"Max? Max?" A knock rapped on his wooden door, but he gave no response. Though it may have been rude, Max could not be entirely blamed for ignoring his sister. At eighteen, Max was coming into his own. Unlike many of his fellow friends, he was going to graduate, even if it only meant skimming by with mostly C's and B's. His successes and failures were to be credited (or blamed) for his latest trend. Halfway through his high school sophomore year, he had taken up smoking pot.
"Max! Max! Wake up, it's dinner time." Called his sister Claire. Again, he chose not to respond. Currently, Max resided in a nest of dirtied clothes and school papers. Illustrations from previous hours of meditation lined his walls. From the closet adjacent to him toys and childhood mementoes peeped down him. Faded octopus and teddy bear faces frowned in a way of disapproval. As time wears, all children grow away from their tools that help them learn.
Finally, the door to Max's room burst open. Claire had forgone politeness to retrieve her brother. "Max it's time for Thanks-."
Halfway through her semi-lecture, Claire paused, smelling the fragrant smoke. Saying nothing, she looked to Max's illustrations as away to escape tears. She wanted to protect her brother, but she knew speaking to him would only push him away.
"Dinner's ready Max, please come down now." She said in a soft, ragged voice. Carefully, she backed out of the dark room and into the brightly lit hall, and closed the door gingerly. Max stayed where he lay, not wishing to move. He saw the disapproval in Claire's eyes, and he feared what she might say to mother. Not that mother would do anything, but Max did not like to discuss his affairs. Pot was just his way to think clearly and sort things out, his key to meditation. It was not a problem, nothing serious.
Through the smoke and the mind-numbing waves, Max found that he was able to avoid those pesky daydreams, and just lay still for a while. Ever since he was young, Max had stupid visions that kept him from being himself, from being normal. All of those fantasies he held, those other worlds, they stopped him from being in this world, and Max was fed up. Now he had many friends, people liked him, and most of all; he was not burdened by his dreams anymore.
So there he stayed, half-asleep in a protective cocoon of thoughts, clothes, and a grounded mysticism. Downstairs, Claire and his mother, Connie, sat around their dinky table, a petite banquet set up to celebrate being thankful. Off in the kitchen, Mark, Connie's husband, cut up the turkey. They were not so thankful this night. Claire choked back tears as her mother poured wine for each of them, even a little for Max if he would just come down.
"Do you know how long it has been since Max has written anything?" Asked Connie. Claire shook her head, recalling Max's excitement for storytelling.
"I'm sure he has written something." Offered Claire.
"No, I am sure he has, but he has not read anything to me." Connie said, feeling less than hungry as she scooped some mashed potatoes from her serving dish. Placing some turkey on everyone's plate, Mark took a seat.
"He's just going through a hard time." Mark suggested, not very close to Max. Instantly discrediting his words because of this, Claire turned to her mother.
"Is… Max okay?" She asked.
"Oh, he is fine I suppose. He is not sick, and he is doing okay in school, but he just is not the same." His mother said, frustrated.
"I mean… is he doing anything?" Asked Claire once more, hoping that her mother would catch what she was hinting at without having to spell it out.
"That." Answered Connie, finally catching on. "He reasoned to me it was nothing to be worried over, and I believe him. I only worry it is slowing him down."
Mark turned over his food, not wishing to be involved in this. Having smoked pot as a teen himself, he saw it as just something done occasionally with friends at parties. According to Mark, it was nothing to worry over.
"What do you mean? Are his grades slipping?" Claire asked, growing concerned.
"No, no, not at all, Max is just… not as in the clouds as much as he used to be." Explained Connie, seeing a look of confusion spread over her daughter's face, she thought to clarify, but was interrupted by Mark.
"It is for the best. Think about it, Max does not get in trouble like he used to. That boy has always needed to be brought back to Earth." He said with an unintentional insensitivity. A flame rose in Connie and Claire regardless, eager to defend their boy. Connie calmed down before she said something too rash.
