I find trigger warnings very useful but not if they reveal plot, so this is flagged mature for a reason, people, just be careful. As always, this is not gratuitous, only plot-driven. As the story develops everything should begin to be self-explanatory and I will stop rambling shit before chapters. Remember all that 'unbetad/not my first language' stuff, be kind, please –I know you all are– I did struggle a lot with this one. So typos! Weird grammar! Mistakes and mistery! It'll all be there! Beware!
Guess chapter one was just kind of a prologue. Go listen to Daughter's song if you can, it will to set the mood and it's so, so beautiful. Be safe, everyone.
Chapter 2: Doing the Right Thing
"Then I'll take my clothes off
And I'll walk around
Because it's so nice outside
And I like the way the sun feels
And when it's dark
I'll call out in the night for my mother
But she isn't coming back for me
Cause she's already gone
But you will not tell me that
Cause you know it hurts me every time you say it
And you know you're doing the right thing
You must know you're doing the right thing
I have lost my children
I have lost my love
I just sit in silence
Let the pictures soak
Out of televisions"
–Doing the Right Thing, Daughter
Max feels the heat.
It's what's making her mind go ape, ape, ape – she's insane in the brain and she's not coming back from the mosh pit, shaka brah, ever. Never ever. Her neurons are throwing a party. There's fireworks inside her head.
Max touches the warm skin on Chloe's back, who's beginning to sweat lightly. Max wipes the drops, but what she really would love to do is just melt with them. Drink them until the end of time. She would have never, like ever, ever imagined that someone else's sweat could smell this wonderful. It's the way Chloe smells right now what's making her lose control. Max has never been in touch with her wild side, with her animal instincts. But now she knows she would walk naked through lands of ice and fire just to inhale Chloe's essence, just to be a slave to her skin.
Isn't that a little bit too much?
Well, it's not – because the room is about to be set on fire.
Sweat of Max's own begins to appear everywhere. Chloe licks it here and there. Max closes her eyes out of pure bliss. Everything Chloe is doing is provoking an aching beat to pound between her legs. It's painful. It's perfect. Too perfect.
God, her skin is… warm. Hella warm? I can't breath. She's so warm… Wowser. I'm gonna die here. But if this is dying, please, evil crazy Universe, please let me die slowly…
"You here with me, babe?", Max hears Chloe's voice, no trace of real worry, just sweetness.
She opens her eyes to find her blue-haired friend – isn't it lover, now? Whatever – on top of her, topless, panties still on, so gloriously full of herself with that cocky smirk on her face.
"Stay with me, girlfriend, you don't wanna miss this." And Chloe launches herself forward and gives her a ravishing kiss. Max instantly melts and she's glad she's laying on Chloe's bed because otherwise her legs would turn to jelly.
Chloe's tongue is inside her mouth now, Max lets her in gladly and brings her hands up to stroke messy blue hair. Chloe's hands are everywhere but she's deliberately missing sensitive spots. Max doesn't care, she's lost in her mouth. Chloe's kisses taste a little bit of smokes, coffee and something else she can't tell. Maybe it's just Chloe's secret ingredient, maybe it's just the natural way she tastes, but it's bittersweet and addictive and she loves it and she needs more so her hands travel from her hair to her back and she pulls her close and scratches her skin a little bit and that provokes a moan from Chloe and Max doesn't know what kind of rave party is going on between her legs but now she feels wet, warm, thirsty and so, so ready and… I need air!
Max breaks the kiss, breathing heavily.
"Whoa, easy, cowgirl." Chloe chuckles.
Max smiles up at her with the most radiant, beseeching, worshipping smile. That leaves Chloe speechless. For like, three seconds.
"Dude, if you're giving me that look you sure are crazy 'bout my bones. Glad to see you want this as much as I do." Chloe sounds kind of vulnerable this time, and Max feels the need to take the lead.
She's the one starting the kisses now. Right up until this moment, Max was never nervous, never shy or afraid, but for some reason she didn't feel in control. Now she does. Now she needs it. Chloe lets herself be rolled-over. She lets go, willingly, trusting. Renewed confidence washes through Max because she's so damn sure about this. This is the perfect picture – that she'll never take; it's only theirs. The perfect memory she will treasure until the end of time. Her first time with Chloe. The first of hundreds, thousands of intimate moments. Because Max knows this is the real deal. She might be just eighteen, she might be drowning in love, drunk in the scent of first-time sex and sweet surrender, but she knows. Because it's always been Chloe. And as easily as she can wrap time around her finger, so she can see a future full of laughter, fun, creativity, learning, love-making, trips, family, cats, maybe dogs too, skating, pictures, concerts, pubs, drunken nights, sweet mornings, Instagram mushy posts tagging one another, and of course shitty jobs, low pay, big cities, big dreams, big fights – nothing is perfect, some headaches sometimes, some disagreements, but they'll get through all of it, just like they got through death and destruction, and how awesome it would be to become Max Price, wife and super hero?
Max Price? How lame can you be, Maxinery?, Max laughs at herself internally while her mouth is kissing the line of Chloe's collarbone. She doesn't stop for a second. Max Price. Wow. I really am tripping balls right now. She lets her tongue lick the path of her kisses to go a little higher and ends up sucking gently Chloe's earlobe. Chloe moans.
I'm so lame, yes, Max smiles to herself. And so, so in love…
Then Chloe speaks without opening her eyes.
"I've wanted you for so long…"
Max's heart forgets to beat for a moment.
"So, so long…" Chloe's voice is husky and tantalizing.
Max has never heard her talk like this, but now she knows she madly needs – desperately, actually, to hear her name said like a sacred prayer blessed in Chloe's lips.
And she'll have it.
Max kisses Chloe and invites herself into her mouth. She doesn't know how, but she knows exactly what she's supposed to do. Without second thoughts, Max takes Chloe's right breast in her hand and squeezes her nipple, not hard, not gently, just finding the right pressure. Chloe breaks the kiss and whispers…
"Let me see you."
And her eyes are wide open now, and they're seeing right through Max. And that look makes Max whimper and the wetness between her legs goes on flood mode. Max follows her hand and takes the nipple in her mouth, sucks, licks, kisses every little bit of skin. Chloe's hands find her hair and begin to grasp wildly. Max doesn't care. She's riding the wave.
Max's hands travel through Chloe's stomach and her mouth follows, leaving a slippery path. She bites Chloe's hipbone on both sides, her hair is a mess now as Chloe's hands push her down and down and she finds herself between Chloe's thighs. Chloe's panting. She's trembling, and Max takes a moment just to enjoy the feeling of her breath against the fabric of Chloe's panties.
