It was cold. This time of year often was.
But usually, it didn't snow. Not yet, anyways. Usually, at this time of year, it was still a few degrees above freezing.
This year, however, a thin layer of purity had already coated the ground.
A boy walked. As he did so, his dark teal locks bounced slightly. His hands were stuck in the pockets of his navy jeans, and he shuddered slightly from the chilliness that his black blazer and white v-neck did nothing against. The snow under his feet softly crunched with each step he took. His large, rimmed plastic glasses fogged slightly every now and then from his breath.
In the small, cozy space between his forearm and his body were two bouquets of crimson roses. Each bouquet held exactly seven vibrant blooms. Clear plastic wrap protectively embraced the flowers and their viridian leaves and stalks, and a black ribbon was tied at the bottom of both arrangements.
The boy had already made his way across the city that was so familiar to him, despite the fact that the last time he had been here was last year. He was cutting through the length of a familiar public park that was currently devoid of very many people. A few couples wandered the area, though, and each one held onto their partner's gloved hand with one of their own. Trees, benches, street lights, and paths were littered around the park.
Unlike the couples, the boy walked alone, left only to his own thoughts.
A few minutes later, he'd reached the other side of the park. The establishment right next door to it was his goal, and as he passed the tall black gates, he felt a sense of quiet and solemn peace pervade his body.
He knew this place well, too.
After all, he'd already been here every year for nine years in a row now, hadn't he?
Near the sides of the almost eerily quiet establishment, somber, tall trees grew in all their glory. Right now, however, in the wintertime, their leaves were devoid of any greenery. A thin blanket of white was sprawled across the flat land. Winding trails of footsteps through the white told him that there had already been other people here since last night, when it had fallen. The snow was beautiful, and added some sort of wonderland feel to the place. The only spots that had defied the substance were the upright rock headstones. Sometimes, they were majestic white crosses, instead. Either way, the markers filled the land and the marked land seemed to endlessly stretch.
Despite the size of the cemetery, by now, the boy had already memorized the exact way to his destination. It wasn't as if it was too difficult, though. His destination lay only a few hundred yards from the entrance.
His parents had prematurely bought the space for their then family of four. Despite the fact that he and his parents now lived in Los Angeles, California, they had kept the space in Newtown's St. Rose Cemetery, deciding that it was going to be in Connecticut where they were going to eventually be buried. He knew that his parents had assumed that they were going to be the first ones to occupy that space, and before their children – after all, it was the logical conclusion, wasn't it?
They hadn't expected their daughter to have been the first to go.
The boy quickly crossed the remaining distance.
He counted off the rows as he walked. Once he reached twenty-three, he turned right into the rows of tombstones. He began walking again, this time counting to only seven.
A few seconds later, he arrived.
His pace slowed, and eventually, stopped. He silently stood on a spot that was equidistance from the two marble tombstones in front of him. He took off his glasses, folded the legs, and shoved them into his blazer pocket. Emotions began running through him.
Heartbreak. Devastation. Grief.
Love.
They threatened to tow him under, despite the fact that his tears and feelings for this whole ordeal should've ran dry years ago.
He first turned his attention to the grave to his right. "Hey, May," he began quietly. "It's me. Max. I'm here again… It's already been a year. Have you missed me?"
There was no response, though he hadn't exactly been expecting one.
Max sighed. "It's already been ten years. Can you believe it? We've come back here, to Newtown, every year… just to visit you. Well, except, this year, it's just me. Mom and Dad had to stay in L.A. this year because of something business-related." He smiled softly. "The edible floral arrangement business is really taking off. Obviously, we dedicated it to you… because it combines two of your favorite things. And besides… they say time heals all wounds, but honestly, around this time of year... they're still as upset as ever. They try to put up a front, but I can tell.
"I'm fifteen, now. You'd be seventeen, May. I'm a freshman this year… you'd be a junior. You'd be stressing over your ACTs, and you'd be taking APs, and you'd be falling in love like every other high school girl." He paused to chuckle softly. "To be honest, I don't know if I'm supposed to be talking to you like if you were seven, or if you were seventeen. But… you'd love L.A. Everybody's really nice, and… everything's just really, really nice. You'd love it. There's glamor and famous people everywhere."
