#you have a guy whose emotions are always dialed up to the max and you do nothing with it

[nibeul]

wish people would acknowledge mic's rage more often.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E2; Chapter Two, Trick or Treat, Freak - [Pt. 2]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

After Will sees something terrible on trick-or-treat night, Mike wonders whether Eleven’s still out there. Tensions grow between Y/n and Mike as does their concern for Will.

A//N: This chapter is slightly different cause I realized I'm a complete Doof™, and I had Max and reader meet twice. It had been so long since I wrote MADMAX, that I forgot they met in the arcade lol. So if you've read this before, the scene in the hallway is different.

||Reader's POV||

"Well, good new is, this is only slightly humiliating," I mumble.

I was doing the best I could to shrink back and be as hard to notice as possible, even though I know it's a lost cause.

Unfortunately, the boys all had the same thought and I had been slowly pushed front in center.

"Oh, my God," Someone laughed.

I did my best to let the side comments and laughter slide off my back.

"Maybe its's not so bad," I tried.

"That's easy for you to say [Y/N], you're not in a proton pack and jumpsuit." Lucas said.

I winced. He did have a point, their costumes are a bit more obvious than mine.

"When do people make these decisions?" Dustin said.

I heard Will speak up behind me. "Everyone dressed up last year."

"Yeah! I mean, who are they to judge, he went as Frankenstein's monster last year, and no one laughed despite that being super played out." My anger was getting the best of me, and I made direct eye contact and let my voice rise as I uttered those last words.

The boy I had targeted, covered his laughs with a cough and grew silent fairly quickly. At least I shut someone up.

"It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you."

"Just be cool" Mike encouraged.

I took a deep breath in, and that's when we all heard some prick speak out. "Who you gonna call? The nerds!"

I had a million things I wanted to say to that kid but nevertheless I took another deep breath in. That's wen I felt a hand grab my own, and I knew it was Will. I gave his hand a light squeeze as a silent thank you and kept walking.

+++

...three to the right, four to the left.

I mindlessly repeat the combination in my head as I've done a thousand times before at this school and my locker opens once again. I let it swing open and I sigh. I pull the fake glasses off my head and fold them, putting them on the small shelf in the locker space. I reach forward and grab my textbook and notebook after scanning for them. It's then that I barely make out my brother's voice.

"...so you probably don't have any friends to take you trick-or-treating,"

I frown and look over to find them just down the hall. Talking to Max. Or, attempting to at least. I continue to exchange my things and get ready for the next class. Although, I can't help but wince when I hear him continue.

"and you're scared of bullies, so we were thinking that it would be okay if you come with us."

My eyes widened slightly, and I took that as my cue.

"'It'd be okay'?"

My eyes widened slightly and I took that as my cue to jump in. I closed my locker and quickly reset the dial.

"Yeah. Our party's a democracy, and the majority voted that you could come."

I quickly made my way over, my things held tightly against my chest. I smiled and spoke up.

"Hey guys," I chirped. I made eye contact with Max and I chose my words carefully. "How are you guys?"

I ignored the frantic and slightly confused looks Dustin and Lucas were desperately trying to send my way.

Max smiled knowingly at me.

"I'm good." And I knew, just like me, she had a double meaning to that.

She turned back to the guys and plastered on a fake smile.

"I didn't realize it was such an honor to go trick-or-treating with you." I couldn't help but smirk at that.

"Yeah, I mean, we know where to get the full-sized candy bars. We figured you'd want in."

Her eyes squinted ever so slightly. "That's presumptuous of you."

I stood there awkwardly before I recalled that Max and I had our next class together.

Desperately wanting to change the subject, I smiled and turned to her. She was already closing her locker.

"Wanna head to class?"

"Sure thing." She smiled, and the two of us walked away, leaving the boys a gaping mess.

I felt kinda bad for the guys, but at the same time, I hadn't realized how nice, and refreshing it was to have another female friend for once.

||3rd person POV||

Max felt a looming sense of dread knowing it was time to go home. Which meant another painful care ride with him. She hated even being around him, he made her life a living hell. As she skated across the parking lot, she knew he was gonna threaten her in some way for being late. She didn't feel bad though, of course.

