Maven
It's five steps from the car to the door. Five steps through the biting cold punctuating the membrane of the world.
Five steps filled with looming faces. They are an emulgated crowd. For one second his eyes linger in search for one he may recognise. But none of them is stupid enough to dare and just appear at this place. Then the person in question could simply walk up to a police station or any figure of authority and gently ask to be arrested.
A part of him wouldn't mind. But since he has tried to throw off the shackles and change something ...he is in the same restraints. And everyone knows that.
Crawling back is always an option, though. Knowing his place and acting accordingly.
Five steps can take an eternity.
For a moment one face is particularly close to him, red bloodshot eyes eerily watching, dirty clothes and grey hair. Then it's vanished , melted into the messy crowd.
He turns his head.
Lets the questions, the yelling and the clicking light of a phone snapping a picture go by. Blinking against the sounds that penetrate his ears and make his hand in his pocket curl to a fist.
There's security around, arm outstretched when he maneuvers along the invisible lining straight to the destination without saying a word. There have been crowds in the past before.
Before his father died it was always standing in the back, in tall shadows and long evenings.
He could do the talking after that after there was only two of them left with his brother cast down.
Half the words were just plain cheap fodder and easy rhetoric. Mixed in a blender with some half-baked truths and a lot of fears and threats.
"You'll get an opportunity to ask the questions in a better environment, " He only answers to something behind him.
The shouting and shuffling leaves at the door and he moves through.
He isn't surprised to find the way occupied by a figure with blond hair sleek back on his head, arms crossed. Half unpleasant glare, mouth pressed together leering over some underling. It's clearly about the commotion outside.
"-or I swear I'll rip you apart." Samson Merandus threatens. Smooth. The warning is delivered to the other man.
It only takes a few more steps until he notices him. After all, Samson can be very attentive as long as he's sure it will be useful to him. He wonders if that is a policy that gets hammered into their heads as kids, so they don't ever forget.
"Cousin," is the polite greeting he receives, all the while his blue eyes take in his tousled hair and the dark, crumbled hoodie Maven wears under the open coat.
"A busy morning." Maven answers, stepping up to the elevator.
"Yes." Samson agrees. " I hope you didn't have any problems with that pest yelling outside?"
He pushes the button again before his hands find his pockets. Such a bad habit. He retains to those in times of stress and it is a constant act to try and conceal it. "Nothing big, luckily."
"They'll be gone soon," Samson promises. Unsurprisingly, Maven believes it. Those people are just some bother, some dirt, and they will be sorry soon enough they can't act accordingly. He's sure the promise was made to his mother already, and now he repeats himself to Maven in hopes of scoring some more approval. Nesting alongside them, all he wants is some more of the big prize.
And he ought to deserve it, almost. He has that cruel efficiency and brutality you need to go further, and he loves it and himself for it. Even though it can be very obvious and not exactly subtle what he tries to do.
"I guess my mother is still here?" Maven leans away, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.
"She was waiting for you."
He wants to say more, but he doesn't when Maven stays silent and as far away from him, eyes narrowed slightly. One indifferent hum and Samson just looks over.
So the elevator ride is silent.
He looks over and wonders if he was the one shoving a red boy in a lent suit down a set of stairs. No doubt it's violent enough, with some edge of underlying maliciousness that Samson wouldn't shy away from. An easy exercise, pushing someone unaware enough with an easy effort but high gain.
A few suspects on the list, reinforced by the things his mother said at their last confrontation.
Their eyes don't meet. They don't speak. For the best. He isn't sure he could take too much of Samson trying to squeeze words inside his head and he won't let him. It's enough his mother will do just that.
He breathes simply, counting the times his lungs let go of the air just to refill them.
The light leaves a stripe pattern of white light in the metal. He studies it, blinking shine against silver, clean and yet a little blurry. An idle reflection of doubts that have no place and accusations left unheard.
As clean and illuminated with artificial white light as always, nothing has changed in his absence in their...
