Max was just two-years-old when he's first removed by social services. He's never told why.
He remembered being hungry and cold. He remembered darkened streets and the dim glow of street lamps, hundreds of people rushing past him day after day, hurried voices and white faces.
He didn't remember much of the lady he assumed was his mother who he'd sit with, couldn't even gather a clear picture of her face in his mind. All he had of her was the fading sensation of kind hands on his back and the lingering comfort of her whispers of Hindi by his ear, a language he never got the chance to learn.
Max was adopted quickly; all cute, quiet kids are, especially by rich families who want to parade people like Max around for the praise of taking on some poverty stricken, coloured child out of the goodness of their Christian hearts.
Or at least, this was what Max came to realise after spending the majority of the first part of his childhood with such a family. The Marshes.
There was his adoptive-mother, Martha Marsh, who had been the one to pick out the name 'Max' for him, Eric Marsh, Max's spoiled, snot-nosed adoptive-sibling, and Randy Marsh, his adoptive-father.
Max didn't see Randy much for the first five or so years living with the family, the man working away from home. Not that his presence would have made much difference: Martha ensured Max learnt very early on he wasn't a part of their family, that Eric was the only son she'd ever validate as her own. She stayed on Eric's side no matter how much he bullied Max, broke his things and excluded him from games with him and his friends.
The constant exclusion left Max snappy and defensive, which only rewarded him with more time sat in a cupboard under the stairs for hours on end, slaps around the face and constant chores.
"Such a horrid child, " became Martha's favourite tag line.
And, because children become what they are told, Max became exactly what he was said to be. A horrid child.
Things went downhill when Randy lost his job. He went from barely being around to never not. He started drinking. Shortly after, arguments over Randy's lack of employment began between the married couple. Already, the scene was painted for a worse scenario.
Max was still haunted by the day everything took a turn for the worse. He had been in 3rd Grade. He took the bus home like usual, Eric and his friends sat behind him, throwing bits of paper and broken pencils and pens at him. They were making fun of the colour of his skin. It was nothing new.
Max and Eric went home, Martha greeting Eric with kisses that he protested whilst Max retreated to his room, ignored. He went to pull out his Game Boy from under his pillow, finding it was missing. Anger bubbled in his stomach and he marched downstairs to find Eric and demand where he'd hidden it.
He found his brother at the kitchen table, said Game Boy in his hands. Randy was there too, sat at the table, zoned out expression on his face as he smoked.
Cigarettes weren't allowed in the house, but Max didn't say anything, more concerned about getting his Game Boy back so he could finish Pokémon.
"Give it back," demanded Max, to the point.
"Fuck off, Max." Eric didn't even look up, continuing to click the game's buttons.
At the curse word, Max looked to Randy, but the man didn't seem to even acknowledge it, just blowing smoke through his nose, staring at the ceiling.
"Eric, it's not yours!" Max attempted to swipe it back.
Eric smirked, smacking Max's hands with the device before moving it out of reach. "Is now, retard. Started a new game too."
Max clutched his hand, anger swelling uglier. "Dude, why the fuck would you do that? I'd almost finished the last gym! That's not fair!"
"Shut it, will you?" slurred Randy, interrupting Max's whining.
"But it's mine!" continued Max, now directing his yelling at his drunk, adoptive-father, getting more upset. "He has his own! He's-"
Randy stood up, chair scraping on the tiled floor. A rough hand forced Max around and winded him as Randy shoved the child forward into table with a sneer.
Max didn't understand what he'd done wrong or what was happening until the lit cigarette in between Randy's teeth was burning a hole against the skin of his arm, the look of loathing on Randy's face sending chills deeper than the pain of the hot ash.
Max cried out in frightened confusion, Randy's maliciousness rearing from nothing. Even Eric looked scared, going silent.
There was a gasp at the doorway and Randy flinched in surprise and released him. It was Martha, she had just witnessed what had happened and Max had never been so relieved to see his mom in his entire life.
Her horrified expression morphed to fury. "How dare you-"
Max ran forward, held out his arms to her, tears streaking his face, wanting to be held and comforted and protected. Martha seemed be coming towards him too, but as soon as Max's hands contacted the front of her dress, he was shoved away.
She rushed over in favour to Eric, the golden child, who was still sat gormlessly clutching Max's Game Boy in his hands.
"How dare you do that in front of our son!"
The next day Martha and Eric were packed up and gone, leaving behind nothing but furniture, some old textbooks and Randy's growing collection of empty liquor bottles- oh, and Max. Max was left behind too.
Randy had friends over, Max could tell because of the noise coming from the living room situated directly below his own.
Pressing his ear against the floor, he listened to try and make out just how many they were. Max's stomach growled and he pressed a hand into his abdomen, his hunger becoming harder to ignore with each passing hour. He hadn't eaten now in two whole days.
Max decided he couldn't take the waiting any longer, convinced he was going to pass out if he continued to deprive himself of food.
He sneaked down the stairs, carefully placing both of his feet on each step one after the other, missing the seventh step entirely due to its creak. He held his breath as his stomach rumbled, pausing and listening. The chatter from the living room remained the same. He let his socked feet slide along the wooden floor of the hall.