Chloe doesn't like that pause.
"Fuck it." Impatient, the blue-haired punk pushes Max away who's so caught off guard by that reaction that almost falls off the bed. Chloe takes off her panties in the blink of an eye and Max, who's still in her underwear, finds herself being undressed in the most urgent, unapologetic way.
Max giggles, struggles with her bra while Chloe is dead serious about getting her naked. She knows that under any other circumstances, Chloe would be complaining and calling her 'a clumsy ass'. Now Max just wants to cry pure tears of joy. She never imagined she would get this. She never imagined happiness could be so tangible, that you could smell it in someone else's skin, that you could feel it through someone else's heartbeat. Oh, yes, she is so ready.
Now two girls who were best friends since the beginning of time are looking into each other's eyes, panting into each other's mouths, naked against each other, losing track of everything that exists outside the room. The beginning of time, Max wonders, when was that? We were four, five years old? I don't remember a life without Chloe, actually. But we lost five years– no, I lost them, I let that happen... And yet, I could jump into a picture and change everything all over again. There are those who say time has no beginning, nor end. But if I ever got lost in time, Chloe would be my constant. Just like that guy from 'Lost' who traveled through time. Desmond had Penny. I have Chloe now. She is my constant. So I don't go mad. So I don't destroy us.
Chloe is on top of Max again, whose head is almost on the edge of the bed. Neither of them smiles now. Max is almost holding her breath and Chloe's eyes are watery. She's asking something without asking. Max just knows. She kisses Chloe's eyelids just before redemptive tears begin to fall.
"Sorry, I–" Chloe begins an attempt of an apology but Max places her index finger against her lips.
Then, all while holding her gaze, Max takes Chloe's hand in hers, and guides it right between her legs. She feels Chloe's index finger tracing a circle around her entrance. Max touches her own wetness while holding Chloe's hand. She bites Chloe's chin and closes her eyes waiting for the inevitable. Chloe enters her slowly. She makes little circles inside her and Max realizes it's still just teasing. Then, a second finger goes in and the pressure added there makes Max's head spin. Chloe brushes her thumb's fingertip against Max's clit and the younger girl just bangs her head against the mattress. Chloe takes advantage of that position to lick Max's neck while she goes deeper. Max doesn't let go of Chloe's wrist until she feels the first deep thrust, the one that makes her give in completely.
And the heat becomes wildfire.
Chloe's inside her. Max's head finds the edge of the bed and she just lets herself hang on there while Chloe bites her earlobe, her chin, her neck, and then keeps going down and takes her right breast in her mouth. Max grips the bed sheets, curls her fingers, opens her legs wide to wrap herself around Chloe's waist. There's some pain buried in the burning longing she's feeling, but she doesn't care. She tries to keep her head up so she can see Chloe but it's hopeless, she falls back, gasps with each stroke. Chloe keeps going down– her tongue plays inside Max's belly button, she licks the line of her hipbone, she kisses the inside of Max's thighs all while going in and out of her oh so sweetly, mercilessly hard.
Max truly believes she's going to pass out the second she feels Chloe's tongue licking the tip of her clit. That tongue begins a dance that consists of circles and adequate pressure and deliberate fluttering. She feels Chloe humming happily against her wet labia. Life is perfect. The moment is perfect. The pressure is unbearable, and perfect. Max wishes she could bring her arm up and plea for the Universe to let her stay in this moment forever but all her strength is now focusing on her tangled hands on Chloe's hair and keeping her heart from exploding inside her chest. Chloe's fingers find a sensitive spot inside of her while she focuses with a firm rhythm on her clit. And that's it.
Max screams. She simply cannot help it. Maybe she screams Chloe's name, maybe she screams she loves her, maybe she just lets go, but she screams, and Chloe's not holding back and she's moaning against her clit and Max's legs are kicking in the air and she doesn't care if the neighbors call the police or Joyce and David get home. She just needs to have this. To have her.
"Chloe..." Her own voice feels different, out of tune, but Max doesn't have time to find that odd. "Chloe," Max repeats again, "come here. Please."
Her voice is definitely hoarse with arousal, it sounds so strange, but Max just focuses on Chloe going back face to face with her. The blue-haired girl is covered in sweat, her chin is wet from some other liquid and the way she looks at Max simply disbands the brunette. Chloe kisses her and Max's moans find their home in Chloe's mouth. The brunette can taste herself in the kiss, a salty essence permeating Chloe's sweet lips. Tongues collide and hands find skin to scratch and the room is filled with wet noises and the pounding of the mattress against the wall.
Max pulls Chloe as close as she can. Chloe finds shelter in the crook of Max's neck.
Max sees the blonde roots of Chloe's hair, the blue and pink locks wet against her hands as it all becomes blurry. The light is blinding now. She just can't help but thinking she'll never capture colors as beautiful with her camera. And she never thought she wouldn't care about that any less.
Now Chloe is not stopping her strokes inside her and Max knows she's moaning louder and louder but nor can she stop it nor does she want to hold anything back. As Chloe rubs her nose against Max's earlobe, the blue-haired girl begins to sing.
Max recognizes the tune. It's one of her favorites. Chloe's singing voice sends a wave of tremors from her neck to her clit to the tip of her toes, all while echoing wildly in her heartbeat.
"...the fury in your head, I'm the fury in your bed, I'm the ghost in the back of your head..."
Max is close now. So close. Chloe senses it. So the punk bites the skin in Max's shoulder, hard, and the pain adds something else that makes Max understand the whole meaning of the word 'belonging'.
Just when she's about to feel her body succumbing to the perfect storm, under closed eyelids and hot sweat, she registers that Chloe is saying her name. Finally, the reward she yearned for, the prayer.
But something is wrong.
Something is very –
Very –
Very wrong.
"Rachel…"
Max stops breathing. Her whole body freezes. She tries focusing her gaze again. Maybe her cloudy mind is playing tricks on her...
"What…?" Max doesn't find her voice that sounds, indeed, quite strange.
Chloe keeps trying to make her come and seems oblivious to the fact that Max is not moving or encouraging her anymore. Then she says it again...
"Rachel… Oh fuck, Rach..."
Max tries to push Chloe away but the weight of her blue-haired partner is too much and her muscles feel so weak. Chloe's thrusts don't feel so gloriously sweet anymore, Max registers pain and an uncomfortable burning, and as much as she wanted this to happen, now there are voices in the back of her mind screaming for her to stop.