No. Not home.
He steps inside, hands not willing to part from the coat pockets, but he does. Back straight, arms on his sides, one last muscle in his face twitching before he can bring it back under control.
The carpet and the ground are stainless and muffle his steps when he moves over to find his mother in the vast space of unused living room.
Her heels make her bigger, but she wouldn't need the height to differentiate herself from the people around her.
"Neither I nor my family has to answer any of these questions. We are all still grieving the devastating loss of a father and husband."
Ah, it feels good to be home, doesn't it? Still, the same old lies and deceit retracting reality into some make belief world you can handle and rule.
"Mother," he greets her, flanked by Samson.
She looks at him through the bright light, a black and blue form like an oversized bruise carved from the white background. He doesn't as much as blink.
If it wasn't for the physical resemblance they all share it'd be the fact they have pride and ice water flowing through their veins and poisonous gas escaping all their throats when one of them talks. It infects the world through and through. A talent. One needed to survive and strive for excellence.
"Finally," she says. For his sake, she doesn't accuse him and they don't tangle in any angry discourse. United front, at least when everyone is looking. His cousin earns a faint nod and she receives one back. "I was so worried."
He folds his hands together, face polite. "You know traffic in the morning is murderous."
Her mouth smiles but her eyes are cold. That smile is reserved for the outside world, that salient, barbed smile, with lips barely tugged upwards. "It really is. Especially when there is a horde of journalists and protesters blocking the way."
And whose fault is that? Oh, yes, mine.
It feels strange. Not ruining things or breaking them. That is something he knows too well.
Give him something good and he will gladly break it into two. A talent of some sort.
A second the world stops spinning, takes a collective break and reforms again. Then it's over and flies by again while he tries to keep up with everything. Even though he is tired from not sleeping, never sleeping enough, lying in the dark and trying to take the offer of comfort. His brain works accommodating to the circumstances, disconnected circuits running hot and heavy to find a solution.
"Since I made my opinion clear," his mother says, voice cold." Samson you will surely be willing to escort the gentlemen out. I also am sure you can redirect any questions at him for the time being."
"Of course," Samson answers from behind his ear, and Maven doesn't need to turn around to know exactly who he looks at. "It would be my pleasure."
There's the last exchange of looks and Maven studies the dark suits and nervous glances exchanged before another pair of poor henchmen gets fed to the machinery this morning.
They move along quietly, and for a moment he just follows his own feet on the ground, casting a glance over. He always took after her, in appearance, manners. It's some sort of symbiotic mimicry, adapting to purge out the likeliness of loss or weakness.
There is little of his father or anything personal in her office. A picture of them both thrones on the desk, and an old image with his father, but that is turned half away and only for the people sitting on the other side of the desk.
"I told you that you made a grave mistake. Now you'll have to help me clean it up."
She's taken her spot behind the desk. He sits down right in front. They stare at each other as if they see each other truly for the first time in years.
"What if I don't want to?" It sounds childish and they know it both. He's prepared a million speeches and excuses but he doesn't use them.
"It won't be that hard if you don't try to wait it out." She leans her chin on her hand, manicured nails and silver jewelry. Waiting clearly for him to come to his senses and apologize.
Be a better person for once, can you do that, Maven?
Be a little like your brother.
Be a bit like a normal person.
You let go and try to see the good.
Make a list.
Acknowledge the mistakes.
Apologize.
Move out.
Apologize.
Apologize.
Apologize.
A blink and he forces his thoughts together, scrambling along to the wired rhythm of his body.
"Don't ruin your life or mine over this." She advises, barbed smile and blue eyes watching. "It was silly and selfish and stupid. And you can do better."
He knew she would say that. They run the same protocol of stifled laughs, advice, uncanny familiarity and chastising all the time. For a while, the praise, the unity and the chance to try to accept that they hated and wanted the same things was enough. No, not enough. But it was everything he had. Perhaps everything he really knew.