Max felt the tears begin to prick at his eyes, though he tried desperately to fight them off.
"I… we miss you. A lot. It's already been ten years, but people still know about the shooting. Sometimes, one of my friends find out that I used to go to Sandy Hook… and then they'd eventually figure out that I had a sister who was one of the victims. And then they'd… they'd look at me with… these eyes that… that just scream sympathy, you know? But... it's not empathy. They'd never understand, as long as it doesn't happen to them."
Max paused. When he spoke again, it was slow. "And it sounds sick, it sounds twisted... and obviously, I definitely don't want a repeat of what happened… but sometimes, I wish it would happen again somewhere, just so I can have somebody my age to talk to about it... somebody who understands, you know? All our old friends… I drifted from all our old friends from Sandy Hook after we moved to L.A. After all, as you know, we just couldn't stand being here anymore. Everything reminded us too much of you."
Max rubbed his eyes. He wasn't surprised to find that they were now laced with moisture. He tried his best to hold back a sob, but it escaped anyways, and the strangled sound pierced the still silence.
He felt a few beads of warmth trail down the length of his cheeks, and by that time, he'd already given up on trying to repress any physical indication of his emotions. He smiled softly and crouched down.
"I brought roses again this year," he said, his voice now steadier and slightly calmer. "After ten years, I don't know if you've gotten sick of them yet or not, but they were your favorite when you… when you were seven. So… that's all we have to go off on," he murmured, taking one of the bouquets and gently laying them down in front of May's tombstone.
The beauty of the flowers was heartrending against the white snow.
In the same movement, Max then lifted his hand to gently touch the marble tombstone with his palm. He read the inscription on the rock, despite the fact that he had already memorized the words a long, long time ago.
"Here lies May Maple
May 17th, 2005 – December 14th, 2012
Beloved daughter, devoted sister, cherished friend, and ball of light.
The good die young,
And May was nothing less than an angel."
He read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
With each mental reading, more tears rolled down his cheek and landed on the plastic wrap of the roses beneath him as the memories began flooding back.
The day had started off normal as ever – his father was reading the newspaper, his mother had been frying the pancakes, and he was at the dining table, eating and ready to head out the door well before May.
It was going to be just another day of kindergarten. Most children would've dulled at the thought, but Max was different – he quite enjoyed learning. His teacher was nice, too, and he didn't understand why his classmates weren't as enthusiastic about the education aspect of school as him. There was so much in the world to learn and explore that he could hardly contain himself…
When May had bounded down the steps in all of her 7-year-old glory, she was a bit breathless and frazzled, because according to her, nobody had waken her up on time. Max had rolled his eyes and matter-of-factly stated that she was such a hopelessly heavy sleeper that even her alarm clock had given up on her. May had responded by childishly sticking out her tongue and proceeded to grab the remaining half of his pancake from his plate, to which Max had loudly protested against. Norman looked up from his newspaper, a smile curving his lips. Caroline had come over to chastise May for her rude behavior, and Max for his mocking.
Max smiled bitterly. His childhood memories of before that time had been beautiful, untainted. He only wished that, at the time, he had treasured them for what they were really worth.
He rose from his position in front of May's grave and moved over to the one beside hers. It was very similar to his sister's in construction, and the format of the inscription was similar as well. Despite the fact that he had already memorized those words as well, as Max looked down at them, they still cut him every bit as sharply as reading his sister's grave again had been.
"Here lies Drew Hayden
Beloved son, cherished friend, mature well beyond his years, and talented young prodigy.
March 6th, 2005 – December 14th, 2012
With his young, premature leave,
The world is not the better one it would've been."
"Hey, Drew," murmured Max. "I don't know if you've heard from me talking to May, but, well… it's been a year since I've last been here, again. You know, biologically, you weren't my brother, but… you might as well been."
With a sigh, he crouched down in front of Drew's tombstone in much the same way as he had in front of May's.
"Your parents are fine. From what I've seen, they're coping better and better with time. They still love you so much, though… in L.A., they still live next door to us, like how they used to here in Newtown. Sometimes, I can still hear your mom crying at night. And she says your name… and then, for the rest of the night, I can't sleep, because all I'm thinking about is that day, and you, and May…"
Max sucked in a sharp breath.
