AN: So, it's been over a month… uh, sorry? But here's an extra-long chapter with bonus sibling fluff and teenage angst to make up for it? … Enjoy? :)?
*shrug emoji*
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~ VI ~ bound ~
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c-h-a-p-t-e-r s-i-x
VI :
b o u n d
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chapter quote:
"remember tonight… for it is the beginning of always"
DANTE ALIGHIERI
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~ VI ~ bound ~
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MAX
8:59AM, Aug 16
BUCKEYE, AZ, USA
I hate being the first person downstairs in the morning. The curtains are all drawn, suffocating the rooms with darkness, and even though you're not a kid anymore, there's still something in the back of your mind telling you to watch out for the monsters behind the couch.
But there was no couch. There was no couch because all furniture that wasn't an immediate necessity had been carted off with all the rest of our domestic crap earlier in the week.
That's right, folks: our last full day in AZ had finally rolled around. The days had stopped running by 'faster than I'd expected' – not because they didn't slip away too quickly anymore, of course they did; I'd just accepted that they'd all be gone before I could blink. And so, we were NY-bound tomorrow, for better or for worse.
After stealthily checking that there were no bloodthirsty beasts waiting for me in the kitchen, I grabbed some supplies and made my way into the middle of the stark-empty living room. Man, that's weird. I was going for some nice, safe cereal, obviously, because I would most definitely burn down the house (along with several neighboring houses) trying to fix up anything else.
I sat on the rough-with-wear carpet and carefully ish poured a bowl of Froot Loops. It got boring fast, just sitting there and shoveling multi-grain rainbow hoops into my mouth, but I guess that's what you get when you're used to watching TV with every meal because you're a privileged butt like I was.
Wow, that sounded bitter. I promise I really am trying not to let on too much; I don't want to rush this. I'm just… slightly sensitive about who I used to be. Irked by Max I – wait, ew, no – Old Max, so to speak.
With nothing else to do, my mind began to wander from my future – specifically, this Goddamn move – to my past – specifically, Monday. I couldn't stop thinking about Monday. Or, if we're going to get intimately explicit here, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam.
I'm just going to give it to you straight. I know this is going to be difficult for you to process – you might even want to reject the idea completely – but I swear I would never lie to you.
I, the great Max Martinez, had never actually been asked out before that.
I know, I know, it's hard to believe. A stunning, intelligent, athletic, piercingly witty (and let's not forget charmingly modest) young lady such as myself, having never once received romantic attention? Why, such a travesty should surely be a crime.
Alas, it is true. I'd never been graced with such an invitation prior to Monday. I mean, technically speaking, I had been asked out before that, but nothing I would personally consider worthy of mention; just your average d-bags who thought it was A-OK to go right ahead and harass me while I was clearly busy pretending to do math. Lot of good that did – all either of us had ever gotten out of it was a detention or a big, ugly bruise. I'll leave you to decide who got what.
Naturally, I was flattered. It was refreshing to hear that I wasn't the only one who appreciated my drop-dead good looks for once. However, I think it's also pretty important to note that Sam's timing was abso-freaking-lutely atrocious. Like, what the heck? I understood that he hadn't known the window of opportunity was closing fast, but seriously, if you're going to ask someone on a date, just go for it. It can't be that hard.
Well, okay, maybe that's a little unfair. He would have had to consider that I might take it the wrong way and it could mess up our friendship and all that jazz. If he knew it could kick our friendship into the gutter, though, why did he bother asking at all when I was just about to leave? Statistically, most long-distance relationships fail – and sure, 'most' still leaves room for some to succeed, but the idea that we would have pulled through as a long-distance couple was frankly laughable. You'd have to have a pretty strong connection with each other to make it and by the time I was gone, we'd have dated for a week. A week.
Like I said: ridiculous.
What a nub.
And there was also his reaction to my little announcement that I'd shortly be eloping with my remaining dignity to consider, but I didn't really want to think about that. There were few things that hurt me, but betrayal definitely fit the bill.