"You're late again."

"Yeah, I had to get catch-up homework." She mumbled, opening the passenger door and climbing in.

"Jesus. I don't care. You're late again, and you're skating home. Do you hear me?"

+++

Max sits quietly, wishing with all of her might that the car ride could just be over. 

Billy, her older step-brother blasts the song Wango Tango as he drives, wrecklously down the road. He scoffs.

"God, this place is such a shithole."

Max thinks of the [Y/N], the only girl who had actually been nice to her, despite her own short temper. Her only real friend since moving here.

"It's not that bad,"

He looks at her, and she knows - she knew as soon as she said something, anything, Billy would find away to use that against her. And sure enough.

"No?" He said, angrily.

She watched as he reached for the window mechanism and rolled down her window. He watched smugly as she winced at the smell and harsh wave of cold crisp air. He took a deep breath, and pulled his nose.

"You smell that, Max? That's actually shit. Cow shit."

"I don't see any cows." She said, matter-of-factly, reaching over and rolling up the windows.

"Clearly, you haven't met the high-school girls."

Max's head threw itself back at the headrest at the comment. She felt her anger boiling up, but she tried to keep it down.

"So what, you like it here now?" He snapped.

"No," she said defensively.

"Then why are you defending it?"

"I'm not."

Max knew he was getting angry again. He knew his pattern by now and she knew he was already up to no good. He loved to corner her.

"Sure sounds like it," He said calmly.

Max hated it when he got calm like this. It always meant he was going to snap. Go too far. Her heart began to pound. She shook her head, tying to regain her composure.

"It's just we're stuck here, so..."

"Hmm. You're right. We're stuck here," She felt his head turn and his eyes zero in on her. "and whose fault is that?"

"yours."

His attention when back to the road. She couldn't help it, her anger was getting the best of her, and the answer came out in a weak whisper she prayed he didn't hear. But he did, and she knew 

he was going to do anything to make her pay.

He looked at her, then back at the road but then back at her. "What'd you say?"

Max felt like she was shrinking. "Nothing," She mumbled, quickly.

Billy got calm again. Her heart began to beat faster once more. "Did you say it's my fault?"

"No," she said quickly.

"You know whose fault it is."

She stayed quiet. Max knew anything she said would it would piss him off. Her words failed her.

"Say it,"

Her eyes began to burn, but she refused to cry. He always made her feel weak and powerless and she knew she might not be able to do anything now, but she sure as hell wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"Max..." He said lowly, drawing out her name. "Say it." He growled.

He whirled towards her in his seat, his face inches away from hers. His face was completely red as he screamed his throat raw. "Say it!"

She closed her eyes tried to ignore him. Even though she could feel his spit on her face, and his screams were loud enough to vibrate the car. She couldn't let him see how he got to her.

He returned to road, and reached for the volume dial, cranking it all the way up. His foot stomped on the gas and the car was suddenly going unnaturally fast. Billy threw his hands on wheel to every beat of the song.

She let him take it out on the car, grateful it wasn't her. But she knew there was nothing she could do to stop him anyway, right?

She was prepared to make it through the rest of the car ride, but her pounding heart stopped, her breath hitched and her eyes went wide when she saw four figures on their bikes in the middle of the road, not far up ahead.

"Billy, slow down." She said, quickly.

"Oh, these your new hick friends?" he asked, a scary gleam in his eye.

She quickly shook her head. "No! I don't know them."

"I guess you won't care if I hit 'em, then?"

Max knew Billy was crazy. He was out of his damn mind, but what terrified her most, was that she truly and honestly did not know if he was crazy enough to hit some kids with his car. She felt sick to her stomach, everything was going too fast and her heart began pounding faster and faster. 

"I get bonus points, I get 'em all in one go?" he asked excitedly.

The car was getting close and just like that, her fear was quickly replaced by anger and her adrenaline was pumping. She whirled herself around all the way to face her nasty scum of a step-brother and her voice was rising. "No, Billy, stop. It's not funny."

