Hello Dearest Penguin People.
If you’re still with me on Chapter 3, thank you :)
For those who missed the beginning you can start here.
CHAPTER THREE
Max sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine. Beauty, its own type of freak show, left Max numb. But still she sympathized, one misfit to another.
Her foster mother, Jill, and the woman from Social Services were speaking in the living room. There had been so many social workers over the years that Max had given up remembering their names. She called this one Number Five. The walls were thin, and the women seated on the couch made no effort to lower their voices.
“I don’t see any reason for Max to be removed from my care. She only fainted the one time, and I haven’t heard her complain since.”
Number Five’s voice was tired, plodding. “She will get progressively worse. All tests point to a rapid deterioration.”
Max continued to flip through the pages. Haunted eyes followed her.
Jill coughed, a dry rattle in her chest. Max heard the tap of a cigarette on an ashtray. “It figures. I barely see her, and when I do, she’s talking to that imaginary friend of hers. How am I going to find another kid like that?”
Max heard the abrupt thump of a coffee mug on an end table. She was surprised at the level of irritation in Number Five’s voice. “Is that all you can say? Max has been in your care for two years. You must feel something.”
Jill gave an exasperated laugh. “You’d prefer a flood of tears? What good would that do? I can’t save her, and neither can you.”
“A little compassion wouldn’t hurt.”
“Look, Max is a smart kid, too smart if you ask me. Other children certainly don’t know what to make of her.”
“You could have given her some guidance.”
Jill coughed again. A weary silence filled the apartment. When Jill finally spoke, her voice seemed distant. “Max understands that life is unfair, and so should you.”
Max heard Number Five mutter, “Unbelievable,” followed by the angry jangle of keys. A door creaked on reluctant hinges.
“I’ll be here tomorrow morning. Please have her bags packed.”
Slam.
Max stopped flipping pages. She was going to the hospital tomorrow. There had to be a mistake.
A chill fell on the room. The clock on the wall stopped ticking.
“Sebastian?”
No answer.
The air danced and pricked her skin with tiny needles.
“Who’s there?”
Cool, mist-laden fingers stroked the back of her neck. ‘Tis us. Soon, shiny one, you’ll remember. And if you don’t… so tasty.
Max clamped her hands over her ears.
So rude, you are.
The grays shuffled through the magazine, methodically turning pages until they found a picture of a woman, too perfect to be true, her eyes sewn shut with violet threads.
“What is this?” Max whispered.
The sutures burst and bled down the woman’s cheeks. A flood of snow dust spiders spilled from empty sockets, covering the page.
Max slammed her hands down to stem the flood, icy legs writhing under her fingers.
The pat of bare feet on worn carpet broke the spell. Jill poked her head in Max’s room. It was a bare space with sterile white walls. The only color came from the vibrant flicker of pages as Max hunched over the magazine like a baby vulture. Jill swayed on her feet and ran nicotine-stained fingers through her hair. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Max turned a page.
“You heard the social worker?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Then we’re good. I expect you to be ready by eight.” Jill turned to leave and then hesitated by the door. Her voice was a shade softer. “Do you need anything?”
Max shook her head. She saw relief in those lost eyes and went back to the mindless flipping of pages. It wasn’t like Jill had any clue as to what Max needed.
“Well, alright then.” Jill closed the door and shuffled back to the living room.
******
That night, Max stared at the ceiling. School had sucked. Mrs. Hall had assigned more homework, the horrendous “What do I want to be when I grow up?” She turned it in early at the end of the day, face down on her teacher’s desk. Mrs. Hall had turned it over and stared at the two words scrawled across the center – “Not dead.”
“Max,” she whispered, reaching for her hand.
But Max had already headed for the door as quickly as her limp would allow. Perhaps her answer had been cruel. It wasn’t her teacher’s fault but she was tired of having no one to blame.
As she lay in bed, she willed the tears to come, but failed. Because as everyone knows, monsters don’t cry. They get even.
When sleep finally came, she found no comfort in its shadowy halls. Instead, the magazine came back. It chased her on little rat feet, nipping at her heels. As she ran, her anger grew. She slid to a stop and slammed the snarling magazine against a wall. Max’s face leered from the cover; her lips sewn shut and her eyes reduced to shriveled lumps of coal.
She knelt on a cold stone floor. “That’s not me,” she said to the darkness.
The darkness reached back. Liar.
Something crawled on her hand. She brought it up to her face. A white tarantula with ruby eyes stared back. Its fur gleamed in shades of opal and moonlit pearl. She caressed its back with maternal fingers. “Hello, my sweet,” she whispered. The patter of a thousand legs filled the darkness as the hallway overflowed in a sea of red eyes.
Remember, yet?
Max’s lips brushed the spider’s back.
A door opened, as they often do in dreams. She glanced behind her at the shimmering horde. “Shall we go?”
She strode out into sunlight, a noble woman, spiders wrapped around her like a crystalline sheath. She stood on a hill. Below her, men with torches set fields ablaze, the sounds of far-off screams caressing her ears. Smoke filled her lungs with acrid sweetness. She breathed deep until her chest burned and then exhaled through clenched teeth. A solitary ember floated and danced its way onto her bare arm. She flicked it away with long elegant fingers splattered with blood.
A soldier, clad in leather and iron, made his way up the hill toward her. He removed his helmet to reveal a haggard face smudged with ashes. “We burned the crops as you asked. There’s nothing left.”
“The village stands.”
He looked at the ground, twisting the helmet in his fingers. “And if we let it remain? Mercy might serve you.”
“You question me? Do you think you mean more to me than they do?”
“No, Lady Keres.” He trudged down the hill.
She raised her arms in a triumphant arc, taking it all in, the screams, the smoke, the bodies on the ground.
Then a whir and a thud as an arrow found its way into her heart. She fell to her knees, clutching her chest.
Her loyal servant stood at the bottom of the hill, bow still in hand.
Max heard Keres’ last thoughts as she hurtled toward the darkness. “Oh crap, not again.”
If you have the inclination…
Or…
Very interesting, indeed!
Beautiful writing, as always. Poor Max.