Maxwell never had a friend to hang out with at school. Sure, everyone was nice to him, but it wasn't because they actually liked him, it was because they pitied him. "Be extra nice to Maxwell." He would hear parents whisper to their kids when they thought he wasn't listening. "He doesn't have any mom."
His lack of friends to hang out with on weekends, and the death of his mom, were the two major elements that started the practice of him going to the hospital on weekends. His dad was a surgeon, and would have Maxwell come to work with him. He would let Maxwell come in after a surgery, and look at the equipment, as long as he promised not to touch.
The shiny, silver, doodads and whatsits that his dad used for surgery weren't the things that really held his interest. It was the thick, crimson liquid that lay on the sanitary linings and coverings on the surgical table.
From a young age, Maxwell had an unhealthy fascination with blood. Wherever he saw it, he would stand, entranced, until someone made him move. One day, he told his father, "I want to me a surgeon, like you daddy."
His dad was pleased that his son wanted to follow in his footsteps, not suspecting any darker, more intentions.