But the 'no' gets stuck in her throat. Instead, she keeps trying to get Chloe off of her and can only express incredulity.
"Chloe, what the fuck?!"
Chloe keeps thrusting. She stands on her free arm to look down at Max. She smiles.
"Babe, you're so close, I know. C'mon, Rachel..."
Max finds the boiling of unexpected, uncontrolled rage inside her. She's taken by a strength she didn't know she had and slams Chloe in the face.
"Let me go!"
Chloe falls back on the bed, Max can finally escape her grip. Chloe touches her cheek where a red mark appears quickly and looks utterly confused.
"What's wrong? You feeling ok? Did I... Did I hurt you? Rach?" Chloe's tone is both hurt and genuinely concerned.
That pisses Max off even more.
"Stop calling me that!"
Chloe throws her hands in the air in a gesture of abandonment. What's scaring Max the most is that there is real incredulity in her face.
"Ok. Now you're scaring me. You tripping or something?"
"I am NOT Rachel Amber and you know it!" Max screams at the top of her lungs.
Chloe is taken aback by Max's anger. She just stares at her, for long seconds. Then, she speaks, slowly.
"Ok, ok. That's fair. You're not Rachel. I won't say that again. Who are you, then?"
"You know who I am," Max breathes nervously. She realizes she's still naked. She wishes she could cover herself... "I'm Max, " she whispers, "I'm Max..."
Chloe doesn't flinch. The most cold, evil smile Max has ever seen appears on her face. And Max had seen real evil before. That's when she realizes exactly what's going on.
"Max? Max who?"
The sudden lack of emotion in Chloe's voice makes the young photographer feel instantly nauseous.
Chloe's lips, so tempting and inviting a few seconds ago, seem like the promise of a trap now. She gets off the bed, slowly, and begins to approach the brunette, and that's when Max can feel the smell of danger rising in the air.
Max closes her eyes, wishing it would all just go away.
"No, please. Not again." A prayer to no one but herself.
When she opens her eyes again Chloe is in front of her. She's not naked anymore. She's very much dressed in her distinctive punk clothes, black jacket, boots, beanie and everything. And there's something else: a bullet wound, dripping blood, right in the middle of her forehead. Max fights back the urge to scream.
Chloe grips her wrists and squeezes until it hurts. She holds Max's gaze, right in the eye, she doesn't let go.
"See," Chloe begins, "it doesn't matter anymore who you are; Rachel, Max, me? It's no use. Girls like us, we're just hot pieces of ass asking to be fucked. Or killed."
Max breaks free from Chloe's grasp and just runs for the door. The only thing she recognizes in the dark is the bathroom. She runs towards it, doesn't look back. She turns the light on and looks in the mirror. Her reflection should be there, but it's not. Rachel Amber, completely naked, stares back at her and laughs. A beautiful laugh. An impossibly beautiful, cruel laugh.
"I WANT TO WAKE UP, NOW!" Max shouts desperately to the air.
Everything changes immediately.
Electronic music begins to pound through the walls, like it's coming from inside them. A low bass with a heavy beat. Max recognizes the tune. Maybe it's really the end of the world this time.
"If anything like this ever struck you
If ever a likeness had you scraping, the pockets avail
Whatever you like when you came in
Whatever you use, whatever you choose,
Whatever your acronym..."
The house keeps the same structure but Chloe's bedroom transforms into a dark room and red lights come up from the stairs. Now Max is dressed in rusty old jeans and a black jacket. She recognizes the outfit instantly. The mirror finally shows her real self. Chloe's bullet necklace has also appeared, hanging very close to her heart. She sighs. There must be some kind of way outta here, said the joker to the thief... she sings Bob Dylan's song inside her mind. This is a dream, so even her mind doesn't think how it's supposed to. She knows the unexpected can happen at any given moment, like Victoria or Nathan coming up from the toilet to continue the track and sing There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief...
"I need to wake up. NOW." She insists.
She looks up at the ceiling because someone has to be listening: her consciousness, her mind, her own demons.
And speaking of the Devil, the Devil appears.
Mark Jefferson is staring at her from the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and a contented smile in his face. He's in the same clothes he wore in the dark room, while torturing her. Max is not even impressed. Oh, but his voice... His voice injects the same old venom inside Max's head.
"Remember, Max? This is what you wanted to hear: they're fucking together in Heaven."
Jefferson steps away from the door to let Max see what's going on behind him. Chloe and Rachel are wildly making out on the couch inside the dark room.
Max looks away. It shouldn't hurt. She knows what this is. She's been here before. But it hurts. It always did hurt, it always will.
"Aww, Max. C'mon. You know she loved you. You two were so tragically beautiful. Your love story, I mean. What a shakespearian tale of destiny and heartbreak! Oh but this, this is only a dream, sadly." Jefferson sighs happily, "But if you want to join them, it's easy, of course. Just take one of David's guns and put a bullet through that beautiful head of yours. Or jump to your freedom, like Kate."
Max ignores him and makes a run for the stairs. She goes down to see there's no kitchen on the ground floor, no front door. Instead, she finds herself in Blackwell's dorms. She sees a figure at the end of the hallway. Max tries to focus but everything is becoming blurry, she can't tell who that is. It seems like... a woman? She's saying something Max can't hear clearly. The music from the End of the World party is still there, but it's slowly fading away, giving room to an uneasy dead silence.
Max begins to walk towards the figure but the corridor just seems to go on forever. Dana's door, Kate's door, Victoria's door, her own door... And it begins again. Dana's door, Kate's door, Victoria's... So she runs. Dana's door, Kate's door...
Victoria's door opens suddenly. Max freezes in place, even when all she wants to do is keep running. No matter how hard she tries, she just won't move. Oh, for fuck's sake!, Max is not even scared or disgusted anymore, she begins to feel just utterly annoyed. At least I don't have to pick up bottles in this one...
He appears out of Victoria's dorm. It's Jefferson again. Behind him, inside the room, Max recognizes Chloe's voice. She's moaning. Someone's there with her. She knows who. Chloe's making love to someone else.
Max rolls her eyes. There's clearly a lack of originality in the darkest corners of her mind...
"You know," Jefferson begins in his overacted mocking tone, "your nightmares are created by your subconscious and you seem to repeat a lot the theme of Chloe making out with everyone else. Maybe it's not just the jealousy; maybe there's a little voyeur inside you, Max. Don't tell me you never touched yourself thinking about that little hallucination you had about Chloe and Victoria back in the Dark Room..."
