It was the last drop working its way unpredictably down the windshield. The rain had subsided. She wished it hadn't. She had enjoyed the noise of water hitting her car, millions of tiny explosions creating the white noise that made her yells seem quieter. Now it was just dark outside with calm puddles on the side of the road, the only disarray was in her body and mind. She didn't have a single thought after driving from the horrible scene that she still had trouble comprehending. Or maybe that was false. Maybe she had a lot of clear thoughts, but didn't process them, didn't really acknowledge them as a part of herself. It was more like voices from the outside, entering her ears and becoming her thoughts.
She slowed the car to a halt and looked out the left window in her car. Like every color becoming the absence of color, her emotions had become nothing. Every feeling was rushing through her and it was impossible to feel so much at once, so it had simply become a single feeling of emptiness.
She wasn't parked outside of Ethan's home. She had instinctively driven back home. Back to her grandfather's small, faded-yellow house.
She didn't know why she was here, and not in the process of putting a bullet through Ethan's skull.
Why am I home? It doesn't make sense. I am not thinking straight.
The car door felt cold to the touch, light to open. The colors of the outside seemed so bright, yet so bleak. She kept hearing her own voice in her ears, not in her mind. If she were to think about it, however, the voice didn't sound that much like her own. As she stepped out of the car, she chose to forget to close the door, chose to leave the car keys in the ignition. She felt so out of touch with everything around her as if everything was floating. Perhaps as if her surroundings were actively trying to get away from her.
No. It makes perfect sense. If Ted is working with Ethan, he would have warned the police by now of my plan to kill him. He'd tell them where he lives, and they'd be waiting for me right now. That's what is actually happing. That is the reality.
She walked the short path from the car to the house, everything happening in a second. Every step being a leap. She hadn't looked up from her feet, her body just walking to her destination by instinct. It was too bleak to see anything anyway. And if she were to look at her hand reaching for the door, would she even be able to see anything but Max?
So how do I even get to Ethan? I can't… I can't drive, they'd… oh God, they'd recognize my car and shoot me right away. They know I'm dangerous. They'll kill me. The police will kill me.
With a mental image of herself being shot, she entered the house and the warmth she had become so used to expect, passed over her. Her skin covered in a thin bubble, keeping the temperature stable. She imagined a line in front of her feet. A red line painted on the floor, leading her forward, up to her room. From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure sitting in a chair. No. She could be more specific. She saw her grandfather in the living room, sitting in the chair that Chloe usually was sitting on. The TV was off. Perhaps just black and muted. He was holding a phone in his hands, but he wasn't speaking. Many more details could be seen but failed to be processed. His expression being one of them. Because one expression had been burnt into her brain, an expression that every person's face would have from this point on. The expression of Max screaming for help.
Max… What would Max do? Maybe she'd bait Ethan to go somewhere else. Somewhere I could kill him in peace. Perhaps she would wait it out. She always was so cautious. I mean… she is cautious. Was. Is.
As she interchanged those two words, Alfred suddenly got up from his chair and walked over to Chloe. His mouth was moving, it may had been for a while. She could hear him, she could recognize that it was words he was speaking, but he was still too confused with what had happened with Ethan. Chloe didn't need another confused person. She didn't need someone to ask her questions. So she ignored him and continued to think up a strategy to get to Ethan, but the more she tried to piece together what Max would have done in this situation, the louder the voices in her head became.
Fuck THAT! I'LL JUST RUN TO HIS HOUSE. RUN INSIDE, PULL OUT MY GUN, SAY NOTHING, AND SHOOT HIM. NO HESITATION. NO DISTRACTIONS THIS TIME. I'LL RUN INSIDE BEFORE THE POLICE HAVE A CHANCE TO SHOOT ME! THEY CAN TRY, BUT THEY WON'T STOP ME!
"Chloe!" Alfred's voice suddenly pushed through when he grabbed her by the arm, probably firmer than he meant it to be.
"Did you hear what I said? You really look like you're sick, and your makeup is… why have you been crying? What- what happened with that man?" He questioned while loosening his grip, but Chloe hadn't heard what he had said. He was only a part of the background, no more in focus than the cupboard by the wall, nor the empty bowl on the table.
"No. I- I don't trust you" She nearly whimpered as she tried to slither away from the grip on her arm as if the hand on her arm was a long-legged bug, enwrapping the limp. Just as Alfred let go, clearly sensing Chloe was not entirely stable, she imagined a stomping noise coming from upstairs.
