I've been thinking about this one for a while. The story's pretty simple and can be summarized in five words:
Max gets addicted to cocaine.
That's all I'm saying about this. It's as canon compliant as I can make it, but I haven't any of the books past FANG so I apologize if I get stuff wrong. Consider this chapter 0 - it's really fucking short.
Pull back. The blood rushes in.
I slowly push the plunger. Flashes of tingles run up and down my arm. I hold my breath, waiting for the sweet, sweet release.
And then it hits. A tiny explosion of pleasure and happiness. Everything, and I mean everything, is pure rapture. It's a joy to be alive, to be breathing, to be experiencing this. For a few moments, happiness is the only feeling.
This is sensual. All my nerves are on fire. It feels like thousands of tiny little fingers are tiptoeing up and down my skin, tracing little patterns that no one will ever be able to replicate. For a few moments, all I can feel is content. For a few moments, all I am is bliss.
But then I open my eyes, and the feeling dims. It's more and more fleeting; each time I repeat the act I feel a little less bliss, a little less happy. And as I look at my ragged, pallid complexion, I feel light-headed.
As always, I feel a little hit of denial when I see my reflection. Surely my cheeks aren't that hollow, my eyes aren't that vacant, my hair isn't that stringy. Surely the hundreds of marks on my arms from hundreds of hard little pricks can be passed off as freckles caused by the sun.
But I know that I can't keep fooling myself. For all my delusion, I look like I am back at the School.
Except I'm not. I pull the needle from my skin, wincing as I always do. I clean it carefully, with slow, deliberate movements. It causes me to think faster, but I move slower, act slower. When I'm done I stow it carefully in crack behind the sink, knowing no one will ever check. I've kept it a secret for over a year now.
I pinch my cheeks, hard, and a sliver of pain cuts through the numbness like a sharp arrow slicing through cold air. Color returns to my cheeks, flooding the pale white with splotches of pink and red. I pull down the sleeves of my sweatshirt, covering the hundreds of little souvenirs I've collected over the months. I run a hand through my hair, and I can almost fool myself into thinking I look normal.
The words normal and Maximum Ride probably shouldn't be used in the same sentence, though.
My cracked lips curve into a smile, and I pull my hood up.
No one can ever find out my secret.
No one will ever find out my secret.
I quietly turn around, intending to pad slowly to the balcony and go for a fly. It's really late, and the Flock should be asleep, so no one will notice that one member's bed is empty. Flying is a great feeling; flying while high is simply indescribable.
Except when I turn around, I find my mother standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at me with wide brown eyes that almost nearly mirror my own.
She doesn't say anything, just stares at me. I can see the progression of emotions rushing across her face, from surprise to confusion to anger to sadness. I don't dare blink. I don't dare break this connection.
After a small eternity, she closes her eyes, turns around, and closes the door behind me. Valencia Martinez didn't say a word the whole time, but I know the question on her lips, the question running through her mind right now.
What have you done?