By the time I finished my internal tirade, I only had a few Loops left and not nearly enough patience to be sitting on the ground anymore.
I'd been packing gradually throughout the week to make sure I didn't miss anything, but I'd left all the sentimental junk for today. I figured if I was going to cry at all, I might as well make it all symbolic and crud and do it right before we left.
After washing the milky remnants of breakfast out of the bowl and chucking said item plus spoon into the dishwasher, I pilfered the box of dry Froot Loops and crept up the stairs. Probably sounds a little harsh to say that I couldn't bring myself to care about waking my mom up, but I was more concerned about prolonging whatever brief peace Ella could salvage before she was flung back into full consciousness with the realization that this giant mess we've made wasn't just a horrible dream. God knows that's what happened to me, and I was not happy about it one bit.
This date – August seventeenth – the move, the milestone, this whole big awful thing, hadn't really seemed real until now. Nothing seems real until you're forced to think about it. It isn't real, not until it seeps into your restless mind and taints whatever faintly pleasant thoughts you were having before. It was like I'd been standing in front of a door this whole time, but it had been closed so I didn't think twice about it. Slowly, though, the door had been opening by itself, and now I could see through the sliver of an opening and it made me feel sick. I wanted to kick it shut and close my eyes, but I knew that at some point, soon, I'd have to take hold of the handle and step through. And that was terrifying.
But Max Martinez does not do 'terrified'.
On impulse, after thinking about big, scary doors for too long, I grabbed the door-handle and gave it a violent yank to get into my bedroom. Ah, much better. Remember, kids: if you're ever feeling stressed, try some senseless hostility to calm you down – and if you ever find yourself intimidated by something, all you gotta do is just completely and utterly raze it to the ground! Inhale and exterminate.
I left the cereal box on my nightstand then threw on some sweatpants and a two-tone hoodie before sliding my duffel bag out from under my bed. The digital alarm clock peeking out from behind my stolen cereal read 9:34. Great, that was plenty of time to finish packing and then do absolutely nothing that could be interpreted as productive in the slightest for the rest of the day.
I'd shipped all the big stuff off on Monday and had the rest of my 'whatever' pile crammed into a suitcase, like clothes and books. Yeah, I read. Sometimes. Dolly and Lain were coming back tomorrow to move everything we'd needed to keep for the moment – beds, closets, etc. – and then we'd jam our cases into the trunk and head off into the unknown.
I went through all the drawers in my nightstand and the dresser opposite my bed first. I found a lot of weird old trinkets, most of which I couldn't figure out why I'd kept. What use could anyone possibly have for a porcelain ladybug with a creepy grin? Part of me still didn't want to chuck them though, however pointless, so I went on the hunt for a handy-dandy box to put all the 'What the Hell is this and Why Does It Exist' things in.
Packing flowed in the same way for a couple of hours, during which I heard movement from both of the other bedrooms and I lost countless brain cells. I decided to leave the most sensitive materials I'd retrieved, i.e. photo albums, on my windowsill to buy myself some time on deciding whether I wanted to put my tear ducts on the line or just shove them into my bag and carry them like a big, looming storm cloud for the rest of my life.
Hey, who needs brain cells anyway?
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~ VI ~ bound ~
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12:00pm, 08/16/14, sitting on the living room floor next to my bubbly half-sister, her sleek violet laptop open in our direction. That's how it began.
Ow.
"Oh gosh, look at the butterflies!"
Ouch.
"Ugh, someone, please, take me away from this mundane human life,"
Holy mother of Mordor!
"Max, are you even listening?"
"No, Ella, I am not listening to your endless ramblings about the trolls or the trees or whatever it is you're on about this time, because some of us are dealing with serious issues right now,"
Gah…
"Um, rude much? Whoa, Max, you look super pale. Are you alright?"
Deep breaths, Max.
"Uh, no…"
In and out.
"Oh man, I'm gonna go call mom. Stay here, okay?"