After breakfast, he and May had put on their backpacks, waved "bye" to their parents, headed out the front door, and shut it behind them.
It was chilly outside, although still not in dire need of thick winter coats – perhaps about forty degrees Fahrenheit. The day was overcast with a few clouds, and a nice breeze was blowing.
"Drew!" May had exclaimed, quickly hurrying down their front steps to throw her arms around the green-haired boy who had casually been waiting for them.
"Drew!" echoed Max, eagerly running down the steps as well, grinning widely.
"Hey, guys," Drew had said, returning May's hug.
After a few moments, they let go, and Drew turned to give Max a high-five, which the five-year-old had eagerly accepted.
"Let's go."
They then headed to school, May happily skipping and joking with Drew. Max walked between them, and they included him in the conversation.
As next door neighbors, that had been their daily routine. Walk to school together everyday, walk back from school everyday.
The walk to school had been like any other day.
Happy.
"If you'd made it to high school, Drew, I know you'd be popular. At the time, I didn't care, but I still know you'd be what girls call 'cute' and 'attractive'." Max chuckled. "By now, you definitely would've had dates and at least a couple of girlfriends… that is, if you weren't dating my sister. Our parents always thought you two would get together," he remarked matter-of-factly. "And, looking back, I agree."
Max then gently set the other bouquet of roses down in front of Drew's grave.
"You gave her roses," he whispered. "They were few and somewhat far in-between, but it didn't take a genius to know what they meant. Lucky for you, at the time, May was far from one." Max smiled ruefully. "She would've fallen for you eventually, once her hormones had time to develop. I would've approved, too… You were our best friend, after all."
The next thing Max remembered of that day was the beginning of the horror.
His class had been engaged in a colorful story narrated by his teacher about a kitty and its search for its lost ball of yarn when, in her pocket, his teacher's phone had lit up and violently buzzed.
Confused, she had abruptly halted the story and muttered, "That's strange, I left it on for just emergencies… Excuse me, class."
Her students were silent as she flipped open the phone, tapped the screen, and seemed to read something. In the next ten seconds, Max watched as her pretty young face morphed from confusion to shock to dread. The color of her face was rapidly paling, and she began trembling.
"What is it, Ms. Arnar?" wondered Tim, one of Max's classmates, aloud.
"Class, we're having a lockdown," said Ms. Arnar, quickly flipping shut her phone and immediately making her way over to the door. The students watched as she hastily shut the propped-open door and locked it. "Go under your desks, and be absolutely silent."
The students had all immediately obliged, some viewing the mysterious situation with morbid solemnity and others still seeing it with the kind of insincere naivety only children can have. Max had been one of the former.
Before he would cross the room to under his desk, though, Max decided to go up to Ms. Arnar and ask her, "Ms. Arnar, what's going on?"
His teacher was clearly flustered as she looked down at Max with wide, terrified eyes. The sight had discomforted Max; something bad must've been happening. She seemed to pause for a moment, as if debating whether or not to tell Max.
After what seemed like forever, she finally responded, "Max, the first grade classrooms were attacked by a gunman. The rest of the school is on lockdown as we're trying to stop him," she murmured soothingly, comfortingly brushing the back of Max's head with her fingers. "Go back to your desk. The other adults are taking care of this as we speak."
In a trance, Max had made his way back to the safety of his wooden desk. As he crouched in a fetal position under it, Ms. Arnar's words rang in his mind.
"Max, the first grade classrooms were attacked by a gunman. The rest of the school is on lockdown as we're trying to stop him."
"Max, the first grade classrooms were attacked by a gunman…"
"First grade classrooms… attacked… gunman."
Max paled. He began sweating. His entire body began convulsing violently.
May.
Drew.
They were…
No. They were fine. The gunman hadn't actually let any shots fire, or killed anybody. That stuff only happened in the movies that his parents didn't let him watch… right?
Max attempted to console himself in as many ways as he could. Drew could defend himself, he was strong… last summer, he had easily beaten Max in a playful fight. And May was Max's sister, and any sister of his is able to take care of themselves against some gunman…right?