His body kept dancing, his head bobbing and hands drumming themselves against the steering wheel, but his head turned to her and his eyes were stone cold. He had no emotion in his face and it was enough to send a chill down her spine, but she knew now wasn't the time. He stomped on the gas pedal and the car roared.

Max wondered to herself why and how in the hell do these idiots not here this car and why the hell aren't they moving?!

She kept an eye on the road, the kids, the girl - [Y/N] - noticed the car coming first.

'Why the hell, aren't they moving?' she thought.

Max found her voice one more and screamed at the top her lungs. "Billy, come on, stop it. It's not funny. Stop!" The car got faster.

What she feared most was coming true. He snapped, and he might as well have been in trance cause he was laser focused, she was positive he hadn't even blinked, and she knew it didn't matter whether or not he had any intention of stopping. She couldn't afford to sit around and wait, they were only a few feet in front of them.

"Billy, stop it!"

With a racing heart, Max lunged forward, gripping the steering wheel and the car swerved to the left, just in the nick of time. 

Billy came to life and started shouting again. "Yeah! That was a close one, huh?"

He let out a wild and crazed laugh, and Max whipped around in her seat, peering out the back to see her classmates emerging form the leaves on the side of the road. She was unable to get a good look, the car was over the hill within seconds and they were out of sight. But she breathed a sigh of relief knowing they were alive.

+++

Tag List: @dickkwad @aimee-lucass @iblesstherainsdown-in-africa @miscellaneoustoasts @acexattorney

DM me if you want to be added!

[planetsam]

Malex prompt where their bond amplifies and they can sense when the other is in pain, danger/ Protective Michael!

Michael leaves earth on a day so bright it hurts to look at the sky.

It doesn’t matter. The ship that takes him away is more of a teleportation device than a ship. Alex can’t watch him go or see him off or anything so poetic. Michael goes inside the turquoise mines. There’s a faint tremor, a bright flash that’s almost impossible to see against the sun and then there’s nothing. Maria watches with her eyes shielded. She said she came to make sure he took off. Alex knows that’s not it but he’s been a coward about everything, so he’s not going to change that now. Maria steps forward and he grabs her arm.

“He’s gone,” he says and his voice comes out so sure that everyone looks.

“He’s right,” Isobel says, “H-he’s gone.”

No-one is sure what to do after that but Isobel looks at him for a moment too long. Alex doesn’t know if she’s gone into his head but he finds he doesn’t really care anymore.  It’s as if Michael took some integral piece of him when he got onto the ship and vanished. Alex doesn’t feel like he usually does when they pull away. There’s no gaping hole he’s on the precipice of. No high wire he might fall off of. There’s no risk. He isn’t over the hole, he’s in it. And that really is the end of it. Maria helps him down the hill and into his car. He drives back to bar.

“You should come inside,” she says softly.

“I’m fine,” he says, “thanks.”

“Alex you’re not fine,” she says, “I can feel—“ she stops.

“Don’t try to read me,” he says but there’s no force behind the words, “there’s nothing there.”

“You’re right,” she says and sounds truly stunned. He ignores it and opens the door. When she gets out she’s unsteady, her hand wrapped around her necklace. Alex thinks he should care but he doesn’t hate the numbness. “Alex—“ she starts forward but he takes off, almost forgetting to close the door in his wake.

He sleeps for three days and then re-enlists.

He may as well be useful if he’s not going to feel anything.

“Son of a bitch!”

Michael doesn’t know how he’s fucking managed to go from constantly being in jail in one world to constantly being in jail in another, but he has. At least in the other prison he had Max on the other side. The two guards who stand there now are not as fun. Something he didn’t know was possible given that it was fucking Max. Apparently though the guy in charge around here is a real wet towel. Also he killed him, which Michael could get over. But he killed Max and Isobel too and that’s unforgivable. So now he’s in a cell that’s worse than on earth with a guy whose worse than Max and he’s seriously starting to get pissed off.