Jefferson approaches her and strokes her cheek with the back of his hand.
"Ah, I always knew it." He taunts her. "We photographers are nothing more than overpaid voyeurs. We're so much alike, you sassy, little dyke."
Max takes Jefferson's hand in her own. She smiles. She brings the hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. What the fuck am I doing?
"I'm nothing like you, Mr. Jeffershit", she says, still smiling.
And with that, she bites hard on Jefferson's hand until her teeth hurt and she tastes blood.
"You stupid bitch!" Jefferson jerks away trying to clean the blood, rubbing the wound. His white shirt becomes a mess. Then he starts laughing. "Do you feel better now you've hurt me a little bit? Do you understand this is all in your head and everything you do is useless? See?!" Jefferson shows Max his hand, clean again, no sign of blood or bite. "Everything you do is for nothing! Just like in real life!"
The woman at the end of the hallway whispers something. Max still can't understand. She looks at her, then at Jefferson again. Her words are growls that make their way out through disdain and rage.
"And you are one shitty villain! The real you is in jail. And you will pay for everything you did!"
Jefferson laughs again.
"Pay? Who, me?! Remember I didn't kill Rachel myself. The psycho rich kid is going to pay for that one, and he will be rotting for a long time since he also finished off your poor, lonely Chloe. Me? I'll get myself a good lawyer and I might get 5, 10 years at the most." Jefferson looks her right in the eye. "Still plenty of years ahead of me to live as a free man. And I'll be out to do what I love with celebrity status and my own internet fanbase of little creepy psychos, while your little punk enjoys a permanent vacation right by her Daddy's side."
Max closes her eyes. This shouldn't get to her. But, the fury... She breaths in. She needs to keep moving forward. She can't really hurt her, not anymore. This is just a dream. She's free from his influence now. She must keep going.
A voice, very far away...
"...Max... home..."
She begins to walk decidedly towards the figure at the end of the corridor. Jefferson is left behind, but he keeps shouting his bile at Max.
"Oh but at least, at least in one timeline I got to enjoy the privilege of putting a bullet through your little punk's head. How does it feel, huh, Max? To see the person you love getting killed again and again?! Did you hate me more for that?! How much do you hate me, Max?! How much do you hate that I'm still alive in the real world but you can't have your happy ending with Chloe?! No one is going to miss her sorry ass, as Nathan put it. Not even you in due time! You'll forget her! You'll move on!"
Each word stabs her heart. It's just a dream, yes, but Max wonders how the tears can feel so hot, so real.
"You did the right thing, Max. You let her die and by doing that you also saved me! I really have to thank you for that, Max! Thank you for killing her. Thank you for saving Arcadia Bay! Thank you for SAVING ME!"
The young photographer tries to focus on the woman at the end of the corridor. Max begins to make something out of what she's saying...
"...wake up... kid..."
Jefferson is just a shadow in the dark now, but his voice still reverbs on the walls.
"'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.' That's what you are, Max. You are Death itself! You were born to bring sorrow and confusion into this world. We will forever worship you as the Goddess of Chaos. Thank you, Maxine, thank you!"
Max knew who Jefferson was quoting. The Bhagavad Gita, as cited by Julius Robert Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb. It seems her subconscious was indeed very lame on gathering metaphors and quotes from everything she learned from pop-culture and wasted evenings surfing the Wikipedia. Or maybe I read that on one of Warren's books?
The more she ignores Jefferson's words, the easier it becomes for her to keep walking. The hallway is not endless anymore. Max is so close to the end, so, so close.
She passes right by her own door, again, but this time the door is open.
I need to keep going.
But the nightmare, always the creative one, has other plans. Max finds herself pulled to the door frame. She peaks inside. Of course she doesn't found her bed, her pictures or her guitar. There's not even Lisa.
Instead, there's a beach. The Bay. How can a beach be contained in a dorm?, she wonders to herself. A mean voice inside her head answers back: It's a dream, you asshole. It just can.
The tornado can be seen in the long distance, but it is still very far away from the shore. There's dead whales. There's rain and wind and flying signs and the lighthouse is on fire.
And there's Chloe. Topless. Her hair is not blue. Her natural strawberry blonde shows, long and wet and completely ruined. She's tied up to a post in the sand, all alone in the rain. Over her chest, someone has written the phrase "DIE FOR US" in big, red, bloody letters. Chloe's looking up at the sky, letting the rain get in her eyes. There's tears there, but they all get lost. She's shouting something, again and again. Like a mantra.
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?! My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?! My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!"
Max feels like someone is trying to pull her heart out of her throat. She chokes back new tears. I really, really need to wake up.
As she's about to turn away, she hears a familiar voice behind her.
"And walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. Ephesians 5:2."
Kate.
Max turns around. Kate smiles back at her as she finishes quoting the Bible. But Max is shocked to find that her shy, sweet friend is dressed up as Pris, the character Daryl Hannah played in Blade Runner: white makeup all over her face, a dark blue strip aligning with her eyes. She's wearing a short, black, transparent dress that doesn't leave much to the imagination and instead of her usual bun hairstyle, her bangs are cut straight across, her hair messy and free on the sides looking like a cyberpunk helmet.
"Don't be so surprised, Max. I hope that you didn't expect to find me in a white coif and a habit..." Kate smiles at her, oddly uninhibited. "You and Chloe loved the movie, right? I thought you might like this. I never fit in so I may as well be a replicant! Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't you love it?" Kate reaches out and caresses Max's cheek. She makes an exaggerated sad face. "But then, I would have an early expiring date, right? Just like poor Chloe... life's too short, life's too short, my friend!" She adds cheerfully.
Max looks behind Kate, she needs to go back to the hallway. Suddenly, Kate grabs her hand and puts it above her chest, holding it between her hands.
"Oh, Max, Maxine. My heart is beating so fast. We are so blessed to be chosen witnesses to Our Lord's mercifulness. This, this sacrifice, this sheep that is being slaughtered for our sins, this girl that has to die, it all brings great joy to the Lord! This is an opportunity to thank Him and say some words from the sacred book!"
Max tries to jerk away from Kate but her grip is surprisingly strong. She can still hear Chloe, screaming in the beach. She can only beg.
"Please, Kate, this is not real. I need to wake up. Just let me go, please."
Kate seems to be out of it.