Max allowed his naive explanations to lull him into a false sense of security. For the time being, he was not worried about himself. His classroom was still quiet, and the door had not been busted down.
Though...
... If he listened, and listened hard, he could hear the sound of an automatic firearm firing and the screams of its victims.
The tears came like a waterfall now. Max didn't make the effort to stop them, either.
Every year, he came back to this town, this graveyard, this specific spot.
And every year, he forced himself to relive that day.
Max stayed there, under his desk, in his fetal position, for what seemed like forever. He became so consumed by his own five-year-old thoughts that Ms. Arnar actually had to gently shake him to get him to return to reality.
Max assumed that Ms. Arnar had received some sort of notification on her phone that it was safe now, because after retrieving Max from his own horrors, she gingerly and cautiously opened the classroom door. She peered out in the hallway and propped the door open to meet another adult. He was a tall man, and he was clad in a black uniform with a cap and badges that Max recognized very well. He was a policeman, and there was no trace of relief or happiness on his face.
He whispered something to Ms. Arnar, and Max watched once more as his teacher's face paled. This time, however, was different, as tears began leaking from the corner of her eyes. Before he knew it, Max's teacher was openly sobbing.
"C-claire… Max… Jason… Ashley… Kaitlyn… c-could you all…c'mere an'…follow this man…please?" she made out between sobs.
Discouraged by her reaction, Max had obliged and willingly made his way up to her and the policeman. Four of his classmates trailed him.
His mind blanked. For the next minute or so, Max Maple was completely devoid of emotion or thoughts as he followed the policeman through the hallway, along with his classmates. His eyes were trained on the tall backside of the policeman, the utility of weapons slung around his waist.
He wondered where the grownup was taking them.
He, the policeman, and his four classmates walked in silence until they were on the outskirts of the school atrium. Suddenly, there was a happy cry from Jason, the boy next to him, of, "Daddy!" Max watched as the blonde ran over to his father, who was standing in the middle of the said atrium. The man's face was ashen, his eyes seemed red, and tears were freely running down his cheek. When Jason reached him, the man shakily engulfed his son in a sobbing hug.
Confused by this turn of events, Max wondered if his own parents were there, and he turned to search for them. A few feet over from Jason's father was Max's own mother. She, however, seemed to be in some sort of trance. She was frozen, her face was pale, and her bottom lip trembled. She didn't even notice Max until he shuffled up to her side and poked her a few times. Finally, she looked down at Max, and he could see the unshed tears threatening to leak from her eyes. Then, in much the same way as Jason's father had done to Jason, Max's mother bent down and hugged Max close to her, strangled whimpers and "thank God"s escaping from her mouth.
Max was worried. He'd never seen his mother cry before.
That was when Max turned his head to the side and looked down the corridor leading to the first grade classroom.
He immediately regretted his decision. Max's stomach dropped and he suddenly felt excruciatingly sick.
Down the hallway were splatters of blood, destruction… students' artwork had been ripped from the walls and the pieces were scattered on the floor. In horror, Max realized that there were unmoving bodies riddled with crimson spots lying on the floor. Even more sickening was that he recognized some of the bodies as some of the teachers… and a few children…
Max wanted to look away.
But he couldn't.
He was paralyzed.
He'd caught a glimpse of one of the first grade classrooms, the one that had its door ajar. The once-happy room had now laden down with a terrible, somber cloud. It wasn't difficult to see why. From what he could see, in random places across the room, lifeless children had laid on the ground in unnatural poses. Large, bright red spots were painted onto each bodies' clothes.
Max realized that each large crimson mark symbolized a bullet hole.
Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, locks of green hair on the distant floor made themselves noticed to Max. He couldn't see the rest of the body, as it was hidden behind a chair.
Max's world came to a screeching halt as he tried to comprehend the meaning. No.
No.
NO!
"DREW!" screamed Max hysterically.
He was about to run to the hair, he wanted to confirm that his worst nightmare wasn't true.
He suddenly wanted to puke.
His legs couldn't stop shaking.
So he made a run for it.
To the classroom.