He spent his entire life figuring out how to leave and now all he wants is to fucking go back.

First he’s got to get out of the cell.

It’s hard when he’s feeling like this though. He feels like he’s got the volume cranked up on some emotional dial. Everything’s haywire and scrambled. And bad. It’s really bad. Michael’s inner thoughts have always been poetic, almost to a fault. His mind has always worked in a way that is far more like Max’s and Isobel’s than he ever wants to admit. Things feel infinitely simple though, in a way they never have. And the more he thinks of getting out of the cell, the simpler they become. It’s not the weight of what to do or where to go or how he should feel when facing this strange world he’s dreamed of. It’s very, very straightforward.

He needs to get a weapon.

He needs to get rid of the guards.

He needs to get out.

He needs to get to the ship or whatever.

Repair it.

Go.

Michael tries to steady himself in a way he’s never been good at but somehow knows now. He’s had foster dads in the military. But he never caught on to what they tried to teach him before their belts came off. Now though it comes easily. Like his life has depended on it. When he opens his eyes, he immediately starts to think of weapons. Utensils he can use. Maybe the tray. Maybe—Michael grits his teeth and tugs his curls, pulling away from the alarming calm. He doesn’t need a weapon he’s fucking telekinetic. He’s powerful too or he wouldn’t be in this god damn cell.

What the hell’s wrong with him?

Irrationally he wishes Alex were there. He really wishes it. He kept Alex out of his secret for so long, he forgot how fucking smart he is. How clever. Alex would know how to get out of the cell. He doesn’t know how, but he would. Michael rests his head against the cell. Or maybe he wouldn’t and he’s just being stupid because he misses him. Leaving earth had been easy. Even if it was a joke because the planet was better than this shithole. Leaving Alex had been hard. As he was transported, it felt like he was ripping himself apart. Now it feels like he’s overstuffed. Like maybe his molecules were rearranged wrong. Maybe, he thinks, Alex came to stop him and some part of him got mixed up. mmediately he feels bad about the thought. He’s hurt Alex enough over the years, but he sure as hell has kept from hurting him physically. He doesn’t need to do it molecularly.

“Hey!” He calls to the guards, “where do I go to take a leak?”

He’s good at war.

He never wanted to be, but he is.

Sliding back into the cockpit is like coming back home in a way that Roswell never has been. He’s safe up here. Untouchable. But somehow that doesn’t really matter. Or maybe it’s the only thing that matters. Birds have hollow bones. Maybe this is where the hollow things belong. He thinks he could do this until the end. Whenever that end might come. It’s the Air Force, they’ll take care of everything. The stack of unopened letters in his bag, the body, all of it.

All he has to do is keep flying.

Seems like a fair trade.

Michael clears the room.

It’s easy.

Too easy. He’s got the genetics of a super soldier but he didn’t even own a tv, let alone play any of those war games. Somewhere behind him Kivar bleeds out because somehow shooting someone with alien tech is as easy as shooting someone with a regular gun. Which is somehow easy. He can’t escape the feeling he’s done it before. Maybe his molecules did fuse with Alex’s. Maybe that lass kiss transferred something in some alien way that he doesn’t understand. He honestly doesn’t care to freak out about it. A solider uses all his tools. He gets the mission done. He does it again.

“Damn it Alex,” he mutters as his fingers find the symbols instead of shaking.

All he can think about in the back of his head is that if he’s got all this solider drive from Alex, what the hell did Alex get from him? Worse, did he get nothing in return and Michael just took what he needed? The knot of dread in his stomach he pushes aside. He has to get back to earth. For Alex. Because this planet blows. Because he’s been a complete moron about this whole thing. Also because he has to get back and tell Max how hard he can go fuck himself for being right about this one.  He jumps into the control panel and lets it wrap around him. Michael’s not religious. This shit planet is the only thing he’s ever believed in.

“Dear God, if you get me back in one piece I will never complain about the holding cell in the Roswell police station again,” he swears.