"She's seen things you wouldn't believe", Kate begins to recite in an solemn tone, "attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion..." Max recognizes the words immediately; it's not the Bible, it's the famous final replicant monologue from Blade Runner's ending. She would laugh, if she wasn't so desperate to get out of this nightmare. "She watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate." Kate continues. "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears... in rain. Time for her to die."
Kate points at Chloe in a very melodramatic, cheap horror movie style. Chloe screams and then, a sound of thunder. Max rolls her eyes despite her anxiety. And now a nod to Ray Bradbury. Or Monty Python, I don't know. My subconscious is a fucking mess... I'm sick and tired of this!
As if she was reading her thoughts, Kate turns to her with a frown.
"This is no science-fiction book, Maxine. And if you think you're in a movie, you're very wrong, too. You think this is not real? Oh, you're in for a treat." Kate says in a condescended tone that's so not her way.
Kate releases slowly Max's hand. She stands in front of her, her faces inches away.
"Let me explain this to you, I'm the expert."
Kate takes Max's face between her hands and whispers in a low, cold tone.
"We're all in the nightmare here with you, Max. And we can't wake up."
Max feels completely paralyzed. She remembers those words, a sudden chill goes down her spine.
Kate is grabbing her face harder.
"Unless... we put ourselves to sleep."
And with that, Kate kisses Max hard on the lips. Max wants to scream and pull away, but she can't. The forced kiss doesn't last long, but when Max is finally able to break it, there's no sign of Kate, or Chloe, or the beach.
She's back in the hallway. In the dorms. She's finally at the end.
The black figure, the one she was trying to reach, turns out to be Joyce Price in her funeral clothes. And she's right in front of her. She breathes, relief washing through her. She knows this is her way out. In some sort of sick way Kate helped her escape the nightmare.
Max cries shamelessly now. Joyce reaches out for her to accept her embrace.
"You need to wake up now, kid. You have to come home."
Max steps forward into Joyce's arms and everything around her disappears. There's no dorms anymore, no Jefferson screaming, no Rachel, no Kate. And no Chloe.
She hears birds singing outside and on someone's backyard kids are playing, there are distant laughs and screams. Maybe those kids are imagining they're pirates. Maybe it's just the echo of an old memory.
She knows she's awake now. She's in a bed, soaking in cold sweat, while Joyce is placing a kiss in her forehead and rocking her gently in her arms. Max doesn't open her eyes just yet. She knows what's surrounding her. She remembers now being brought up here, after the funeral. That was yesterday. She's been drifting in and out of sleep since then. Joyce has been taking care of her as if she was her own daughter. She remembers she's in Joyce's and David's bedroom. Max feels him there too, and if she was to open her eyes she would find him sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently, holding a glass of water for her and looking down at his feet.
"It's ok, kid. You're home." There's Joyce's voice again, tying her back to reality.
Maybe this was the slow death she asked of the Universe while on the dream, while thinking she could live in Chloe's arms forever. Max is too tired to give a shit about the irony.
She just wishes the tornado will come. She needs the tornado to happen. She really, really desires with no shame and no restrain that the storm will appear and wipe the whole town so she has an excuse to hold her hand up, the definitive proof that it is inevitable, therefore she can, she should, she must go back to Chloe. But her powers might be gone now, she's unsure, and she knows for a fact that yesterday –Chloe's funeral, no storm– was Friday.
And it was a beautiful sunny day in Arcadia Bay and people went to work, they had lunch, cars came and went and the Bigfoots won their game against the Razorbacks. They held a minute of silence for Chloe and Rachel before kickoff, but of course they didn't cancel.
So life goes on, and nothing happens.
Max knows that once Joyce and David leave the room, she will cry herself to sleep.
Joyce Madsen, widely known as Joyce Price by the folks in Arcadia Bay, never imagined this scenario. Who would? She's been crying since they were able to calm Max down and make sure she had a dreamless sleep this time, with a little help from a benzodiazepine pill. Joyce is sitting at the dinning table, trying to get herself together. She's washed her face four times in ten minutes now.
"Her parents should be here."
Even when you have those moments when you're afraid of losing the ones you love, when you encounter yourself at night, lying awake in bed, restless for some absurd reason, lost in unfounded fears and insecurities, you never think the worst. And how could you imagine the worst of the worst?
She knows she's read somewhere that life's hardest blows usually catch you by surprise in the most mundane of your routines. Joyce knows, she's been there before. It's never the apocalypse, never a freak event taking over the ones you love, but a regular call on a Tuesday afternoon what turns your world upside down. She remembers the exact words: "The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday." In her case, it was not a call. But tragedy did find her in her waitress clothes, coffee pot in her hand and a friendly smile on her face to greet Officer Berry as she always did, every morning. When she saw him removing his officer cap and looking mournfully at the floor, she just knew. Déjà vu all over again. William, all over again. She knew. She just asked, in a low whisper, "Is it David? Oh God, Chloe?". And when he began with the unequivocal "Joyce, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this...", she lost it. The pot shattered against the ground did not matter. The hot coffee splattered on her legs did not matter. It should've burned her, but the lack of air and the stabbing pain in her chest was far more painful. She remembers some folks grabbed her and prevented her from collapsing. She does not remember much, after that. Just crying against David's chest. Just asking why, over and over again. And her daughter, her gorgeous, unique, smashing daughter in a black plastic bag –that, she will always remember– her skin white and cold, her beautiful blue eyes, closed forever.
So yes, as it turns out, life is ridiculous. You can lose your husband in the most absurd way. Just because you call him to pick you up at work, for example. And you spend years and years of your life blaming yourself for such an ordinary act, totally unrelated to the unfolding of the tragedy, and years later, in the most unfair, violent manner, you can lose your only child too. Joyce was not very religious, at least she was not a churchgoer, but she was finding it very hard not to play the 'God is punishing me for something' card. Guilt was definitely going to be her permanent companion, specially if she remembered the last words she exchanged with Chloe. She couldn't take it back now. She wished she could turn back time and go to the that moment so she could do things differently. But no one had that kind of power. From Joyce's perspective, to say life is ridiculous was putting it mildly; life's unfair and a fucking bitch, and that's it.
"Joyce, did you hear me? We're not responsible for her."
Joyce stares at the cup of tea between her hands whilst she's seated at the dinning table. David just keeps pacing the family room. She's registered what he's just said, but she's tired. So absolutely tired of the struggle of just being, just living and waking up every day since that dreadful Monday when she lost Chloe. It's only been four days. It feels like a century of sheer pain.