"That may be, but he just is not the boy filled with wishes and questions anymore." Retorted Connie, sipping her wine. It was the end of the discussion. Small talk was made over weather and Claire's time off at college. The room felt so empty for a place so tight. Perhaps it was that neither Claire nor Connie could not help but imagine the simple wooden stools being jumped on by Max. Even though he was a teenager, they still expected half of him to run down in his wolf suit and knock things around while exploring and adventuring.
A stomping came from the stairs. The two women wanted more than anything to see Max declaring he was king again, and wished sending Max to his room could still be considered a punishment.
"Max, you're here." Greeted Connie warmly. Lines like that of tree rings mapped out in red waves the contours of where his face had met creases. Like a billowing fire, his hair stuck almost straight up in patches from the tossing and turning he had done. Through bloodshot eyes he looked at the forlorn faces at the table and felt a little resentment.
"Hey." He greeted, not wishing to say too much. Right now, he cursed his hunger. Taking a seat at the table, the equilibrium brought on by false happiness was lost, and silence reigned. The wall clock billowed loudly with its ticks, causing a great sense of discomfort and agitation.
"So how has school been?" Asked Claire, using a bit of enthusiasm she hoped would bolster the overall spirit of the room. The fork of Max dug into his porcelain plate, causing an unsightly screeching. The family dog rose and left the room, even the promise of food was outweighed by the din of the silverware. Staring down at his food, Max's mind swirled. School, school, how had school been?
"Good." Max offered, unwilling to say much else. His lack of a meaningful response had the desired effect of stumping Claire, if only for a little while. The broken family returned to taking small bites of food.
"Have you written anything lately?" Claire asked, pressing on. Max slowed his eating slightly. This was not a matter he was entirely proud of.
"No, no I haven't." He answered, feeling a bit defeated. At this point, no one was eating. Eating utensils stayed midair, swirling to fake purpose.
"What about school?" Connie asked, joining in the conversation.
"There haven't been any creative writing prompts since I was in the fourth grade." Scoffed Max. His bitter words only served to show that he had no solid excuse.
"Max, we're worried about you. Is there anything wrong?" Asked his mother. Taking it as a criticism, Max laid down his fork with enough force to cause a stir.
"What is this about? I am fine." He asserted quite angrily.
"No you are not." Mark broke in. "Your mother is very worried about you."
Mark played a dangerous game, Max hardly saw him as a father, and his words only served to push Max closer to the edge.
"Ugh, shut up Mark. Like I said, I am okay. You don't understand." Max shouted in a mixed tone. Slightly on the offensive and partially on the defensive, Max felt so outnumbered by the inquiring stares of his family.
"From what I have seen, you aren't yourself at all." Claire said, trying to sound reasonable, but coming off accusing.
"Ugh, fuck you!" Grinding his teeth, Max stood up. "Fuck all of this."
His chair slid behind him against the unruly oak floors and knocked over, hitting the wall. A couple pictures feel from where they hung, causing the frames to break and glass to crack in a startling volume. The slam of the chair frightened the dog enough for him to bark in warning. Taken aback, the small family stared on in a fearful stupor, unaware of Max's next move. Seeing the looks marring his favorite people, Max felt a wave of self-loathing and pity all at once. Backing away, he ran out the door for the second time in his life.
Gathering her wits, Connie rose.
"Max!" She yelled. "Max! Max, come back!"
Exiting the home, Max had slammed the door a couple inches from his mother's face. Sinking to the ground, his mother sobbed. All over again, she had lost her boy. Claire dialed the cops as Mark came out to comfort his wife in the living room. Nothing could ease the nerves they felt, each fearing Max would never return to them.
Panting, Max ran further and further away from the prison he had once called home. His lungs begged for mercy, but Max had none to show. Before he would stop Max wanted to be far away from his cage. Rounding fences and yards, Max found shelter in a familiar wooded area. No one would find him here. No one would look for all he knew. It was such a cold night, they would expect him back soon enough, not that he was coming. Feeling spiteful, Max ventured further into the woods.