"What do you expect to happen?" He asks, out of curiosity, perhaps.
"I expect this scandal to go on for a while." An easy statement. "People questioning every move is bad as it is. Now they ask questions about your father's death. And about that side project. And I expect you to not sabotage us anymore. "
He makes a sound, not a laugh, not a sigh, just some crippled wordless mockery.
"It's what you taught me. You shouldn't be surprised."
"I also taught you biting the hand that feeds you is never a good idea."
Only bite it if you are sure to dismember it and annihilate resistance.
The next step is negotiation. And threats, if they feel like it.
"I suppose you want to stay with..." She wrinkles her nose slightly, as if she has to force herself to say his name. "Thomas. And we know I tried and tried a million times to talk the both of you out of it, just as I tried to tell you obsessing over that girl would do you no good."
Make it a cut, don't be a fool.
And perhaps she even was right. He held his tongue for the most part, little silent stares, messages, thoughts like vitriol and imprecations as sweet as a kiss, mixed with something else entirely, some distant memory not able to grip.
And all the blame, so easily dispatched on all the different parties.
His shoulders are so tense he can feel the muscles grind and twitch, keeping himself straight and up, face feeling grey and pale.
"We don't talk about her now." He cuts her off.
"For the best, probably." She admits.
The words are lead on his tongue, too heavy, as if it is somehow glued to the back of his throat. He'd rather suffocate on them then acknowledging that for once there is only truths.
He forces them out anyway.
"And I told you Thomas is a good person, a million times. But this isn't about him. This is about us. About what we do. How we are."
"Did lovely Thomas or that therapist of yours try and convince you of that?" Her lips are a pale pencil thin line. " Yes, I know about your visits."
He never doubted it.
"That is why I chose the last ones you had to attend. It's not worth it."
"You always glossed over it. Easy thing, ignoring the unpleasant truth. "He lets her remark fly by. Something skeletal in him is terrified, suddenly, by her disapproving glance. "But I don't want to anymore. I promised things and I will keep my word."
What is love for you? For me it is loyalty.
Promise, promise, please.
"As if I had forced you to say one word disregarding anyone." She huffs a if it is the most incredulous thing she has had the witness to hear in this morning filled with brimming rumours. "I offered an alternative because I trusted you to do the right thing and you even did more than that."
There's the easy lie, denying the possibility.
There is a maybe, yes, I would, because it felt right at the moment.
"We are done." He simply states. "I need a shower."
He gets up. One long staggering step. It feels like fleeing and that is not a good sign.
She flinches, just the slightest bit, surprise, not fear.
It's a fine slice in her face, in the way her eyes move and her brows knit together.
Seeing her capable displaying emotions is always strange. Her representation is based on some edge of self-preservation and pride, something he knows too well as it shatters down and you try to stay composed. It ripples in waves through whatever conjured image he has of her, and for a moment she is human and nothing else.
It's half amusing and half very frightening on its own to notice it now. The gray in her tightly pulled back hair. The slight wrinkles around her eyes hidden under a layer of careful makeup. Dark circles he knows he owns as well, just as they share the same color.
The fading moment of familiarity, closeness or humanity is over fast.
"We are not done." She tries to sound only mildly annoyed.
He feels like a trapped animal when she stands up slowly, rounding the table and stepping in his way.
"I don't know what terrible things you must have people tell you, Maven. Or why you assume you have to suddenly change your mind and help people that despise you. Bad influence," Her voice is rational, it's suffocating caring in her own shivering way. It's the voice of his childhood and it doesn't allow any doubts. It purges them from his head. "I am sure we don't have to fight. You are still my only son."
He swallows hard on the lump in his throat, the reoccurring speechlessness. Glued to the back of his throat the tingle struggles still.
"Mother I won't change my mind." Not this time.
Watch us fall, mother dearest. Crashing through the corroding rooftop of our position.
