Chapter Text
Max limped along the dimly-lit sidewalk, cars occasionally passing her by.
Each time a car’s headlights became visible she squinted, hard—left pupil completely blown. Her face was partially beat, left eye slightly swelling and with a gash above her eyebrow that was accompanied by what she expected to be bruises very soon.
She grumbled angrily under her breath; light, hoarse curses about the asshole who tried talking shit about her “weird” friend, said friend not even present at the time of the shit-talking.
***
It was a late December afternoon and Max had just been on her way back to the Sinclair’s house, where she had been staying in the months after waking up (and the defeat of Henry) on account of the fact her trailer had been torn in two when the world was split open.
Not much of her stuff was salvageable, even if they could easily get into her trailer. Lucas managed to get her skateboard, some clothes, and a couple of her music tapes.
Not much, but Max didn’t care, the fact he tried to get her anything was sweet enough. But she was pissed that he even tried risking his own life to just get her stuff.
Her stuff that she wouldn’t even be able to acknowledge for… what, 18 more months? God, what an idiot he was. Her idiot.
She shook the thoughts out of her head, refusing to dwell on things she couldn’t control.
It’s been about 13 more months since she woke up, and she could finally walk on her own.
It took a lot of exhausting physical therapy appointments, what felt like a hundred nights filled with tears and pure, unbridled frustration, and Lucas holding her like she was broken.
Because she was broken, after everything. He was the only thing holding her together.
And she was only finally starting to get better, but it still took so long.
She had been at one of her appointments today, learning to jog on a treadmill. Her physical therapist clearly had some opinions on the matter of her singularity but didn't say anything.
The redhead had decidedly gone alone, refusing to let Lucas skip another D&D night with his best friends, his party. Max knew that he would have kept missing them over and over if only to just be there to walk her to and from the appointments, but she rejected his offer this time. He deserved to have fun with his friends without worrying about her all the time, otherwise they would just be totally dependent on one another. Because they totally weren’t already.
So now she was walking back to his house, where she knew that the rest of the Sinclairs would be, but no Lucas. No… Lucas. For the first time in months, she would be in his house before he was.
Huh.
That was fine.
Max passed the Hideaway Pub, a vaguely familiar face piercing her peripheral. Said face began to approach, making her huff under her breath. She had no desire to talk to Andy-goddamn-Harper, that piece of shit.
“Hey, you, weren’t you the one who was in a coma for, like, forever?” Andy teased as he walked forward. “Maxine, right? How you doing now? Finally escaped the white lights and smell a’ bleach?”
“Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?” She almost snarled at him, knowing he was the one who had chased down Erica the night she… anyway.
There was a brief pause in between her response and his eventual answer, a clear thought passing through his mind as a smirk pulled at his lips.
“Was there really some other girl that your little group hung out with?”
Max froze where she stood for only a moment, eyes wide and twitchy, nearly unnoticeable. She stared straight ahead, eyes locked on a random building up ahead at the corner.
“Don’t… don’t talk to me about her. She’s not… here… anymore, and I don’t think you deserve to even speak vaguely about her,” Max spit, continuing to walk past the pub as he kept pace next to her, looking down at her with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Her fists tightened as she spoke, fingers curling tight against one another until they were white-knuckled.
She could smell the alcohol on his breath, it was strong, and he was clearly drunk. Someone must’ve bought it for him—probably some graduated jock that peaked in high school who thought he was some ‘legend.’
Her nose scrunched—both from anger and the disgustingly familiar smell. It made her think of her mom after Neil left. The many nights she spent cleaning up bottles off the floor, occasionally drinking what remained before rinsing and tossing them in the recycling. Sometimes it was just a beer, sometimes vodka or tequila. Whatever it was, Max would drink. Looking back, she hated that she had taken up any manner of drinking.
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, come on, Mad-Max, you can’t seriously care about that weirdo. She must have been weird as hell, didn’t you hear the rumors? That she’s from that insane asylum up the hill? Or- or even was somehow involved in the murder of Chri-”
He was cut off by a tightly-bound fist shooting directly to his jaw, caught off guard due to his (surprisingly) snarky way of speech when drunk, which included instances of shut eyes and a face that tilted upwards, giving Max the perfect opening.
He stumbled back while Max stood there huffing, eyes full of anger and a fist slowly lowering from where its velocity ended up leaving it.
She knew it was barely a powerful punch, but regardless of the fact that she was still a bit weak, she put all she could behind it.
He stood there for about five seconds, processing what just happened, before he lunged for her, yelling “you bitch!”