"Ryan and Vanessa just couldn't make it, you know that," Joyce begins, reluctantly. "How many times have they called to apologize, practically in tears? I don't want to make it harder for them–"
"What?! Do you hear yourself, Joyce? Harder for them?" David was livid with rage. Joyce just remains silent. "They should've been here for Chloe's funeral. Just like Rachel Amber's parents, what a disgrace!"
David kicks the back of the couch out of anger, moving it a few feet forward. Joyce knows that he could easily break it in half if he wanted to. He could also break his foot. It was a silly gesture of desperation, so Joyce summons all her patience to soothe his husband's pain. Because, of course, she knows where this is coming from, and she isn't the only one beating herself up with guilt.
"Please, honey, don't take it on the furniture, it's not like the couch is guilty of anything and we're too poor to buy another one." Joyce gives him a sad smile as he falls back on the old couch, looking kind of embarrassed. She softens her tone even more. "And though we've talked about this and I feel like I'm repeating myself, I will say, again, that I think we can leave them out of this, honey. The Ambers have enough guilt of their own to eat them up for the rest of their lives..."
David lets out a bitter laugh.
"Yeah? I hope so! Chloe was the only one not giving up on their daughter and look where that got her. They could at least have shown some respect. And the Caulfields? Don't get me started!"
Joyce sighs, feeling the first throbs of a rising headache.
"David, please."
The veteran rises from the couch and begins to pace the room again. His voice trembles slightly.
"I'm only saying... it's... all of this... it's disrespectful. Not to say that they're practically abandoning their daughter in a situation like this..."
Joyce feels his pain. His pain for her, his pain for Chloe. She knows where this is going. She remains patient, understanding. She's so tired.
"We've already discussed this. I don't want you making a scene when they arrive tomorrow. I just need you to be here for me, please."
David turns his back to her for a moment. He's completely silent for long seconds. Joyce can hear him breathing fast. When he turns around, he's welling up.
"God, Joyce, I'm here for you, you know that. That's why I think Max should be with her parents. You... you should be resting." David shakes his head and wipes his tears, as if mad with himself. "You... you should be taking care of yourself. I should be taking care of you. We should be... For God's sake, we just lost our daughter. And you're the one taking care of their kid?"
Joyce knows she should get up, hug him, tell him everything was going to be alright. It's not like she doesn't feel moved by David's feelings, she is. She really is. But she's tired. She wishes she could go to sleep and just, maybe, sleep forever. But she needs to be here, she can't do that, David needs her. So she doesn't say that she's tired of all this. She just says what she's supposed to.
"David, honey, you know I don't mind taking care of Max. She's family."
David shakes his head, again. No tears this time. He goes back to being just pissed.
"No, she's not."
Joyce takes a sip from her cup.
"She was to Chloe."
"Yeah, right. She never wrote or called in five fucking years. I didn't even know the two of them used to be friends, Max always seemed to me like a shady little br–"
And that's it. Joyce raises her voice for the first time.
"They were just kids! Would you just stop it, for God's sake? Maybe she was too shy, maybe she thought Chloe would hate her, who knows? But, just, please, stop it! The poor child blames herself enough."
David notices she's upset now, so he remains silent for a few seconds. He shouldn't say anything. He should just drop it, he knows. He should just let it all go. Turns out he can't.
"Well, she ought to." He whispers to himself.
But Joyce hears him. She stares at him for long seconds. He crosses his arms over his chest in some manly manner as if saying "I'm not going to take it back". To Joyce, it seems just childish. So her face doesn't look compassionate anymore.
"What, David? Tell me what you're thinking." She could have added "soldier" at the end of the sentence. It's not a plea. It's an order.
David finally spills the beans.
"She just laid there. She didn't cry for help, or fire the alarm or throw her damn camera at Prescott's skull. She let that little shit pull the trigger–"
He's interrupted by the bang of a fist against the dinning table. It's not a gesture Joyce would do under any other circumstances, but if there was a time to do things differently, this was it.
"She is not to blame for this, do you hear me? How many times do we need to go over this? You're a soldier, but not everybody is. Your first instinct is to protect people, but Max is just a kid. Chloe was just a kid, even if she pretended to be otherwise." Joyce closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She tries to calm down. She isn't mad at David, that's a fact. She just wishes he wouldn't push her to have the same conversation, over and over again. "For all we know, it all happened too fast for anyone to do anything. You yourself told me how they found her. She was so shocked that paramedics had to sedate her right there, David, for God's sake, you know all that! Max couldn't do anything to save my daughter, nor could you."
And with that, finally, Joyce is able to break through David's walls.
"I just wish..." he sighs, battling with himself to say the words. "If only I had been there. A minute, a few seconds before... Maybe..."
Joyce has known from the very beginning that he blames himself. But she needs to put an end to his confusion. She needed to explain to him how blaming Max was an inexcusable mistake. She was just a child that was not only sweet and innocent but obviously devastated by what had happened. He had to know everything, then.
"Please, honey, I need you to understand that I'm doing this for me as much as I am doing it for Max." Joyce wouldn't allow herself to say it, but in some deep corner of her mind, she knew Max was her only connection to Chloe now. Even if they spent all those years apart, Joyce knew how much Chloe still thought about Max and how much she missed her. She wouldn't say it, but Joyce just knew. And she had found... things, in her room. Pictures, letters she never sent... Things Chloe had hidden from everyone, even Rachel. And Max... she was broken now. Maybe the guilt of all those radio silence years or remorse itself had prevented her from contacting Chloe once she was back in Arcadia Bay, and now regret was tearing her apart. It was a real tragedy that they never had the chance to see each other again, but Joyce knew, deep down, that their love and friendship had been there, just waiting to come back once they got a chance to meet again. They never did, and in the end Max ended up as a witness to Chloe's tragic death. But still, there was a connection between them, Joyce knew, she couldn't explain what it was... So yes, maybe she sensed that having Max around would, in a way, always remind her that her daughter was, that she existed, that she would live on in someone else's memory. "Ah, if you could have seen those two back in the day... I mean, it was pure devotion, a love so transparent... They were just kids and they knew each other so well... Before everything... Before William, Chloe used to be so sensitive, ah, she was so creative, so full of... life. And sometimes, when she was upset and she wouldn't talk it through with me or William, Max would come forward and just calm her down. Oh, and the laughs! Oh, that was the music that played in this house for so many years. And then... Well. They were something, yes. Thick as thieves." Joyce chuckles softly and then she just seems to get lost in thought. She sighs. "William and I used to wonder–"
The door bell rings.