"I hear thumping in my room. Is there someone up there?" Her line of sight didn't change as she began walking forward. She giggled inside of her head at her own question. There was no thumping from her room, she knew that. She said there was. There wasn't.
Alfred stood still for a second, looking at his granddaughter staggering away from him. "What? You… there's no thumping, just-" Even though Chloe was at fault for his confusion, she was the one to quickly cut him off.
"I need to check it out" She couldn't figure out if she should sound scared or angry. She couldn't figure out why she lied about hearing a thumping. Of course, now that she had lied about it, she could actually hear a low noise, sounding like footsteps coming from upstairs. It was quiet but noticeable.
"Chloe, should I call someone? The police, an ambulance? I- I don't know what to do"
She kept on walking despite Alfred's desperate pleading to understand the situation. He didn't know if he should restrain Chloe, or let her rest for a while. He knew that she had stopped taking her medication, so that was the only logical explanation he could come up with. That she had suffered a setback in consideration of all the events Chloe had apparently experienced. All the things he was unaware that had happened to his own granddaughter. His body was frozen when his mind got stuck on the wondering if he should have been more present. Asking more about what she had been up to. Asking her about her mental health.
He was just scared that Chloe would get mad at him for pushing her for information.
Now he was scared that he had neglected her, failed to help her when she needed it the most.
But she was already gone.
There definitely is someone in my room.
Chloe thought to herself, already up the flight of stairs, now walking the few remaining steps to her room.
The thumping has gotten louder.
It was like a soundwave with a set interval that passed through her entire body, lifting her brain into the top of her skull, hurting her head. She steadily placed her hands down her waist while standing face-to-handle with the door, wiggling her fingers around, preparing to draw. The suspense was building, the sounds enhancing. One final breath through her nose and she leaped forward, grabbed the handle and forced the door open in a single swoop. Her vision had never been clearer as she took in every single detail of her room. The messy bed, the opened closet, the wrinkled can on the table, the cigarette butt on the floor, the small lamp on her nightstand, the 17 posters on her wall, the clock on the wall, the trash can in the corner that was almost filled up, the single nail on the wall, the stereo underneath her TV that was angled a single degree away from her bed, the girl standing next to the bed who disappeared into thin air the moment she was exposed.
"Max! Stop stomping around!"
Chloe opened her mouth and felt the air pass by her lips but failed to hear her own voice. She swiftly got into a stance and looked around to see where her friend could have hidden. The thumping continued, so she must still be in the room somewhere, Chloe figured. She then saw Max standing by the closet in her black underwear, changing bras.
"Stay there!"
But once she had silently yelled, Max had vanished again, but the sounds continued.
"Please! Just calm down, so we can talk! I won't hurt you, I promise!"
She looked to her right, almost as if she knew Max had moved over to sit in the chair at the table, tapping away on the keyboard on the PC. This time Chloe played it more cautious and held her breath as she slowly began walking over her friend, hoping she wouldn't notice her. The thumping sounds began synchronizing with every quiet step she took and the fourth time her feet met the ground, she reached out her hand and placed on Max's shoulder, but it passed through her and she ended up grabbing the backrest of the chair.
"So you're just a ghost, huh? Here the haunt me because it was my fault you got shot?"
She closed her eyes because she felt it coming. Darkened her vision to keep out the distractions for once.
"Because I pushed you into my revenge act"
She did everything she could to rile herself up, as there was no longer any reason to fight it.
"But you're not dead, are you? No. You're not"
Her nails dug into the chair as she allowed all the weight to be placed upon her.
"You're not dead"
And then she snapped.
"YOU CAN'T BE DEAD!"
It was like a fierce wave crashing into her, an explosion shattering her insides, a storm messing with the wires in her brain. Everything. All at once. As an instant reaction, Chloe clutched the chair that felt weightless in her hands, lifted it above her right shoulder, and flung it across the room. The yell she made deafened the bang the chair created when it smashed against the wall, plastic pieces flying out like shrapnel. It fell hard to the floor, but Chloe wasn't finished. She couldn't stop the torture going on in her mind, but if she created the chaos, she could at least control it.
With fast-paced breathing, Chloe took the phone out of her pocket and tossed it on the table before leaping to the side and grabbed the clock hanging on the wall. She yanked it out of the nail it was hanging on, looked at her own reflection in the glass and presented herself with a forced smile. She was present. She was alive.