Max tried dodging by turning left, but he caught her by her hair and they went down quickly; yanking her head down directly against the pavement they had been interacting on moments earlier.
A dull ache presented itself where the back of her head had just dropped against the pavement like a cement block, a groan pulled its way out of her throat as the ache grew.
She, thankfully, landed on the band tied around her hair (which probably saved her from cracking the back of her head open), but it still didn’t feel great. The impact alone probably jostled her brain a good amount.
She felt as if the wind was knocked out of her, eyes squeezing shut from the sharp pain that shot through her spine. Probably not a great way to go down on account of the fact she was just paralyzed a few months ago. Not like she ever had much choice in either of those matters. Well, she supposed she did start this.
Just as she began opening her eyes and had finally taken in a breath as she pushed herself up on her elbows, he quickly launched his foot directly into her right rib, expelling that breath that she only held for a brief moment.
Her side suddenly swelled with warmth, a warmth that was not comforting nor enjoyable. Rather it was… familiar. Horrifically so. It felt the same as when she was stuck in Henry’s mind as her limbs snapped in the real world. The real world that she had been so disconnected from, then and now.
It all made her nauseous, both the memories and the current sole in her side, bile building in the back of her throat.
She cried out in pain, reaching to hold her side as she was turned over from the force of the kick. Her breaths were shallow and short, bordering on hyperventilation.
She was face-down on the pavement, slowly dragging her face across it to look over at his foot, and found herself glad that he used the bottom of his foot instead of the front. He was wearing steel-toed boots. Could’ve been… much worse, she supposed.
A few feet away, his breaths were loud—akin to a growl at times. She felt his looming shadow as it was cast over her from the lamppost just outside the pub. His shadow landed on her face, growing as he began to approach.
“Don’t mess with me, Mayfield. You’re fiery—but you don’t have the power to follow it anymore, shithead.” He huffed at her, leaning down before dragging her up by her collar. His hands were huge and rough, a kind not unfamiliar to her skin. The way she was being held up wasn’t unfamiliar, either. Billy.
She accidentally scoffed at the thought of him, unknowingly egging Andy on further.
“I was just trying to be nice, I didn’t have to ask how you were.” His eyes bored directly into hers, pupils as small as a needlepoint. He was clearly trying to burn a hole into her skull, as if she hadn’t already dealt with enough of his drunken anger.
“You didn’t—“ a cough ripped through her chest, deep and rough— “have to talk to me at all, asshole.” Her voice was gruff from the pain, but she still had a little bit of fight left in her. Just a little. It was hard to put out a fire whose embers persevered through so much.
She spit on his face.
He took a deep breath in as he leaned his head back, moving one hand to her tied-up hair as if keeping her in place. Max thought he was about to yell again. Wrong.
There was a fresh, hot buzzing feeling that blew right in the left side of her face, centralized on her eye. “Don’t. Start. Shit. With. Me.” Each syllable of his words was emphasized by another slam to her head by his own. Max couldn’t keep her mind straight long enough to comprehend his words, but the assault on her face got the point across anyway.
He kept holding her up for a few moments longer, taking in the damage he had done. He looked pleased at her freckled face as it contorted in pain.. She was looking up at him with only one eye now, and saw the bruise forming on his face.
He let go of her collar, eyes locked on her face as she fell to her knees. The look in his eyes was the same as that of a predator watching it’s prey—hungry and killer. She would’ve been pissed if she had the capacity to be.
He then let go of her hair and, unable to keep herself up at all, her body quickly succumbed to gravity; rocky pavement quickly pressed into her pale, bloodied cheek once more. The small, sharp rocks would certainly leave indents in her skin.
She knew she had to leave it here, otherwise she would probably be hospital-bound for at least a few nights again. She couldn’t deal with that.
Even if she wanted to keep going she… couldn’t. She was worth it, but Max just didn’t have the same fight in her that she used to.
Not now.
The fire was out.
Her gaze shifted back down to the pavement, tentatively looking at the blood as it dripped from her face. Her mind flashed to Lucas… when he told her how she looked in her final moments. She supposed it was a good thing she couldn’t feel it at the time—otherwise this may have been a whole ‘nother thing to be stuck on right now. A small amount was pooling below her face and onto the palm of her hand as it laid on the pavement near her face, the crimson color staining her ghostly, freckled skin.
He let out a small, vindictive laugh before turning on his heel and walking back into the pub. As if nothing happened. No one saw it, no one was there, so did it really happen?
When he was out of earshot, Max let out a deep, pained groan as she pushed herself up off the pavement, forcing herself to keep walking.