"What?" David asks softly, visibly intrigued.
Joyce sighs. The door bell rings again. The moment is broken. She shakes her head.
"It's him. Can you get the door, please?"
They both know who's at their doorstep. David looks at Joyce, for the umpteenth time, with that 'Do we really have to do this?' look. Joyce just waves for him to go.
David opens the front door to find a good-looking black man, maybe in his early thirties, dressed in a brown leather jacket and navy blue jeans. He extends his hand to greet David.
"Mr. Madsen, I'm Shaun Arthur, I–"
"Come in." David just cuts him off and opens the door for him.
Shaun doesn't seem taken aback by the not so warm welcome, and he just mutters a polite 'thank you' and makes his way into the Price/Madsen household, backpack in his hand. Joyce gets up from the table to greet him. He dedicates her a sympathetic, soft smile.
"Mrs. Price, we spoked on the phone earlier..."
Joyce takes his hand and shakes it. She immediately likes his eyes. She's always considered herself to be a simple kind of woman, but if she has any talent at all, that would be recognizing a kind-hearted fellow when she sees one.
"It's Mrs. Madsen. It has been for a long time now but... everyone on this town seems to forget that."
Shaun begins an embarrassed apology...
"Oh, I'm sorry, I..."
Joyce cuts him off.
"Never mind. Just call me Joyce, please."
Joyce sits at the table again, nods for Shaun to take the seat in front of her. David just stands near the fireplace, looking at him.
Shaun clears his throat and speaks again.
"Joyce. First of all, I'm very sorry for your loss. Words fall short but... My condolences to both of you and–"
"Can we skip this part, please?" David interrupts, "I don't mean to be rude or anything but we all know why you're here and we all know what's happened so... can we cut to the chase?"
Shaun remains silent while Joyce extends her hand to David, smiling warmly at him. He approaches her and finally sits by her side.
"You'll have to forgive my husband, Mr. Arthur," Joyce begins. "As a veteran, he's had his share of therapists to last a lifetime, I'm afraid. But he's here to support me, I really couldn't do this without him so..." Joyce and David look into each other's eyes for a few seconds. She strokes his cheek with the back of her hand. Shaun can tell David is fighting back the tears. The young man just keeps his respectful silence. Joyce looks back at Shaun, visibly moved. "Please bear with us."
Shaun smiles softly, and nods.
"Of course. You'll always be the ones setting the pace. You have to know you'll have my respect and understanding, no matter what you say. So yeah, let's get straight to the point as you suggested, Mr. Madsen." Shaun begins to take some papers out of his backpack. "First of all, is my professional duty to tell you you're entitled to choose your therapist. As you know, I've been assigned to lead a group of counselors by Blackwell Academy. Some of them are helping the students, others are guiding the parents. I will be your personal counselor if you agree to that after this meeting. And also, Principal Wells spoked to the Caulfields on the phone this morning. They expressed their concern for Maxine and they would like to assign me as her counselor as well."
"You should call her Max." Joyce points out gently.
"Sorry?"
"Nobody calls her Maxine. Only her mother, maybe, I don't know."
Shaun nods. "Oh, ok."
"Why you? What's so special about you?" David asks abruptly.
"Well, I'm not going to bore you with the details of my professional career, Mr. Madsen... You can check my LinkdIn account or I could get you a copy of a detailed CV, but I'm positive you're looking for another kind of information. You've a very perceptive and intelligent man, Mr. Madsen, so I'm going to be very straightforward with you. That, I owe you."
David looks at Joyce, uneasy. He looks like he is about to jump from his chair. Joyce pats his hand and looks back at Shaun.
"We're listening, Mr. Arthur." She says flatly.
Shaun nods, knowing he's set an uncalled for tension between them. But there's no other way to explain himself.
"Please call me Shaun, Joyce. It would be unfair if you wouldn't. The thing is, I'm Principal Wells' nephew. I grew up in Philadelphia, I never really got to be around him a lot but... He's a decent man. He has his own demons, sure, but this... He's devastated. He didn't want just any therapist that the Academy or the Mayor Office could hire. He wanted the best. So he called me and here I am."
"The best? You're kind of full of yourself, aren't you?" David is not making any kind of effort to hide his irritation now.
"I've helped a lot of people, Mr. Madsen. I don't mean to brag, believe me, but you ought to know why I'm here." Shaun sighed and nodded to himself as if trying to find some courage. "This kind of thing... I mean, something like this, something violent, senseless, unfair..." he continued, genuinely trying to be as honest as possible. "It might bring some bad memories for my uncle. The reason why I became first a psychologist and then a therapist specializing in school violence is because I lost my big brother to such violence. He was fifteen. I... I was there, when it happened. Our mother worked always late so he would pick me up from school and bring me to his basketball practice. He was shot in the court. Right in front of me and all of his friends."
Joyce and David hold their breath for a second. Joyce grips his husband's hand a little harder.
"I was eleven," Shaun adds, "and it's something that has shaped who I am, but what I did with my pain, what I tried to turn it into... it's right in front of you. I can help you both. I can help Max. Please, let me help you."
For long seconds, no one dares to speak. Joyce chokes up. She sniffs, she clears her throat.
"Shaun... I appreciate your honesty and... well. I do believe you want to help. But you don't know us, kid. It seems to me... you're very determined to help us when we're perfect strangers. It's what I'm finding intriguing about you."
"That's perfectly understandable, Joyce. My uncle personally asked me to help at Blackwell as I already told you. One of my motivations is personal, of course. You both have suffered beyond the imaginable. I really believe that only someone with my experience will be able to help you successfully. You don't know how many cases just go... wrong. I've worked with veterans too, Mr. Madsen. And you have to know that you have my respect and admiration no matter what. Please remember that when I make you feel grouchy... I can't help being a therapist, but I'm not one of those that tell you how you're supposed to feel or behave."
"That's good to know." David states halfheartedly.
"On the other hand, I read Maxine's– sorry– Max's file. It's completely against the rules to uh, show you how I feel as a person. You should see your therapist as someone who can be impartial in any given situation. But... maybe now what you need is exactly the opposite. Someone who can be committed. I must confess that I recognized myself in Max. This girl is going to need the best guiding she can get. It's all too strange..."
Joyce frowns and looks at David who simply shrugs.
"What do you mean?" Joyce asks, uneasy.