The sensation of ripping apart swells up but this time he’s not delighted or excited or any of the other things. The victory is bitter. Inconsequential. It just means he gets to stay alive a little longer. Hope that one day he’ll get to go back to some place that might be home one day. Michael grips all the shattered feelings and molecules and concentrates very hard before flinging himself where they all are desperate to go.

Alex doesn’t tell anyone he’s back. But his dad is gone and his cabin is dark so he shuffles to the Pony. Getting yelled at by Maria doesn’t really matter. Except Maria’s not there. It doesn’t matter either. He signals for a beer and drinks it, letting the sounds of home echo in the hollow spaces he has inside. When the echo becomes too much, he steps out and heads back to his cabin.

Just in time to see it explode.

He doesn’t get touched by the explosion. He barely feels the heat. He does feel the ground shake. He feels the impact in his bones. It’s like the hollow part of him has been plugged and something in his soul has him moving faster. He’s not stunned to see light emitting from the crater. There’s a fragment of pink glowing softly and he swears to God if Michael makes him wait fifty years he’s going to kill him. But then the stupid, asshole alien kicks the glass aside and stands up and something in Alex’s chest slides back into place. Their eyes lock and Michael’s face splits into a grin that’s so wide Alex can’t remember ever seeing it.

“Man are you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, scrambling up the crater, “I thought I—“

Alex grabs him by the stupid curls and kisses him as hard as he can. It’s like being numb and getting the pins and needles but over your entire body. Michael gives as good as he gets, like he’s trying to disappear into Alex as much as Alex is trying to pull him back.

“Never again, you hear me?” Alex rasps.

“Yeah, I hear you,” Michael says, pulling back to look at him, “you okay?” Alex stares at him.

“No! I wasn’t okay while you were gone. Of course I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, stopping Alex from fully loosing his shit at him, “my planet blows,” he says.

“This is your planet!” Alex corrects hotly.

“I know!” Michael says, again silencing him, “I didn’t but I do,” Alex nods and goes to pull back. Something flares in Michael’s eyes, “Alex—“

“You owe me a cabin. On this planet.” Michael turns and seems to realize where his ship crashed, “you better cover this.”

“Shit, right,” Michael says and the dirt shoves over the pod, “I was trying to aim for home.”

“Well, you hit it,” Alex says weakly.

Michael snorts.

For the first joke he’s made in months, it’s not bad.

[max-sparrow]

Charles stared at the television screen in the group home, but he had no idea what he was looking at, he just stared. He was high, and in fact, he was always high. No man would want to reflect on the life and terror he had experienced- drugs eased the emotional turmoil. It was people like Charles that I never could convict for using drugs. In fact, on some level, I supported his drug use. Why? I think for some people- drugs are the only happiness that they will ever obtain. Charles had a story that drained his soul until there was nothing in it but darkness. Darkness was all he knew. If drugs could be a light in his dying world- I supported it. There was a time when happiness and joy filled him like candy in a pinata. But also like candy in a pinata- it would be beaten out of him.

     Charles grew up in a very privileged life. His dad was a doctor, and his mother worked for a law firm. At a young age, his parents enrolled him in top schools. Both his mom and dad insisted that he be well educated. His father would often tell Charles with a sly smile, “Knowledge gives us truths- and truths give us wisdom.”

The two of us were in my car driving- just driving for fun. At that time the price of gas was below a dollar. We were seventeen and drifted through downtown Baton Rouge as we wandered along aimlessly. Youth is a beautiful time in life.

“Would you light this damn cigarette for me,” I bickered as I struggled to drive and light my smoke with a rebellious lighter. Charles took the lighter from me, and after several strokes, a flame erupted, and I took a deep breath as the cigarette engulfed the little ray of fire. I rolled down both of the windows and wind ruffled my long brown hair. We were in my red Saturn- it was a sporty car.

“Charles said in a daze; You got to smoke this stuff. This stuff is great! This is some good shit!" I did not smoke marijuana- at least not at this point in my life. “Max, you have no idea what you're missing out on.” Charles was smoking weed, and a dazzling smile rested firmly on his face.

