Author's note: Please go check out Destiny-Smasher's LiS fanfic: All Wounds at art/All-Wounds-1-Life-is-Strange-568284046

It's a great story, and is probably the biggest reason why I started this fanfiction. A lot more thought and skill went into Destiny-Smasher's!

is Short

Saturday, October 12

Max stared at the dark ceiling, the thick curtains of her hotel room drawn against any intruding morning light. The little digital clock next to her bed meekly declared 8:46 in ugly red lines. A knock came from the door to the adjoining room, punctuating the quiet. "Maxine, honey? It's time to get up."

The door wasn't locked- in a minute her mom would open it and start invading her personal space, which was about as big as the whole room. "Okay, mom. I'll be out," she said loudly. Then she wiggled her way deeper under the covers and continued to stare at the ceiling in the quiet dark.

Time was becoming a difficult thing for her to measure. She rubbed her eyes; the clock next to her now said 8:45, but fives look like sixes all the time, and she was lacking sleep. And in the greater scheme of things, being mere minutes off was a little thing. But she still didn't know what happened in this new timeline between the afternoons of October 7th and 11th. She'd opened neither her bag nor her journal for fear of what she'd find there, nor had she checked the messages on her phone. But when she finally left the cemetery after the funeral, she was surprised beyond words to find her parents patiently waiting for her. Giving her space, and time.

Something that didn't seem to last the night. The door opened a tiny bit and her mother peeked through. "Come on, you're going to be late," she urged, to which Max replied with a quiet groan. Seattle wasn't really close, and while she was grateful for her parents coming all the way down to see her (take care of her, really, which she needed by all accounts, and when she first saw them she stumbled into their arms for a long, teary hug) part of her really wanted to be left alone.

All of her.

"Maxine." Her dad's voice this time, coming from the other room, gruff and loud. Max finally threw off her covers, almost angrily, and her mom went away but left the door open.

She deliberately took her time in the shower- partly out of spite and partly because she had to at least look like she was doing okay. Freshen up or something, get her hair in order and her eyes looking even remotely well rested. She gazed blankly at the bathroom mirror. The dark blue of her irises stared out of sunken eyes underneath her messy brown bangs.

"I like your eyes," Chloe said. "They're like so blue they're almost black."

They were eleven years old, Max leaning on the bathroom sink of Chloe's house, examining her face in the mirror. Chloe sat on the closed lid of the toilet, cross-legged, tugging at her strawberry blonde hair as she watched Max stare at her reflection.

Max made a face, the way she always did whenever they talked about her looks. Chloe laughed at her. Her squeaky pre-adolescent laugh. "Dude, you've got to loosen up. Either the make-up will look good or it won't." Max looked down at the borrowed (stolen from Joyce's handbag) foundation in her one hand, and the brush in the other. "Either way it's bye-bye freckles."

With a quiet sigh, Max slowly rubbed the brush against the make-up, then brought it up to her face, doing her best to avoid Chloe's reaction in the mirror. Quick swipes here and there, too thin at first, then thicker until her freckles began to fade, and all at once were gone.

She set the make-up down, the container clattering against the counter, and stared at what almost looked like a stranger's face. Chloe hopped off the toilet and came up from behind, standing next to her best friend.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

"...I don't like it," Chloe said.

The hotel water was too hot, then too cold. It barely mattered. Max cupped her hands and let them overflow with water, which she then rubbed against her eyes, pressing hard and willing her grogginess to go away. She had to look okay, or her parents would make a huge deal about it. She ran her hands through her damp hair, straightening it out. Then she rubbed cold water against her eyelids again, and wiped her face vigorously with a towel. She didn't have any make-up. She didn't even know what sort of make-up was best to hide eye bags or breakouts from stress. But all in all she thought she did a pretty good job. Passably okay.

"You look terrible," her dad said the moment she walked into their room. His mouth cracked into a lopsided grin, trying to hide his slip with a chuckle. Max's shoulders sagged at the comment. That obvious, huh? Her mom glared at him. "Did you sleep?"

Max nodded slowly in response. It wasn't really a lie- she'd gotten a whole hour of sleep before the nightmares and the crying and the lying in the dark. Her parents exchanged a look, and Max turned to roll her eyes, opening the door without another word. She went ahead of them, not even looking back, though she felt their eyes on her, and she drew her hoodie tight around her body in response. Max spent the entire elevator ride staring at her reflection, realizing she did look like shit.

Breakfast was equally awkward as her parents talked about Seattle, while Max's food got cold and she tried to drown herself in coffee. The questions were tiring and the statements hollow.