Grghhnnff.
"I don't think… I have… a choice,"
Ohhh dear.
Um, pain is just a message, and I'm hitting ignore? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10? Do any of these psychological pain-relief techniques actually work? Uh… oh, God… one sheep, two sheep, three sheep…
Dammit!
Ella ran off and my senses suddenly decided to hone in on the TV.
A girl, flying, flinging mud at little gnome things. Oh, right – Ella had talked me into watching Disney's Maleficent with her.
I didn't normally think too highly of fantasy. You're expected to just blindly believe in every mystical creature and place and law of magic they throw at you because, I don't know, it's magical or whatever. It just works like we're telling you it works, okay? Plus, like, YOLO, or something. I had to admit, though: flying around like that, so fast and free, completely untouchable… I could definitely live with that.
I could live with that, at least, if I even survived this skull-splitting headache and these stabbing pains between my shoulder blades.
"Hey mom, uh, something's up with Max," Ella's voice echoed around me, distant and hollow like a shout into a cave. I scrunched up my eyes and the thunderous vibrations from inside my ears washed it away, a tsunami of sound.
Pain shot up and down my back like an electric current, pressing and pulsing violently against my spine, setting my skin ablaze.
It was hardly a pinch compared to the crushing sensation in my head. I couldn't remember anything before the hands; hands, wrapped around my head, squeezing with the force of a car compactor. Hands, flashing behind my eyelids, reaching for my neck. I couldn't imagine anything after them. Hands. I couldn't breathe. Hands.
I slipped into the darkness.
Hands.
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~ VI ~ bound ~
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I took my time waking up after that. Mom had apparently rushed home from her last day at her workplace to check I was okay – which I was not – and she and Ella had forced me into a kind of semi-conscious limbo as they helped me up the stairs and into bed. I'd been able to slur out a weak "'tis but a scratch" before going under again, so I guess they deduced that I didn't need an ambulance from my unerring ability to crack a good ol' Shakespeare joke.
"Max? Max, honey, are you awake?"
"No,"
"Oh, thank goodness," my mom rolled her eyes and folded her arms. She'd pulled a chair up next to my bed and there was a surfeit of first-aid items and a glass of water on my nightstand. The Froot Loops were on the floor. "I thought you were going to wake up sooner or later. I was terrified,"
I coughed out a small laugh and her amused expression sapped away. "I'm fine,"
"Are you sure? I could postpone the trip a couple days to give you time to rest. We've got time,"
"I'll be alright, ma, it was just a headache," I protested, sitting up slowly. I winced as my throbbing head decided to prove my point. Mom frowned, leaning in to examine my scalp and pressing a hand to my forehead to check my temperature.
"Well that was one heck of a headache then. Have you hit your head recently?" she asked, slowly leaning back with a suspicious expression. I shook my head gently. "I hope you're not getting migraines. Are you stressed at all? Anxious?"
I gave her a pointed look. "Am I stressed?"
I left out the part about the excruciating back pains and hand-based hallucinations; migraines were a rational diagnosis, which was more than I could have conjured up.
"Oh," her forehead creased again. "Well, if you're sure you'll be okay tomorrow… I'll keep some medication on hand just in case. And we'll have to take regular stops for Magnolia's sake anyway, so you can get some fresh air then," she seemed to be saying this more for her own benefit, staring off somewhere above my dresser with a calculating eye.
Mom got up from the chair and brushed some imaginary dust off her jeans. I watched with a squinted gaze as she surveyed the chair and medical supplies then turned to leave. "Call if you need me, hon. I love you," she said, before disappearing through the door. Her footsteps faded fast.
I sat for a moment with my head resting awkwardly on the wall behind me. That conversation got me thinking about tomorrow again. I didn't really know what to expect at all; I didn't even know much about New York. I only knew what (some of) it looked like from watching every Marvel movie about any given member of the ridiculous amount of superheroes there ten thousand times.
