Chapter 11
___
Four days.
Maybe four days.
Max didn't know anymore.
He'd stopped counting after the third meal appeared and disappeared uneaten. Or was it the fourth?
Time had become elastic. Stretching. Contracting. Meaningless.
He lay on the floor. Hadn't moved in hours. Or minutes. Couldn't tell.
His body felt distant. Like something he was borrowing. Something that didn't quite belong to him anymore.
The hunger had passed. Gone beyond pain into something else. A hollow numbness.
His throat was sandpaper. Breathing hurt.
He'd tried drinking his urine again. Yesterday? Two days ago? But there wasn't enough. His body had nothing left to give.
Max closed his eyes.
Easier to keep them closed.
The darkness was the same either way.
Then—the sound.
That mechanical click.
The door.
Max's eyes opened. Or tried to. His eyelids felt heavy. Stuck.
The scraping of metal. Louder than before. Closer.
Light.
Sudden. Blinding.
Max gasped. Turned his head away. The brightness stabbed into his skull. Red behind his eyelids. White. Colors that didn't exist.
Footsteps.
Two sets. Heavy. Purposeful.
Coming toward him.
Max tried to move. Tried to push himself up.
His arms wouldn't respond properly. Shaking. Weak.
He managed to get onto his side. Then his knees.
The footsteps stopped.
Shadows in the light. Two shapes. People.
Max couldn't see their faces. The light was behind them. Too bright. His eyes couldn't adjust.
"Subject is mobile," one of them said. Male voice. Flat. Clinical.
Max lunged.
Tried to.
His body betrayed him. He fell forward. Hands barely catching himself.
One of the figures moved. Fast.
Hands grabbed Max's arms. Lifted him.
He struggled. Tried to pull away. Tried to hit, scratch, anything.
Nothing worked.
His muscles had no strength. His movements slow. Pathetic.
"Restrain him."
The second figure moved closer.
Max tried to scream. His throat produced only a rasp.
Something cold pressed against his neck.
Sharp pain exploded through his body.
Electric. Burning. Every nerve firing at once.
Max convulsed.
The world went white.
---
White ceiling.
Textured. Popcorn pattern.
Max stared at it.
The bathroom ceiling. His bathroom.
He was lying on the floor. Cold tile against his back.
His left wrist hurt.
He turned his head. Looked down.
Blood. Not much. A thin line across his wrist. Red. Bright against pale skin.
The knife lay next to him. Kitchen knife. Small. The one his mother used for vegetables.
It had hurt more than he'd expected.
He'd pressed it down. Felt the skin give way. Seen the blood well up.
Then stopped.
Couldn't do it.
Couldn't press harder. Couldn't drag it across.
He'd just... stopped.
Now he lay there. Bleeding slowly. Crying.
The house was empty.
His parents were gone. Somewhere. Fighting probably. They'd left hours ago. Screaming at each other all the way to the car.
Max closed his eyes.
Maybe if he just stayed here. Maybe if he just—
The front door opened.
Footsteps. Fast. Running.
"Max?"
The bathroom door burst open.
His friend—Daniel. From school.
Daniel saw him. Saw the blood. Saw the knife.
"What the fuck—" Daniel dropped to his knees beside Max. Grabbed his wrist. "What did you do?"
"Leave me alone."
"Shut up." Daniel pressed his hand against the cut. "Where are your parents?"
"Not here."
"Of course they're not." Daniel looked around frantically. "Towel. Where's a towel?"
Max pointed weakly at the rack.
Daniel grabbed it. Wrapped it around Max's wrist. Pressed hard.
"It's not deep," Daniel said. More to himself than to Max. "It's not deep. You're okay. You're okay."
"I'm not."
"You are." Daniel kept pressure on the wrist. "Why would you do this?"
Max didn't answer.
"Max."
"I can't do this anymore."
"Do what?"
"Any of it. Them. This house. Everything."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "So you were just going to—what? End it?"
"Yes."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Max laughed. Bitter. Broken. "Probably."
"Definitely." Daniel checked the towel. The bleeding was slowing. "You think this solves anything?"
"It stops it."
"It doesn't stop anything. It just ends. That's different."
Max closed his eyes again. "I don't care."
"Well I care." Daniel's voice cracked slightly. "I care, okay? And I'm not letting you do this."
"You can't stop me."
"I literally just did."
They sat there. Daniel holding Max's wrist. Max staring at the ceiling.
"Your parents are shit," Daniel said finally. "Everyone knows that. But you don't have to be like them."
"I'm not like them."
"Exactly. So don't let them win." Daniel shifted position. "You get out of here. Eventually. You go somewhere else. You live your own life. But you can't do any of that if you're dead."
"What if I don't want to live?"
"Too bad. You have to anyway."
"Why?"
"Because—" Daniel struggled for words. "Because there's more. More than this. More than them. You just can't see it yet."
Max opened his eyes. Looked at his friend.
Daniel's face was tight. Scared. Angry.
"Promise me," Daniel said. "Promise me you'll live."
"Daniel—"
"Promise me."
Max's throat tightened. "I can't—"
"Yes you can. Promise me. Say it."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "I'll live."
"Say it again."
"I'll live."
Daniel nodded. "Good. Remember that."
---
◆
---
Max's eyes opened.
Darkness.
The black room.
His body ached. Every muscle. The residual burn of electricity still present in his nerves.
He was lying on the floor again. Same position as before.
Or different position. He couldn't tell.
The door was closed. The light gone.
How long had he been unconscious?
Max tried to move. His body responded sluggishly but it responded.
They'd fed him. While he was out.
He could feel it. Fullness in his stomach. Liquid in his throat.
He'd been unconscious and they'd—
Done what? IV? Tube feeding?
Didn't matter.
He was alive.
Still here.
Still in this room.
Max touched his head. The stitches were still there. Maybe new ones. Hard to tell.
His wrist—the old scar from years ago—throbbed slightly. Phantom pain. Or real pain. Everything hurt now.
Promise me you'll live.
Daniel's voice. Fifteen years ago. A lifetime ago.
Max's hands clenched into fists.
His breath came faster.
"I'm going to escape," he whispered.
The darkness absorbed his words.
He said it again. Louder.
"I'm going to escape."
His voice cracked. Rough from disuse. From screaming. From everything.
"I'm going to live."
The silence pressed back.
But Max kept talking. To himself. To Daniel. To whoever was listening.
"I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to live."
He didn't know if it was true.
Didn't know if it was possible.
But he said it anyway.
Again.
And again.
Until his voice gave out.
---
◆