"I should take you to the next Seahawks game."

"You know, we haven't touched your room at all."

"Don't you miss home?"

It was only when they were in the car and already moving that she actually said more than two words at a time. "Where are we going?"

Her parents exchanged a look again. "To the psychiatrist, honey," her mom explained gently.

"The-? W- what?"

"Did you forget? We talked about this."

Yeah, she- she forgot. Ha! She felt warmth creep up her cheeks.

"Mom, I don't need to see a shrink. I'm fine."

Her mother turned to frown at her, as her dad continued to stare at the road, apparently determined to avoid making another dumb comment.

"Just yesterday you were so game for it."

Game? She was game? "Let's just- let's just turn around okay?" Max didn't know what else to say. Turn around and I'll listen to you babble about Seattle all day. "Please?"

"You just have to try. It'll be like your IEP."

Memories of awkward middle school talks with the local psychiatrist. Evaluations. Specialized programs. Ten year old Chloe poking fun at her, equal parts laughing and encouraging. Helping her get through it all with a dumb grin.

Chloe.

Her mom turned around again and held her dad's hand. Max fell back against the seat of the car with a harsh exhalation of breath and a glare out the window, while they made their way through a perfectly intact town.

The psychiatrist fucking sucked.

Max went through half an hour of the usual getting-to-know-you bull with a fake ass friendly smile, followed by an hour of lying through her teeth about what actually happened the previous week, all with a barely-concealed petulant tone. Yes, Max heard her former best friend get shot in the bathroom- no, Max had not seen her prior to that for about five years- yes, she had nightmares about the shooting. God damn. And then came all the open ended questions where Max had to get her facts straight on the fly, and at one point she faked overwhelming anxiety just so that the psychiatrist wouldn't spot all the gaping holes in her story, and wouldn't realize that she didn't remember a fucking thing about the entire week. Then she had an actual anxiety attack (god, just like her IEP alright) and the psychiatrist ended up trying to calm her down for fifteen minutes.

Sucked.

"Sucks hard," Chloe had said once regarding Max's busy therapy schedule, and ended up banished to her room. But that had been funny.

By the end of the session she was in a terrible mood and it was all her parents' fault. She slammed the car door when she got inside, and gave a very obvious fine as her reply when they asked how it went. That put an end to all conversation and resulted in an entire afternoon of alone time in her hotel room.

She resolved to reply with fine to absolutely everything her parents asked her.

"So when are you coming back to Seattle?"

That one was not fine.

Max gawked at her dad over her dinner plate. Rapidly cooling hotel food again, which she stabbed at dejectedly with her fork. A side of fruit. More coffee. Black, the way Chloe liked it.

Chloe.

"For real?" She studied her parents with a furrowed brow. "I have school and everything-"

"I really doubt they'll be reopening Blackwell after just one week."

Max stared at them, open-mouthed.

"All your friends are waiting for you back home," her mom added. "They're so worried about you."

She shook her head vigorously, and set her fork down with a loud clink. "I- I only got the Blackwell scholarship, I can't- I can't just leave-"

"It's only until you're ready to go back to school. Besides-"

"I am ready-"

"Honey… no, you're not."

"Hey, fu-" and she was on her feet, knocking over her glass, her face contorted in anger. Water soaked the tablecloth and poured down the side. She instinctively grabbed the glass and set it back upright, interrupting what she was about to say. That was actually pretty fortunate- who knows how her parents would've reacted. They were already staring at her, her mom wide-eyed and surprised, her dad with a very serious expression and a mouthful of food that he stopped chewing.

The entire restaurant was staring at her.

Judging her

wondering what's wrong with her

asking her to pick them

asking her to let Chloe die.

Max's cheeks turned pink and then red and then she was fumbling with the door to leave. Outside she sucked in the cold night air and pulled her jacket's hood over her head. Then she brought her hands up to cover her eyes and hide her tears, and muffle the sound of her wordless frustration.

"Ghhhhh…!"

Her jaw was tense, teeth bared, toes curled against the inside of her shoes, shoulders bent and shaking not with sobs but with an incomprehensible fury.

She had never felt like this before.

You did the right thing, a voice just like hers whispered in her head.

I hate you, she replied. I hate all of them. I hate you, I hate me, I hate every other Max that ever existed.

Then a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, and she knew it wasn't Chloe, because it never would be.

Her mother first, then her father, pulling them all into a big hug. Max in the middle, sobbing, sobbing, her mother whispering little words of comfort, and all Max could think about was how she wished everyone else was dead.