After he wrestled himself out of his mother's arms, he was too fast for anybody to have gotten in his way, though he heard the scuffing and shuffling of police officers who had attempted to. His short journey to the classroom's doorway was straightforward, yet the corpses around him were certainly disturbing. Upon entering the room, he stopped short when he had gone no more than six inches past the doorframe.
He froze.
To his right, fifteen yards away, a female adult – the teacher – laid as still as all the other smaller ones... smaller ones of which there were at least two dozen, and they seemed to have been placed randomly throughout the room. Posters on the walls bore holes, the room was a mess…
Tears were now streaming down five-year-old Max's face. He didn't even notice the footsteps that were coming from behind him and quickly advancing.
"Son, don't move yet-" said a husky, male voice. Max suddenly felt a firm pressure on both of his triceps, which he assumed belonged to the voice's, which he assumed belonged to a policeman.
"LET ME GO!" shrieked Max, squirming and trying to force the hands away.
He succeeded after a particularly violent maneuver, and before anybody else could do anything about it, he darted the fastest his little legs could to the green hair. He crossed the carpeted floor, jumped over a fallen chair, and avoided the other bodies in his path the best he could, trying his best not to look at them.
A few short moments later, he halted. His felt his entire being and soul freeze.
There was Drew.
On the floor.
With at least half a dozen large crimson spots all over his purple t-shirt.
His eyes were closed, his hair was a mess, he was on his back, but his face was calm and serene… Max's shocked eyes wandered to the deceased boy's arms, and found that even though he was... dead, they still loosely clasped another hand in his fingers.
He slowly followed the other hand to the arm, and from the arm to the light blue blouse riddled with large spots of red, the navy skirt… and eventually, up to the face, the brown hair, the familiar red bandanna.
Time stopped. Max couldn't believe his eyes.
No. That wasn't the boy who lived next door to him.
No. That wasn't the girl who was - no, is - his sister.
The unmoving, lifeless, shot corpses weren't Drew or May. They couldn't be. It was… it was someone else... two other first graders who just happened to look exactly like his sister and his best friend.
But it was.
It was naive and idiotic to maintain otherwise.
Max screamed.
What happened after that was a blur. It seemed that after that, he had presumably passed out. He'd woken up a few minutes later in the warm embrace of his mother, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. She breathed a "thank God" as Max came to consciousness again in her arms, but the sobbing continued. Max joined her.
That day, he didn't think there had been anything to thank God for.
Max exhaled a shaky, shuddering sigh. "You guys had so much to live for… There was so much we were going to do. Everything… everything the three of us promised to do later in life… travel the world, fall in love… create the first real Pokemon." Max chuckled softly at the last one. "Dreams that ended way too early… along with everything else that could've been."
Swallowing, Max stood up. A glance at his watch told him that it was starting to get late.
"…We miss you guys every single day… and it still hurts to think about you two. We hope you know that. And it still hurts every day… and… wherever you guys are, I hope both of you are doing well."
Max took a moment to gather his composure. He waited until his tears dried, his heartbeat slowed, and his face cooled. A minute later, he took out his glasses again and returned them to his face. He began walking away, but stopped after a few steps. He turned around and faced the two graves again.
"I love you both," he whispered. With that, he resumed his trek back.
On his way out of the cemetery, in the unnaturally warm breeze that had suddenly picked up, Max could've sworn he heard the faint, angelic, bell-like sound of his sister's laughter and the low melody of his best friend's quiet chuckle.
-*-fin-*-
I think it's pretty explanatory. This is my tribute to the incident in Newtown, Connecticut, with a little bit of Contestshipping/Max twist.
I did my research the best I could. There really is a cemetery in Newtown called St. Rose, the weather that day is accurate, most of the victims were first graders, etc. My apologies for any law/procedural inconsistencies.
Rest in peace, you twenty wonderful children. Thank you for what you did for all the others, you six sacrificing adults. Adam Lanza.. I don't know what made you do it, but who am I to judge you (without even knowing your entire story)? Even If I never learn your entire story, then I still won't spend the rest of my life detesting a person that may have just been misunderstood.
Reviews are much appreciated. :)
-Apheleia