“It's not for me,” I said as I twisted my head toward him and my blue eyes locked with his faded brown ovals.

“Common just try,” he said as he held the joint towards me. I looked at it and then at him. His greasy brown hair had become alive in the torrent wind, and his entire body was shaking to the beat of Mambo no 5 as it played over the radio. I took a long drag from the cigarette but did not even reply. Instead, my eyes gazed at the ruins of the buildings we drove by- one after the other- boarded up or run down. Downtown Baton Rouge was a glum place. One could describe it as the dumpster of Louisiana, and although I was sure other places in Louisiana wreaked of desperation- Many parts of downtown Baton Rouge was still a depressing sight.

“Look at that soup kitchen. I couldn’t begin to imagine what disasters lead people to such unfortunate situations- God- eating at a soup kitchen- that is the epitome of hell." I say bitterly. Charles had retracted the offer of weed and was smoking it once more as he too gazed at the group of homeless people. We were at a red light in front of the soup kitchen, and Charles started to yell.

“What’cha you guys eating today?” He hollered moronically. There was a line in front of the soup kitchen that stretched into the distance, and although people looked at him as he shouted, they did not respond. “Is it lobster today?” The individuals in the line were mostly black and seemed too subdued by their misfortune to pay any mind to the ridiculous rantings from my best friend.

I did not say anything but shook my head back and forth, and as the light turned green, I floored it. Charles let out a heinous laugh.

“Charles, my dear friend, you should be careful about what you say.” “Why is that, Max? Is Karma going to get me?” He said wildly with a grin stamped across his face.

“Ya never know,” I said as I tossed the cigarette out the window. “Hah! Karma. Really, Max? We both have grand futures ahead of us- Karma has nothing to do with it. No such thing as Karma- I will own the world, and when I am rich, I am going to buy that soup kitchen and turn it into a laundry mat.”

“What?” I said in a bewildered tone. Charles shrugged.

“I think that was the weed talking.” His face lit up with a robust smile. I gave a humorous grunt.

We drove around for another hour and then I brought him home. That was the last time I saw Charles. Of course, I saw him many times after that, but he was no longer Charles. He would become a different person as the day progressed into night. Something happened- something that would rob him of his soul.

    That evening he was watching football with his father. He was stretched out across the couch, his head resting on a comfy red pillow at one end, and his hairy feet at the other. Although I know nothing about sports, Charles could whittle away hours discussing the game. Sometimes he would talk to me about the games as excitement and enthusiasm rattled from him with such intensity- I wondered if I was missing out on something? I decided I wasn’t.

    “Dad, he fumbled,” Charles says as his eyes widen and his eyebrows rose. “Yes, interception! Awesome!” His dad was hollering too, and then his father started twisting and turning in what Charles thought was excitement. Charles looked at his father and laughed at his crazy spasms.

     His father fell to the floor, and Charles continued laughing. That was how the two of them were. They were always messing around, telling jokes, and having fun. Charles loved his father.

    His dad stopped twitching and lay on the ground, and Charles laughs began to taper away.

    “Dad,” he said cautiously, and then he called out his father’s name again but this time with much more alarm. His father did not move. Charles stood up and moved the table away from the couch, to better see his dad. Charle shook him twice.

     “Shit!” he cried out in a hushed whisper. Standing up, he ran to the phone, dialing 911, and he ran back to his father as he started heart compressions on him and breathed into his mouth. The ambulance was on its way as Charles continued to do CPR on him.

    “Dad,” Charles cried, his eyes filled with tears. "Dad," he screamed as he slapped his father's cheek- as if this would awaken him. The ambulance arrived, and they had to pull Charles from his father. He was sobbing loudly by this time and ranting madly. As they gained control of the situation, the outcome was not good. His father, at the age of 43 was proclaimed dead from a stroke.