A whole lot of fumbling to find my AWOL laptop and a handful of crunchy Froot Loops later, said machine was resting on my duvet and whirring from the tragic effort of opening Chrome. Now, where to start? Couldn't go too wrong by typing 'new york city' into Google, I guessed.
Over 1.7 billion results popped up in under a second. Damn. OK, first result: nyc-dot-gov. Why not?
Aug 16 – Schools: Not in Session, and a lot going on at some park somewhere. Red Hook Food Vendors, Asian Fest 2014, Greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza… nothing really stood out. You're up, Wikipedia.
'New York - referred to as New York City or the City of New York to distinguish it from the State of New York, of which it is a part - is the most populous city in the United States and the center of the New York metropolitan area, the premier gateway for legal immigration to the United States and one of the most populous urban agglomerations in the world.'
Whoa nelly, info-dump much? I scrolled down to see if I could find anything a little more consumable, but it soon became clear that whoever wrote this clearly had a bit too much downtime.
There was an image near the bottom that caught my eye, though – it just looked like it shouldn't be there. The rest of the cited visuals were all related to nearby text somehow, like a photo of a subway train embedded in the transportation section. It was out of place, existing in the face of irrelevance, as if someone had come and… hidden it there. Some kind of Easter-egg, maybe, but meant for who?
The picture itself was a small sketch of wings and a bird's tail around a pair of lips, with a finger raised to say 'shush' and a caption that read 'Nulla judicium, nulla deprecatus'. For some reason, I found myself intensely frustrated that there wasn't a link anywhere. I just wanted to know more about that stupid picture, but some idiot had decided to attach a completely out-of-context image with an infuriatingly intriguing caption and leave it link-less.
That was it. Some idiot – yeah, it was probably just some kid looking to mess with people. Now that was stupid. What was the point of pranking someone if you never got to see their reaction?
I was too proud – or at least too bitter – to comb the page for more clues. I tried to shrug it off as I took the safer route and sifted through Google Images, but it kept bugging me. That caption seemed, I don't know, important somehow. All the lights and landmarks in the world couldn't have wiped The Incident from my memory.
A glance at the clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen told me it was almost time for dinner, which, as always, lifted my spirits immensely. Some normalcy would be nice, I reflected as I snapped my laptop shut and flipped it over to let the fan breathe. We wouldn't have much time for normalcy in the days to come.
Ella had her laptop open on the floor again when I got downstairs, and mom was sweeping around the kitchen, filling three bowls with chicken stir-fry. My sister seemed engrossed in something, so I went into the kitchen to get us drinks. Mom didn't say anything while I ran my hands under the tap; she just sprinkled some sesame seeds over the food and carried two of the bowls over to Ella.
There was some apple juice and milk left in the fridge, so I poured two apples and a glass of water for mom. I brushed past Mrs. Water-is-Nature's-Drink-of-Choice on my way out with the juices, setting them on coasters that hadn't been there a minute ago before surveying Ella's laptop. I was expecting to see something of a Doctor Who ilk, but apparently mom hadn't been able to bear missing a single News at Six because it was our jolly Arizona National newscasters staring back at me.
"So," mom began, sitting down at a small distance, but close enough to see the laptop screen. "How are we feeling about tomorrow?"
I snorted. We. Ella gave me a gentle jab to the ribs to stop me going off and ruining our last day in the house – in our home.
This wouldn't be our last day here if it weren't for mom. I was suddenly angry again and just about ready to blow when Ella butted in. She probably felt me boiling next to her; she'd always had some kind of freaky Sixth Sister Sense. Eugh.
"I'm looking forward to going to a new school," she offered pleasantly. "I'll miss my friends here, but I'll make more."
That's easy enough for you to say, Little Miss Social Butterfly. I didn't contribute.
"Of course you will. There'll be plenty of fun kids at your new school," mom agreed. We stayed silent for a few minutes and I presumed mom was weighing the pros and cons of soliciting my opinion, but eventually decided against it. "How about we see what's been going on lately?" she raised her eyebrows at Ella, who shrugged and pressed 'play'.