Shaun goes through his papers and takes one that looks like a medical file. It's the report paramedics wrote on Max after attending to her at the scene of Chloe's murder. Shaun goes through it while talking.
"Well. I know Max is showing behavior associated with PTSD, Principal Wells told me what happened at the funeral. But what really worries me is that they found her severely dehydrated and exhausted at the scene. Like she hadn't eaten or drunk in days. And witnesses say she just got out of class and she seemed just fine, it's incredible that she could act normally considering how she was found in the bathroom. Besides, she rambled unintelligible words and phrases and although that would be expected, some of them had nothing to do with what had happened... And I quote: ... where we found Maxine Caulfield, female, 18, unidentified at the moment. Individual was crying, visibly shocked and repeating over and over again phrases such as 'It's the right thing to do, it's the right thing to do, it's the right thing to do / we need to save everyone / never, never, never...' She seemed in a deep, manic state and was not aware of her surroundings and did not respond to our questions. When approached, the individual displayed violent behavior. We were able to remove her from the scene by administering an injection, 5 mg of Haloperidol... That's... uh... that's a drug used to calm down patients with psychosis or dementia..."
The words make Joyce suck in her breath on a sharp gasp. Shaun sighs and throws the file on the table, rising his hands in a gesture of bewilderment.
"Well. We could argue if paramedics acted rightfully or not, but what holds no discussion is that Max was... beyond shock." Shaun takes the file and points at what Max was saying, the phrases had been previously highlighted with a fluorescent yellow marker by his own hand. "This is no simple PTSD. Either the event triggered something in Max or she had just gone through something else, something besides watching Chloe die. Something she's holding back."
"Well, quite a therapist you are, Mr. Arthur. You haven't even met the girl and all you've got are assumptions..." David frowns at him, his usual, suspicious self taking over.
Shaun looks at him right in the eye.
"These are no assumptions, Mr. Madsen. This is a medical report. But you are right, you were at the scene, so I guess maybe you could enlighten me?"
David doesn't have time to answer, Joyce's voice cuts the tension between the two men, confused, demanding.
"I uh... I don't know what to say. It's the right thing to do? What did she mean by that?"
Joyce looks at her husband, maybe trying to find some comfort.
David just shakes his head.
"I don't know, sweetheart."
Joyce insists.
"You told me all of this, David, just not the details. Did you know...?"
David shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
"No. I mean... yeah. I read the report at some point but... I just... I don't know, I overlooked it."
Joyce seems lost in thought. She takes the file in her hands and reads the words to herself. For a few seconds, all there is to here in the house is silence. Not one of the three adults dares to say anything. Shaun takes a deep breath.
"Joyce," he begins carefully. "I would like to meet Max, if you don't mind. So we can decide what actions should be taken."
Joyce leaves the report back on the table.
"Actions? What do you mean?" She glances from David to Shaun, puzzled.
"Well... It's just a precaution." Shaun tries to sound as calming and confident as possible. "Other students at Blackwell are being treated the same way. But we really need to find out if Max should be watched under a suicide prevention protocol."
Joyce just gasps in disbelief.
"Max is not suicidal!"
"I'm not saying she is," Shaun points out in a conciliatory tone. "I'm just saying... prevention saves lives. She's seen something that could make her at least think about it. Believe me, I know." And for the first time, there's a sudden, cryptic note in his voice.
"Now. Before we agree to anything... Who's paying your fees?" David asks abruptly, an irritated look in his eyes, like he's suddenly remembered something that really pisses him off.
Shaun frowns immediately, visibly surprised by the question.
"Blackwell Academy, of course." He responds a little too quickly.
David gets up immediately and points an accusing finger at him.
"You mean the Prescotts! They've been trying to bribe us the whole week, those disrespectful fucks! We don't want anything from those rats. You can tell them they can shove their dirty money up their a–"
Shaun quickly raises both his hands in defeat.
"Ok, ok! My bad! I lied!"
That stops David dead on his tracks.
"What?!" The veteran seems ready to jump to the therapist's jugular.
Shaun sighs and begins to explain, reluctantly.
"I'm not getting paid, Mr. Madsen. In fact, I don't ever do freelance jobs but... Let's say I'm here because I want to. My uncle asked me, right? I read Chloe's file, I know what happened to Rachel, I know about Mark Jefferson, the whole story."
Joyce takes David's arm and pulls him down to his seat. Shaun sees that gesture as an encouragement to keep talking.
"Listen. My brother was killed by a teacher, a teacher who was harassing and abusing students. My brother knew, he wanted to speak up, that bastard killed him, end of the story. You may find some similarities, right? So yes, this is completely personal. I just want to help you and help these kids. Help Max. You have to believe me. It's that simple."
When he finishes, Shaun seems nervous, vulnerable, for the first time. Joyce finally comes to a decision.
"I believe you have good intentions, Shaun. But I've been taught the hard way, over the past few years, that this is no world for idealism." She cracks a sad smile for him. She remembers she's so tired. She just wants this day to end. "I would like to... attend some sessions with you and... we'll see. But if I feel like it... I will call it off whenever I want to."
"Fair enough." Shaun smiles gently.
"And about Max... I'm not her mother. If her parents want you to take a look at her, that's what needs to be done." Joyce rises from her seat and she rests both her hands in the table, as if trying to make a point that would not be up for discussion. "But she's a person, and in light of what's happened, she may not be a kid anymore. You may see her only if she wants to see you. I'm assuming you know her parents arrive tomorrow. But for now, she's a guest at my house, so let me talk to her first and see what she has to say."
Shaun just nods respectfully. He's beginning to feel a mild admiration for the courageous persona of Joyce Price. Or Joyce Madsen. Whatever – he knows he needs to keep that to himself.
"Just wait here. I'll be right back. Please, behave. Both of you."
The patronizing tone is not lost to any of the two men, now sitting awkwardly in the dinning table, in front of each other. Joyce is gone to see Max upstairs and all they can do is sit there, sharing an uncomfortable silence. David finds some interesting things to stare at in his shoes and Shaun folds his papers and puts them back in his backpack.
After a minute or two, Shaun decides he should break the ice. It should help.
"Your wife is a very brave, intelligent woman, Mr. Madsen, I'm sure you know that."
The young therapist feels that, in due time, he could bond with David. Shaun is completely sincere and friendly in his tone. He holds a reassuring smile, trying to appear receptive, approachable to the veteran.
David just stares at him. A second. Two. Three. He doesn't blink. He groans. Then, he speaks.
"Shut up."