And so, with a cry she hurled the clock, not caring where it would hit. The glass immediately shattered when hit the side of the closet, and pieces of glass were scattered all around the floor.
"Time really flies when you're freaking out!"
She furiously began clapping her hands together as she began feeling the black mascara tears dripping from her chin and an eerie sensation in her stomach.
"Isn't that funny Max?! I always made you laugh didn't I?!"
The clapping stopped when she took a step forward towards the broken clock and ran a hand across her face to remove the snot from under her nose.
"SO FUCKING LAUGH!"
She yelled as loud as she could but didn't hear herself. She only felt the next step she took, as the skin underneath her foot was punctured by a piece of broken glass.
"Laugh at me! Yell at me! Fuck me!"
She turned around with her arms to the side, jumping up and down on the pieces of glass, almost as if she was dancing around. It shot a sharp pain through her, but the cuts were nothing compared to the constant stabbing in her brain.
"Yeah, Max. You wanna fuck me?! Wanna fuck me in the aaAAAAARGH!"
She clutched her stomach when a sharp pain ran through it. It felt like acid in her throat as her mouth began salivating. It felt like a hot ball of lead in her stomach that would burn through her skin at any second, which in a panic caused Chloe to shove two fingers into her mouth and down her throat to induce vomiting. Her knuckles were pressed up against her teeth as she was scratching around her uvula with her nails until the gag reflex finally kicked in and she was forced to hunch over and open her mouth wide. But nothing came out, only a single string of salvia that was now stuck to her lip.
She looked at it for a brief second, but she didn't want a pause. She was not done with her mental breakdown just yet. She felt as if she deserved it. As her whole life had been piling shit on her back, just waiting patiently to watch her snap, and now there were so many thoughts of death and guilt occupying her mind that it had to happen.
"I gave her a nod. I told her to reverse time with that nod. Ted shot her because he couldn't… allow Max to reverse time. If I didn't give her that fucking nod, she would still be here! BUT HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW TED WOULD SHOOT HER?! Is he working with Ethan? Is he just a fucking lunatic?! I can't fucking think of this right now! THERE'S TOO MUCH TO THINK ABOUT!"
The second she moved, the drapes closed on her mind. She moved with gaps, grabbing whatever she could find on her table and threw it away without looking. It was like a wide-awake blackout.
First, she threw a pile of papers that scattered in the air, then she picked the dusty small lamp and clutched it around her shaking fingers before throwing it behind her back. Just as she went to grab the next item, she heard frightened yelling coming from downstairs, although she didn't try to make out the words, she could recognize Alfred's voice clearly. It was no surprise he had heard all the commotion, all the things she smashed without a second thought, even the neighbors could probably hear it. He kept yelling, but the voice didn't get closer. He wasn't walking up the stairs to stop her granddaughter from wrecking all the items she had gathered through the years. Destroying every physical memory placed around her room that no longer felt so small and safe. Maybe he was scared, or perhaps he was unable. Unable to walk up the steps in his old age. Chloe knew that he definitely once could, but she hadn't actually seen him upstairs for a month or so now. Was it too much for him? Were a few steps enough of an obstacle to stop him from helping his daughter in her time of need?
It didn't really matter to Chloe because if he were to enter, she could potentially end up hurting him.
"I should hurt myself. That would be justice, wouldn't it? A slash for every person I've hurt"
Next thing that came flying was a small eyeliner pencil. The one she had used this morning. Following the eyeliner, came a candle and the moment it left her hand, she began singing in her head to keep out thoughts of wanting to slice her wrists open.
"It's been 17 years now that we've been together. She once had a name until I knew her better. Screams in my head when somebody upsets her. She loves the screaming and I love to let her. With her black boots, white hair, good girls nightmare- fuck I'm so good at singing!"
Throwing her hands up in the air, Chloe took all the applause in as she continued throwing whatever objects she found in to be placed in her hand. She looked towards the ceiling but saw the sky, the heaven above her like a foamy sea with the suns reflection burning her eyes. It all went white and she felt her feet being lifted from the ground in a jump, being allowed for a single second to know what it might feel like being pulled up to the heaven she knew no longer existed.
And then she fell back down.
The pieces of glass underneath her foot, being pushed further in, which made her wince in pain. It was the reality of the situation.
She was stuck on the ground, stuck on this earth that could only gather pain from her existence.
