Max's room shared a wall with the bathroom, and whenever someone used the shower stall at the far end, she could hear the water running through the pipes. It had been on for over thirty minutes, keeping her tossing and turning in bed at 2AM, and it was starting to get on her nerves.
Whoever the fuck that is, they're taking one hell of a long shower.
Ten minutes later she could still hear it, and it was driving her irrationally mad. Her anger gave her the energy to get out of bed and march down the hall to give them a piece of her mind. She opened her door to find the word "DYKE" spray-painted in red on the door across from hers. Victoria's door. After a moment of shadenfreude Max felt bad. She didn't deserve that.
Thick steam condensed onto Max's cool hands and face as she entered the showers. "Isn't there a drought or something?" Max paused for a response but got none. "You've been in there for half an hour. If you're not clean by now you're not ever gonna be." Still no answer.
Max eyed the sink and thought of how Victoria had interrupted her first Blackwell shower. She walked past the sinks toward the shower, turning each Hot faucet all the way on. Shame this building is so old, she thought devilishly. But the expected scream didn't come. A few seconds later and still no scream, just a rock starting to form in Max's stomach. She brushed it off. Maybe Smauel fixed the plumbing. Maybe somebody left it running as a joke. Maybe...
The cold, clammy air from the shower hit her as she walked toward the curtain. No way anybody's in there. "I'm coming in."
She threw the shower curtain aside but it wasn't empty. Victoria's body sat in the stall corner, nude, unmoving, and deathly pale save a few streaks of red leading up to a deep red cut in her thigh.
There was no more blood coming out of the wound, no way she was still alive, but Max knelt down and reached out to her anyways, ignoring the droplets of water that splashed around her. The moment her skin touched the body she felt an electric jolt, and then she found herself coming to in the clearing in the woods behind Blackwell.
Holy shit!
That wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't some PTSD flashback. It was a vision, like the ones she'd had the week with Chloe. It's going to happen. Victoria is going to die. Unless I do something about it.
She pushed her horror and shock aside as best she could. I need to remember details. It was night. There was the slur on Vic's door. No idea what date it was. I would have noticed if the posters had changed a lot right? So it's probably soon. Shit.
Her mind turned to the part she could recall most clearly. The image of Victoria's body was seared into her memory with a branding iron, every detail sharp as a photograph. She was sitting in the corner, facing right at Max, but her head was at an unnatural angle, and her wet hair was covering her eyes. Even in death she looked beautiful in a way. Her skin was perfect as always, and her nails were a carefully manicured red. The cut bisected a tattoo Max hadn't even known about, an intricate black lace design on her right hip, just small enough to be hidden by a bathing suit.
Wasn't there something metal on the tile floor? Like a razor? Not sure. Does that mean she killed herself? Or... Fuck.
Max's mind raced as she hurried back to the dormitory. If it's like the vision of the tornado, it can be stopped right? Like I stopped the storm?
Branches whipped her as she plowed through the brush. Do I break reality if I save her? What kind of disaster could I cause this time? Catching herself on a tree as she stumbled, Max paused and leaned against it. Everything she'd seen ran through her head again and again as her shoulders heaved with each breath.
Or is this the disaster that I'm going to cause? She shuddered at the thought, and started walking back to the dorm.
How could I even stop it if I wanted to? "Hey Victoria, felt like slitting your wrists lately? Or should I be more worried about somebody murdering you 'cause you're gay?"
She went through the scene in her mind again. Details were already slowly fading, but she couldn't shake off the feeling that there was an important one that she'd missed.
Above her, on a branch, alighted a blue butterfly. A butterfly that had no natural business on the Oregon coast in the middle of November. The blue butterfly. Its wings caught the last few rays of the sunset filtering through the trees, and glowed.
Max shouted: "What are you doing here?"
A handful of leaves was all she could find to throw at it, but they didn't do much.
"What the fuck do you want with me!?"
Its wings fluttered slightly but it didn't move from its perch.
"Am I just some plaything? Giving me powers and visions so you can watch me suffer? I don't want this. I don't want any of it! I was fucking happy! Then you came along."
Staring at the butterfly reminded her abruptly of the last time she'd seen it. The gunshot that ended Chloe's life echoed through Max's mind, and she felt it in her gut as if it was aimed at her instead. "Next time I have to sacrifice something, it's gonna be me."
It flapped its wings a few times, fluttered around Max, and then was gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts and suddenly feeling a little dumb.
Maxine Caulfield's descent into madness Part #17: Arguing with a goddamn butterfly.
Back in her dorm room, Max tried once more to get to sleep. But the more she thought about it, the more anxious she became. The word wasn't on the door across the hall yet, but she could see it, crystallized in her mind, with crude lettering and streaks of red dripping down the frame. Blackwell's not safe. Even if it's just the graffiti it's still scary for anyone who's... queer is the best word, right?
She tried to think of students who were but drew a blank, until she came to a belated realization: That could be on my door. She'd never really thought about what her love for Chloe meant until now, and the world was suddenly a darker place; the shadows full of people who hated her, wanted to hurt her. For the first time since she'd moved in she felt thankful for the lock on her dorm room door.
The pipes in the wall whistled to life, giving her another feeling of panic, and she needed to reassure herself that it wasn't happening now, now's not the right time of day.
Then, staring at the source of the sound, Max knew what detail she'd forgotten: In her vision, there was no hole in the center of her photo wall. It had been occupied by Max's memorial to Chloe, with the intact picture of the butterfly right at the center.
