Maxwell Maxwell Maxwell.
The door opened. “Get out,” he said, like his words had any power in this goddamn life. There was a sigh and something sunk into the mattress beside him. Mom placed a hand on his back and rubbed it, causing unwanted tears to prick at the corners of his eyes. What a baby! She shushed him.
Max flipped over and scooted away, hugging his knees close to his chest. Mom's hand was still floating in the air. She only let it fall back down because there was a crease in his blanket that needed to be smoothed out. “Do you want to talk?” Her voice went up an octave at the end of her sentence like every question she asked, as if making herself smaller and quieter would save her from any retaliation. She sounded like a mouse. Max preferred rats.
He turned his head, refusing to satisfy her with an answer. Mom sighed. If his room were any colder, wimpy ghosts would've drifted from her mouth. “Maxwell…”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t mean that, honey.”
He jumped off his bed. “Yes I do!” The pillow had gone with him and in a split second, he launched it at his Mom’s head. It missed. “I fucking hate you and dad and Grandpa and Oscar and I wish I was dead so I wouldn’t have to see you ever again!” He knew as soon as he said it that he fucked up. His mom’s eyes got big and terrified, like when she had seen a car crash into their neighbor’s house, and her hands turned spidery and shaky.
She looked at the pillow on the ground, nails scraping at her cuticles, and then back at Max. He was huffing and puffing. He could feel his shoulders rising to his ears like a wolf, preparing to blow an ugly pig’s house down.
But Mom wasn’t ugly or a pig. She was a mouse. A tiny, little mouse caught in a trap. And it wasn’t one of those no-kill ones either. Her neck was snapped.
He was the one who put the cheese on the trap. He was the one who set it in the garage. He was the hammer that sprung up when she put her little paws on it. He killed her. He killed his mom.
And for a second, just a blink of a second, he was happy about it because he wanted her gone gone gone so he could just go off and live with the shadows in the woods.
But tears pricked her eyes. Mice couldn’t cry, especially not dead ones and she was alive and he should’ve been the one that was gone, not just because he wanted to be but because he’d hurt Mama and who knows if she’d ever get better.
Oscar was no longer crying. They were completely silent, in fact, not even letting out a cough. There was nobody else to blame. Just Max.