Her hand reached for the next item to throw, wanting pieces of the world around to know the torment of flying for a second, only to fall back down.
The item she grabbed felt warm to the touch, a smooth surface with a sense of familiarity to it. It felt too heavy to throw, not because of the weight, but because her arm refused. She turned her head to look at what she had grabbed from the table, and in a second of composure, she saw it. The thing that instantly pulled her strings and cleared her lungs from the quicksilver.
It was Max's grey notebook that her fingers were wrapped around. It was so cryptically blank and boring to look at, but holding it in her hands brought a weird sensation to her body.
Her whole world came to a halt as if she had just awoken with a nasty hangover as her body acknowledged the headache, the dehydration, the sleep-deprivation, the stomachache, the physical pain and the sickness. The urge to throw the notebook in the realization of all these feelings became stronger, wanting to go back to her blackout, wanting to keep the distractions going. She would rather scream than cry, rather be angry than afraid. But her body couldn't do it anymore. A pause was enough for her to shut down, unable to restart. Absentmindedly, Chloe flipped the pages in the notebook, only catching a few meaningless words every now and then. Not knowing where she was going with this, or even why she was inattentively flipping through pages, she turned to page 1, where the first words read "January 11, 2014" Her senses were already caught in the words further down the page, and she began reading, mouthing the words along on her dry lips.
If you're reading this, and you didn't write it, then you're a dirty SNOOP! And I WILL find you, and I WILL look at your browser history and share it online! So stop SNOOPING!
Unless it's Chloe reading this. In that case: Hi, Chloe! Most of this will probably be boring to you, but I'll write some stuff about you on… page 6 or something. Page 5! I know you'd be interested in reading about yourself, you narcassist :)
narcissist! That's a tough word. Cut me some slack.
While the words were blurry in her vision and were difficult to focus on, as Chloe read Max's handwriting, she could hear her own voice in her head again, cautiously talking to her. Her heart calmed a little down when she tactfully turned to page six. Most likely a concomitant of allowing herself to stand still for a few seconds, but she found comfort in the thought that it was Max's words that had the tranquil effect on her.
It relaxed her body enough to acknowledge the sadness she had buried, and it made her sob without tears, without a voice. She shut her eyes close for a few seconds and took a breath through her nose in an attempt to compose herself, but she couldn't stop herself from whimpering.
However, she was unsure of what to feel when she opened her eyes again and saw the whole first page filled with words. Reading words written by Max before she had become her girlfriend, words that dated months back, written in the course of recovering from the trauma the storm had caused them. With no expectations, without wanting to predict the emotions reading this page would result in, her voice began speaking in her head once more.
February 2, 2014
I've been thinking more about the weird... hallucinations you might call them that I had the day just before the storm destroyed Arcadia Bay. The Triple T's, I'd like to call them. Time-Travel-Trips. Like I'm hella zoned, as Chloe would so scientifically put it. Especially the times where I saw Chloe, talking trash about me. I figure it was a number of totally different timelines, but it made me wonder what I could have done in that timeline to piss Chloe off so much that she'd call me her personal puppet, and then fucking making out with Victoria. (That was seriously messed up. And nobody steals Chloe from me!)
(Ir)regardless, it has made me wonder if I can actually be sure that what I am seeing is real? Or well… the visions are technically real as well. So I should be asking myself: Do the things I see, belong in this timeline. Or does timelines intertwine? So in all actuality, what is reality, if not just a clusterfuck of timelines mashed together to form a separate timeline, in which I call the "real" one when it's just the one I experience, even though a million other Max's experience other ones?
I digress. (Cuz I am going insane thinking about it.) The core of my worries, is just that I want to make sure that both Chloe and I belong here, and not somewhere else. The thing is: I've heard Chloe briefly mention seeing visions as well. Like, she has seen me a couple of times when I was not actually there. It's more about her psychosis than time-travel consequences I'm sure (maybe?), but it's the reason I even brought this vision shit up. All that stopped, however, when Chloe began taking her medicine she got prescribed by some psychologist. She hasn't mentioned him much, but she seems to get decently along with him (surprisingly enough). She doesn't hallucinate anymore, and although she hesitates talking about it, she gives off the impression that she is improving. I'm cheering for you, Chloe!