"Hasty decisions never helped anyone. And please, never forget." Her hand stretches out. "People don't understand you." She whispers, hand smoothing over one side of his hair one time and retreating fast. "And I say that because I worry for you alone out there. Your father never understood you. Your brother and his side of the family hate you because you got to take what was always supposed to be yours. You are what you are. "
Her hand has moved away long but he feels cold. Cold fear, cold anger, cold sweat on his palm.
You are nothing.
Was she ever motherly?
That doesn't sound like something you'd say, just like you repeat it.
"I am what you made me." He whispers to no one.
She doesn't turn around. Maybe he has just thought it. Not said it out loud.
"Get your shower and we will discuss the details."
He's left with knots in his chest and the pondering angry beat in his temple.
For a moment he stares at the polished desk.
His hand takes the frame from it. Their pale likenesses stare back with cool animosity. He looks at his younger face and wonders a moment. Then he sets it down.
Stares at the other image.
Showing his father and his mother. His hands grip the simple black frame tight.
He can see what parts and which stitches of his personality come from whom.
His knuckles are white. His fingers trembling. So hard is his grip.
With a loud smash, the picture crashes against the wall.
Glass splinters and cracks.
Breaking things. Burning things. It's easy.
A web of fine lines and broken pieces runs over his parents' faces. He leaves the destroyed image behind.
What to do, when you have the very strong need to just hiss and bite and claw your way out of your own misery and confusion but don't actually know how to accomplish that?
It's not a new feeling.
Losing your mind, hazy and foggy, confusing and strange, panicking, almost.
Call someone, maybe, talk. There is a valid warning to deliver, now that he's attempted to sewer some connections openly.
There are few people he could talk to without losing the slightest bit of composure he can maintain.
He would not expect his brother to actually answer. He's not even sure what exactly he would have said anyway. The longer he thinks about it the more visceral the repulsion becomes and whatever inclined to spark the idea dies.
He tries the better alternative.
Answer the phone- beep- answer the phone- beep- answer the phone...
It goes on for a while. It sounds like a screeching cry for help.
Some form of maelstrom in the dim sterility of his dark bedroom.
"Bad timing Mave." Thomas sounds breathless. At least he answers.
"What happened?"
"Cops came to the apartment," Thomas says.
"Did you talk to them?"
"No, I fucking lost it when I saw the car and bolted. Didn't look like the talking kind of dudes, to be honest."
"Where are you now?" He inquires. Are you hurt? Are you still there? Don't leave me alone.
"I was at the crooked house, but it's empty." Thomas sighs. "Yellow tape and seal and all. Then I wanted to go to the Stilts but my Mom called me and said police showed up there too asking about my sister and you and me. And some newspaper dude harassed her asking if you're my boyfriend and if I like to draw. She was really stressed."
"Please tell me you didn't take -" Eyes darting around in the empty space of his room, he lowers his voice. "the gun."
A long pause follows. Maven can imagine a grimace.
"Thomas."
"Yeah I know, but what if they're searching the place and find it? It's good enough for locking me up now. I'm meeting my sister and we're going to some hiding spot , probably meeting up with some people. How did your chat with your Mom go?"
"Civilized. But complicated."
"Uh-uh. If she's anything then it's polite while gutting you, right? Don't let her convince you to be shit again."
"I can handle my family." A lie, but the reassuring kind.
"Good. I need to get going -" the strangled voice says. "I'll be fine. Don't worry ."
Maven breathes once and Thomas presses back a stifled chuckle through the phone.
"No, no I mean it. Don't worry about me now. This is your moment to actually face shit. Do it. And then..."
He does not finish the sentence.
And then we'll do what, exactly, Thomas? Maven doesn't ask.
We'll be somewhere together. We'll be fine.
Awful liar and good person that he is.
"Gotta move. Love you, pretty boy."
"I love you too." It feels like he vomits the words out. There's nothing tender about it.
The line clicks. The call ends. There's a discontinued sound that buries in his brain like a hot iron.