The news followed its usual pattern: bad, bad, really bad, scary, terrible, sad, cats, bad, fire, bad, worse, good, bad, ugly, school lunches, new iPhone model, bad, awful, bad, Obama. I tuned it out, but I was still glad it was there to occupy mom and Ella and mostly guarantee they wouldn't try to make more conversation.
The stir-fry went down my throat at double speed for a few minutes as I continued intently not listening to the news, until suddenly the news decided to become uncharacteristically interesting and the stir-fry decided it would be fun to go down my clothes instead.
"Oh! Honey, do you want a paper–"
"Mm, mm mmm," I hummed forcefully through a mouthful of chicken, flapping my hand to get her to shush.
'Nulla judicium, nulla deprecatus'. That's what they'd said. 'Nulla judicium, nulla deprecatus'.
"– Latin phrase which our linguistics experts here have managed to roughly translate into English as 'no justice, no mercy'. It's unclear as of yet how exactly this group is to be described – an anarchist mob, some kind of guerrilla resistance, or perhaps a simple gang – but one thing is clear: the Gotham Ravens are not the urban legend we once thought them to be." The newsreader – Bobbie Clint or something – concluded, leaving an unfortunately large amount to my imagination. Well, if not an answer, at least I had a lead.
"No, they certainly aren't, Janet," said the balding dude next to her (apparently Bobbie wasn't even close). "Now, for the viewers who may have never heard of this group, here's a little backstory on the case for you,"
"Symbols like the ones pictured in the top right hand corner right now began emerging all over New York City some three years ago," Janet continued. A collage of photographs appeared in the corner of the screen, all focalizing on graffiti of similar symbols – symbols that looked an awful lot like the one I'd found earlier. "Rumors had been circulating for some time beforehand of an NYC-based revolutionist cause, but it seemed that nobody was willing to take them seriously, and eventually it became quite the colloquial joke amongst New Yorkers,"
"Yes, and that's exactly where the myth of the legend originated. You see, it was directly after whispers of an underground rebellion began to crop up that these winged motifs materialized in all corners of the five boroughs, so naturally, these followed suit to become quite the laughing stock as well,"
"And since no one but the supremely suspicious and superstitious took them for anything but a modernized Boy Who Cried Wolf tale, the NY-native-nicknamed 'Gotham Ravens' have remained an urban fairy-story in the eyes of the general public ever since,"
"Until now,"
"Until now indeed, Paul," agreed Janet, nodding and staring directly into the camera. My heart sank a little. She had the kind of look on her face that broadcasters only give when they're desperate to hook viewers in; eyebrows raised, head tilted slightly sideways like they know something juicy and important. And they'd used a suspicious amount of fancy words so far. And the segment had already lasted longer than their other bits, none of which had been interesting in the slightest. And they were talking about New York on the Arizona news, which meant there was butt-all going on in our own state to report on…
The longer I thought about it, the more hope I lost. They were probably just trying to start some drama by stirring up a moral panic. These elusive 'Gotham Ravens' were probably nothing, and their mysterious symbols would be few and far between. I'd forget all about it in a week.
"– but is this 'new evidence' actual solid proof, or just more rumors on top of everything we've heard before? We'll leave that for you to decide, Arizona. We'll catch you again tomorrow at six. Goodnight," Hhhhrrmmph. 'You decide'? Yup, definitely just view bait.
I couldn't believe I'd let myself get excited like that. I'd been formulating my own conspiracy theories in my head the whole time, imagining gang logos splattered across abandoned buildings and pairs of wings inconspicuously scratched into brick walls like a… a giant flip-note of deceit. A giant flip-note of deceit that I drew myself, and then flicked through so many times that my own lie had started to consume me.
A month's worth of fury filled my lungs until I couldn't breathe. I'd tried shouldering my mom's glass-half-full attitude, but it shattered in an instant as I realized just how much I didn't want to go to New York.