    I went to the funeral. I pulled up to the cemetery, parked my car, and taking one last drag of my cigarette; I tossed it out the window. I killed off the rest of the bottle of vodka and sat in my seat as I contemplated life. I looked at graves that seemed to stretch on endlessly. It made me think of my mortality, and one day I would be nothing more than a tombstone. My entire life would eventually be summed up to dates chiseled into the stone. I shook this thought from my head and stepped out of my car. There was a large gathering, and I approached Charles who seemed to distance himself from the crowd. “You okay buddy?” I asked him softly and looked into his shivering eyes that appeared to be dancing wildly. His eyes stopped moving, and he looked at me. “Ya,” he whispered. And of course, I understood that he was upset- that he was horrified- that he was sad- his father had just died. His behavior was understandable. I hugged him briefly, and as I let go, I said, “You will always have me, buddy.” But as I looked into his eyes- they were hollow- something had left him.

    After the funeral was over, I looked for Charles, but I could not find him. At last, I saw him in the brush behind a towering oak tree whose roots spread out like little veins. A cigarette was planted firmly between his two fingers.

    I approached him. “Charles- everything will work out. This is tough for you- I know- and I also know that no matter what I say, it won't take away the pain.” I pause momentarily- not sure what to say to a son who just lost his father and all I could say was, "I am sorry." He nodded his head and asked to be alone. I got in my car and left, and although I did not know it at the time- it would not be okay- it would never be ok.

    Years progressed and on the occasions that I saw my best friend Charles- he was always mopping around. I would never again see the uplifting smile that was usually companied by a good sense of humor. His tone was bitter, and his eyes were sad. He had no desire to hang out. 6 months after the funeral I visited him, and he was in a deplorable condition.

    “Maybe you should see a psychiatrist?” I asked as I watched him take a deep breath from a pipe. He held it in, and he released the smoke as he coughed. But he did not reply to my question. I tried my best to help him. I assured him I would always be by his side. The contents of our conversations were bleak, and although I would beg him to get in the car with me and do something- he would just shake his head no. I wanted to get him out of his house and show him that losing his father was tragic- life was still worth living. But he had worshiped his father, and I knew this to be the case. When we were together before his father's death, he would talk about him with infatuation, and I knew the memories of his father consumed him.

    The last time I visited him- he was in bed- and when I entered his room, he did not bother to hide the fact that he was crying. I resided by his bed, and his eyes looked up at me as he whispered, "I miss him so much." I had no idea what to say to this, and I was silent as his sobs continued to fill the room. I tried to help him- encourage him- make him laugh- but my efforts were in vain.

    I was 27 years old, and I had a master in English. Charles was in the past. No matter how much I tried, I could not help him. He began using illegal drugs to numb the pain- other than pot. He never got over his father’s death, and I don't think he ever will. One year passed after the other, and Charles remained infringed with agony. His mom would grow weary of his drug usage. She would eventually kick him out of the house, and he would have nowhere to go. I remember him calling my phone.

   “Max, I need a place to stay,” Charles said with a profound sense of fright. By this time I had just moved to Boston for a job. I hadn’t been there for but two days.

   “I am sorry Charles, but I am in Boston now,” I said softly.

   “Can I come live with you?” He asked in fear. The fear in Charle's voice was so thick; I could smell it in his words. However, I had no solution. My partner and I were living together, I had a new job, and it was not possible for me to aid him. Our childhood days had passed.

    “I am sorry Charles. I can’t. I just can’t.” There was a long silence, and then I did something that took a lot of courage- I hung up the phone.

    Charles would walk the streets for several weeks. As he stood in the line of the soup kitchen with a vacant stare on his face- the realization dawned upon him that he had become the very people that were once targets of his teasing. The line in front of the soup kitchen had individuals who had nothing but misfortune, and now Charles was part of that line. He was a white boy who came from a prosperous family and educated in the best schools but was reduced to walking streets and begging for drugs. Eventually, he would find refuge in a group home where he medicated himself to ease the pain. It was a pain that would never go away. And although many people would claim that with counseling and the proper medication regiment, he would get well- it wouldn’t help. He would call me from time to time, but he was never the same Charles that sat in my car as we ventured aimlessly down roads. That Charles had faded and my only thought now- I hope the drugs provide him some relief because that was all he had.

I am sorry Charles.