Actually, I know you might be reading this Chloe, so I hope talking about you this way is alright. Feel free to… talk to me about it, if you want. I know you don't like getting into the real shit all the time, and that's cool. Our talks about top 10 worst WatchMojo videos are really the highlight of my day anyway. So thanks for that. Thanks for… keeping me company through this shitty time. I seriously wouldn't know what I'd do without you. And I actually kind of wish I had the guts to… tell you that face-to-face. Like, I still think about the moment we had when we watched the storm up on the hill. While it was the most devastating moment of my life, at least it wasn't my loneliest. And I'd do anything to help you get through these tough times, and I know you'd do the same. Hell, you already are. Thank you, Chloe. You more to me than a friend. You're…
Nah, fuck this noise. I'll talk to you in real life. Enough sappy shit. I know you hate that.
It's actually weird writing as if I am writing this to you when it's in my damn journal. You might never read this anyway; even though I have given you permission, you still really respect my privacy.
Eurgh. I'm a blabberpen. Can't wait to see you (Chloe) in the weekend! Hearts and smiling faces!
And that was the whole page. There were an equal amount of words on the very next, but this was all Chloe could take. She knew to be sad, reading words from her girlfriend who no longer possibly existed in this world, but in actuality, it made her mad. Reading a page that said "Thank you" as if she deserved praise at this point. She closed the journal but kept it in her hand, then looked around the room. Trying to see if Max was anywhere to be found; if she could hallucinate a ghost.
And she could.
She saw Max everywhere in her small room. She saw her lying in the bed, the covers over half of her body. She saw her sitting at the desk, editing her photos in Photoshop. Beside the closet she was standing, on the floor, she was sitting. Wearing an expression that she could not read. She was all over the place, never settling.
If what Max had pondered about in her journal were to be true; that an infinite amount of timelines existed, then why was this one hers? Was there a timeline where none of this had happened? Could there even be a timeline where they both existed together? Would the universe allow that?
What did existence mean, when there was no distinction between a universe where she was alive, and a universe where she was dead?
She felt her shaking hand holding the journal, imploring to throw it away. Make it as meaningless as all the other objects around her and continue to distract herself from the unrelenting blame. Letting go, and giving up.
Her hand arose and her teeth clashed in the erosion of hope.
She closed her eyes just as her cell phone began ringing with its familiar tedious melody. Her hand was held up as her movements stopped. She looked straight ahead without wavering as if she was staring into the abyss with no idea of how to react. The melody continued for a couple of seconds until she took a breath, turned towards the desk and discarded the journal onto the table before looking down at her ringing phone.
There was no name on the screen, just the number "206-521-4567". At first, she made the mental choice to ignore it, as she didn't want to talk to anyone, especially when she saw it was someone that wasn't a contact in her phone. Neither did she feel as if she had the proper communication skills at the moment.
As she turned her head to look at the mess she had created, it dawned on her.
What if it's someone calling about Max? Maybe she's been emitted to the hospital. Maybe she isn't actually dead?
Turning back, Chloe began studying her phone, already having mentally chosen to take the call, but now daring herself to wait before picking up the phone, allowing the melody to play its final tune.
Maybe…
A zap ran through her body as she swiftly reached for the phone, accepted the call with her thump, pressed the phone against her warm ear and waited.
"Hello?" It was a fairly deep male voice, neither friendly nor hostile. There was light noise in the background, sounding as if the person was in a car. Chloe opened her mouth to answer, wanting to ask who it was as the voice sounded rather familiar, but her body was still too alarmed. Her throat too tight to let out a voice.
No. That was an excuse. She could answer, she could use her voice to respond, but even without the name, she actually knew who the caller was.
"Chloe, are you there? Max didn't answer her phone, so…" It was the last person she wanted to talk to. At this moment, it was even worse than Ethan.
"It's Ryan" Max's father.
Chloe held her breath, the depth of every occurrence being presented to her in a new light. The room around her got bigger, the walls felt paper thin, and her whole body shrunk. Max had a family.
How would she even go about ever explaining what had happened?
In the long absence of a response, Ryan took a breath that was heard through the phone and spoke, confused.
"…'kay. I just wanted to let Max know that I am coming to pick her up in ten-fifteen minutes, so if she can be ready by then, it'd be great"
With a shaking hand, Chloe placed the phone back down on the table, recalling that Max had talked to her father about going home a few days ago. Home to her parents, away from Chloe. But Ryan was too late.
Max wasn't going home.
"Alright?" He spoke through the phone once more but didn't get an answer.
