4: Max
Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
- T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
She was always beautiful. I knew it even when I was little, the way you know the sun rises in the morning, or that your nose is on the front of your face. It wasn't anything that needed thinking about, it just was.
The first time it happened was just a little while after I got my powers. I found Alex down in the laundry room, crying. I asked her what was wrong and she pulled away from me, told me to go away, that she didn't want to talk. I went after her, took her arm, asked her again. She told me to go away, that I needed to hide, that she was in trouble, and she didn't want me to get hurt when he got there.
I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. Now I know, of course, but then - it hadn't been very long since the last time Justin had wiped my mind. I told her I'd protect her from whatever it was, and she started crying more... and then she kissed me.
She pulled away from the kiss after a second, and I just stood there stunned, looking at her. That was the first time I really saw her, saw how beautiful she was. And three seconds later, before I ever said a word, Justin came into the room, zapped me unconscious.
That was the first time I fell in love with Alex.
It was doomed from the start, of course. There was no way Justin was going to stand for it. Talk about off and on relationships - ours was literally that. We'd fall in love, have anywhere from a few seconds to a few weeks before the next mindwipe.
I asked her to run away with me, twice. She wouldn't. Even there, even the way he treated her, she always loved him more than me. She loved me - but him she loved and hated and feared and almost worshiped.
She was... she was a fragile, beautiful, broken thing. She was his, and he twisted her, and... and if he hadn't twisted her, she never could have loved me like she did. I never should have loved her like I did.
But I did. I do.
She was never mine, but I was hers. We never had a ghost of a chance, but we had the only thing that mattered - each other. I did the best I could to protect her, but it wasn't enough.
I was never good enough. I wasn't good enough for her to love me more. I wasn't good enough to protect her. I wasn't good enough to save her.
And now, it's all gone, and all I have is memories, memories that glow beautifully, like hot coals, and that burn just the same when I pick them up.
I'm in love with my sister. Not the sister I have, but the sister who was broken. I'm in love with a girl who I can never see again, never touch again.
A girl who never even existed now.
Max Russo laid down his pen and picked up his wand, looked at what he'd written. The side of his mouth quirked in something that wasn't a smile, wasn't a frown, but wanted to be both. Wow. And my English teacher said I couldn't write. Just because she didn't appreciate 'An Ode to the Sticky Thing on the Bottom of My Shoe That I Don't Know What It Is'.
He read through it again, more slowly this time, then set it back down. All right. Here goes nothing. Max took his wand, touched the paper with it, said, "Words come from my head, now they're on the sheet, if my memories could go like that, wouldn't that be neat."
And then he tore the paper, tore it again, ripped it to shreds. Max swept the shreds together into a pile with his hands, swept the pile off the edge of the table, cupped it in those hands and picked it up, cradled it to his chest, holding it reverently, like some holy relic. He carried it into the bathroom, and then he stopped.
If this works... if I don't remember it any more... the only one who will remember her will be Justin. Is that what I want? For a moment he stood, breathing in and out as he thought. I can't have her. All I can do is torture myself with these memories. But if I don't even have those...
If I let myself keep thinking, I'll never do it. He moved then, suddenly, threw the ball of torn scraps into the toilet, slammed his hand onto the handle with a spasmatic jerk, knowing that if he tried to do it calmly, he'd never be able to do it at all.
The toilet flushed, and the water swirled, and then he was reaching into it, trying to grab those scraps, blinking hard to clear the tears that arose away so he could see, so he could take it back, save those memories -
And then they were gone. Max Russo half-fell back onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor and stared at his wet hand, wondered why he'd had it in the toilet.
He stood and moved to the sink, then washed his hands there, carefully. It was five minutes before he realized that he'd scrubbed them so much now they were turning red, and he had no idea why.