He peeked around the corner of the living room, thinking he'd gotten away with it as he began to sneak past before-
"Who's that?" slurred a strange man, gesturing to the doorway where Max thought he had successfully hidden.
Randy looked over, his eyes narrowing at the sight.
"Max, come here," said Randy, setting down his can.
Max shifted into the room, hands curling into fists. He forced himself to look Randy in the eyes as he stood up and came towards him. The strange man was still watching him, the rest of the room's attention following now he was inside.
"I thought I told you to stay in your room, boy," Randy sounded drunk, irate.
"I've been in my room all day, I'm only going to the kitchen 'cause I'm fucking hungry and you won't feed me," Max argued back, adrenaline pumping high due to all the eyes on him.
"Is that how you speak to your father? Disrespect me in front of my friends?" Randy's nostrils flared. His big hands gripped Max and shook him so violently that his brain felt like it was mushing against the insides of his skull.
"Get off!" Max was disoriented, giving a kick to Randy's shin before he tried to wriggle away. "You aren't my fucking dad!"
Randy grunted at the sting of Max's kick, throwing him down onto the floor in retaliation. "You're right there, boy, you're no son of mine," he said, grabbing a fistful of the overgrown mop of hair on Max's head.
Max could hear Randy's friends laugh and jeer, a few taunts being thrown the child's way as Max tried futilely to escape. A carpet burn stung Max's arm from how he'd landed on the floor, the horrid yank to his hair causing him to cry out in pain, which only made the laughter worse.
"I said get the fuck off me, asshole!" screamed Max. He was dragged down the corridor by his hair, to Randy's study where he knew what was waiting for him. His chest constricted and tears burned in his eyes- he never went down without a fight.
"I'm gonna teach you some fucking manners."
Randy dragged Max kicking and screaming to his study where he held him over his lap.
It was unpleasant, but Max had endured worse at his hands, squeezing his eyes tight as Randy whipped out his drunken rage against Max's naked backside.
His breathing was laboured once he'd decided Max had had enough, Randy pushing the child off and telling him to get back to his room. He dropped his belt back onto his desk with a thunk.
Max pulled up his pants and scurried away upstairs like he was told, clutching his bruised behind in his hands and holding in his tears as best he could until he reached his bedroom, shutting the door and crying quietly into his pillow until his frustration and fear subsided.
He looked down at the tear-stained pillow case in disgust when all was done and finished, turning it over so he didn't have to see it. Crying was for pussies and little girls.
It hurt when Max moved to sit up, but he stayed silent, knowing the worst pain was yet to come, either in day two or three of healing. He pushed a hand down the back of the elasticated waist to gingerly brush against the marks, bringing it back out to inspect for blood.
Max was lucky; Randy hadn't broken the skin this time.
He pushed his hand against his stomach to try and curb the hunger still there, it almost balanced out by how his butt burned painfully.
The door began to open and Max froze, shifting himself backwards until his back was against the wall.
His eyes widened.
It was the strange man. The one who'd alluded to his presence in the first place and gained Randy's attention.
Max gave his best, murderous look. "The bathroom's down the hall, so fuck off."
The man, to his surprise, smiled and shook his head. "I didn't come up here to use the bathroom," he said like it was obvious. "I came here to give you this." He held out a paper bag, Max able to make out the bright yellow arches across the front of it through the dying bulb of his light. McDonald's.
Max stared.
"You mind if I come in?"
Max shrugged.
The strange man came over and sat himself down on the edge of Max's bed, curling an index finger and gesturing for Max to come closer.
He did, shifting on his sore bottom towards the stranger so he could take the bag, too delirious with hunger not to. He ripped it open under the stranger's watchful gaze, delighted to find a double cheeseburger and fries.
Max dug in, taking three big bites of the burgers followed by a handful of fries. He hummed in appreciation, the taste sweeter than anything he could possibly recall eating, grease stuck to the corners of his mouth as he chowed down the mess of melted cheese and beefy goodness.
Max stopped eating when he felt a hand in his hair, jerking his head away and shooting his gaze in the man's direction. He'd momentarily forgotten his presence. "What?" he snapped around his current mouthful.
The strange man's smile wavered. "Is that any way to treat someone who's just bought you food?"
Max swallowed. "I didn't ask you to."
"But you took it, didn't you?" he replied. "Wouldn't want me telling Randy downstairs you're being a rude little boy again, would we?"
"You think he scares me?" lied Max, scowling. He dropped the unfinished burger, screwed up the McDonald's wrapper and threw it in the man's face. "Get out my room, old man."
He shook his head, still smiling. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Whatever, creep, get your-" Max cut off, colouring draining from his face. The strange man had produced a knife.
The older pressed the flat of the metal against fabric of his pyjamas. "I did something for you," he said, calm, "it's only right you return the favour."
Max swallowed, the taste of grease in his mouth suddenly not so sweet. He looked down at the frightening blade in between his legs and back up at the assailant invading his bed. He seemed to tower over him now.
Max didn't have anything clever to say.
"Go on," leered the man. "Take them off."
Max's cheeks burned as he discarded his pyjama bottoms.