Next to me, the laptop slammed shut, and Ella rose to her feet with a painfully conflicted look. I watched as she calmly put her bowl, fork and glass into the dishwasher, returned for her computer and disappeared stiffly and silently up the stairs. And then I copied her, footstep for footstep, feeling the buzz of tension in the air build as I lathered my silence on top of my sister's.
Who needs twin telepathy when you have half-sister joint scorn?
I didn't really feel the next few hours. I stayed up way past the time mom usually knocked on my door to say 'get ready for bed', and she didn't come to tell me to turn my light off. I did the opposite. I turned the light up until my eyes stung, and kept myself awake with music and social media. I wanted to be as tired as possible by tomorrow so I'd definitely fall asleep in the car and not have to put up with her.
Ella wandered in at some point, and she was crying. She sat on my bed and sniffled for a while before speaking; she didn't need to tell me what was up because it was up with me too.
"New York…" she muttered at some point. After midnight, probably.
"More like Poo York," I snarled, and she laughed so long that everything seemed like it'd be okay.
We went through my 'sensitive materials' too, by which I mean the photo albums I'd come across earlier, not my undies. We started making snarky nickel-and-dime comments whenever we found one with either Dad: Part Un or Dad: Part Dos in it, which was pretty much the best kind of therapy I could have received, given the circumstances. Some of my personal favorites included: 'nice wig, loser, where'd you get it? The end of a mop?', 'the Pathetic Excuses for Fathers Club called; they want their chairman back' and 'I wonder if he abandoned that puppy he's holding as fast as he abandoned us'.
I couldn't be arsed to feel guilty when we started making fun of mom too. I knew I'd regret some of the things I said later on, but so would Ella, so there was no one to give me a condescending look when I felt sorry and lecture me about being the 'bigger person'. And it felt good to get all those things off my chest, even if I was doing it in a petty and childish way. I'd come to accept that I'd probably never be able to handle anything in any other way than with my trademark petty-and-childish approach.
We did eventually get around to the elephant in the room. It was an uncomfortable thing to skirt around all the time, but obviously I couldn't talk to mom about it without screaming, so sharing honest opinions with someone else that had no choice was actually pretty cool.
I don't like to talk about my feelings. At all. I'm more of a swallow-it-back-down-and-let-it-fester-in-your-stomach kind of gal. I guess I was only willing to open up as much as I did because they weren't mushy feelings; if Ella had wanted to talk about boys or periods or something, I would have carted her right out the door without a second thought. Palpable rage, however, is something with which I have extensive experience. Palpable rage is something I can get behind.
"What happened to 'I'm looking forward to our new school'?" I said with a gentle shoulder-bump.
Ella looked at me like I was a total ass. "You're a total ass, Max." She sighed, shrugging. "I was trying to appease mom. She doesn't really deserve it, but I can't help feeling bad about this rift that's opened up between us," Figures. Ella had always been a little closer to mom than I had 'cause she was a natural softie, so she needed mom to be there more when things got her down.
"I don't want to leave here," I grumbled, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. "I don't want to leave home. But, I mean, New York… if it had to be anywhere, I guess New York sounds like… fun?"
Eh. I tried.
"Hah, yeah… I have always wanted to go to one of those smoky SoHo jazz lounges," Ella sniffed, flopping against my side and resting her head on my shoulder.
Looking back on it, y'know… I'd lived with her my whole life, but I think that night may well have been the first time I ever really met my own sister.
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~ VI ~ bound ~
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AN: I feel like Max was OOC – like, atypically observant and reflective. She thinks more than she talks and she's maybe a fraction too stroppy. I'm planning on giving her a big arc where she sort of transforms into The Great and Amazing and Totally Humble Maximum Ride, but I still want her to be her the whole way through. What do you think? I'm going to up the sass eventually anyway, but am I even at base-level sauciness yet?
- Leo
