Max sat at the back of the classroom. They had been studying the book, “We need to talk about Kevin”, and the rest of the class had been discussing the important social discourse contained within the text. The concept of school shootings had never been real to him, it had always been a fleeting news article on the television from another country; it was unheard of in Australia. Max found it hard to focus, every few pages he found himself putting down the book. The very thought of inflicting the pain upon his mother sickened him to the core, and watching his classmates bleed to death at his hand was enough to make him physically ill. “Surely no amount of bullying could drive someone to a position like that,” he thought to himself. His teacher, Mrs Lachlan, read a line from one of the final chapters, describing the students as looking like porcupines on account of the crossbow arrows which protruded from their bodies. Max felt his stomach heave and found himself ejected from his seat. “Excuse me!” called his teacher, but Max didn’t look back. He ran for the door, flinging it open and forcing himself through the gap as quickly as he could. His hand covered his mouth as he felt the bile rise, and begin burning at the back of his throat. As soon as he arrived in the toilets he let it release. His entire body became a ball of sweat as his morning cereal saw the inside of the toilet bowl. Max didn’t know why the book affected him so much, it was just a work of fiction. Sure atrocities as this had occurred around the world, but he had never been placed in that position within his own mind the way a book can do. Max sat in the quiet of the bathroom stall thinking about how unrelatable Kevin’s character was to his own life. His home life was no cakewalk, even considering his good relationship with his mother, but school had always been a place of sanctuary. He had friends whose mocking was always light-hearted and returned in good measure. His friend group consisted primarily of a trio named Tim, Michael and Maxine; they had been known as the two Max’s for as long as he could remember. It was Tim who showed up at that moment looking for him; they had both been in the same English class and he must have been excused to find the class’ escapee. “Are you in here?” came the voice of his friend. “Max? Are you okay?” Max responded through a series of grunts and groans. He feared that opening his mouth would lead to a second round. The door to the stall still sat wide open as Max sat with his back against the bowl. “You look as pale as a ghost mate! Come on, let’s go get you to the school nurse,” Tim offered. Max shook his head. He didn’t need to see a nurse, he wasn’t sick, and he certainly didn’t want to explain anything to the counselor or chaplain. He finally felt comfortable enough to speak without continuing his previous actions, “I think I just need some time away from that class, or more to the point, that book.” “Fair call mate, it’s a pretty tough one. At least you read it though, I bet more than half the class just looked up the notes for their assignment,” Tim joked. Max nodded his head in agreement; Tim always had a silver-lining way of uplifting his spirits when he got down, even if he didn’t know he needed it. “Why don’t we hit up the park after class this afternoon, maybe grab a minimum chips with extra chicken salt,” Tim offered. “Sounds like a plan,” said Max, thinking that might just be the right medicine for him: a bit of friend time and fried, greasy food. Tim left his friend’s side with a promise to arrange for girl-Max and Michael to meet them in the park by their house. Max thought it best not to return to class and instead made an early exit from the school. There were only twenty minutes or so remaining of their day so he made his way over to the shops, which were only a two-minute walk from the school, to place his order. Max texted his mother to let her know that he would be home later than expected, and where to find him. Now he had reached the age of sixteen she had become far less protective of her little baby, and allowed him some more freedoms; he was hoping he could even pick up some weekend work in the next year and start saving for a car.
... Girl-Max was the first one to arrive at the park and found him sitting lost in his own thoughts slowly swinging to and fro. Max was thrust back into the real world by a playful, but not light, punch on his upper arm. She had snuck up on him from behind. “Bahh!” he cried aloud, and almost disengaged himself from the swing as his legs went flailing. This display was met with a snort of laughter as she doubled over in hysterics. “Are you easy to scare today!” she exclaimed. “Now, I heard you had chips?” “What are you, a bloody seagull?!” Max said after finally recomposing himself. “But you need to wait for the others.” Max lifted himself from the swing and made his way over to guard the butcher’s paper package sitting on the park bench. “Fine, but if my stomach eats itself then that is on you,” She said, sounding far more serious than the accusation required. They both sat down and began to look out over the horizon. Their estate was built on the side of a hill, with the park having an excellent view of the forestry to the west; it made for amazing sunsets. “You will be fine,” said Max. “The others can’t be more than a few minutes away; it’s a Friday and all the teachers want to get away for the weekend too, remember.” “Humpfh,” came the response as Max continued to look out over the trees. After his tumultuous day, the view calmed him, and his thoughts were already beginning to fade from the horrors to less nefarious topics. It was summer so the sun was still high in the sky at this time in the afternoon, but he made the mental note that, when he eventually got himself a girlfriend, that this would be the perfect spot to sit. Before his thoughts could go any further, they were interrupted by a pair of boisterous young men singing a bawdy song that neither of their parents would approve of, which resulted in further laughter from the two Max’s. Without preamble, Michael immediately bee-lined for the paper package and began unravelling it. “Finally you get served by someone with shares in a salt mine!” he said as he began shoveling food into his mouth. “Oi, save some for the rest of us ya pig!” said Max, as Michael placed it down in the middle of them. Max tried to subtly selectively pick at all of the crispy chips, beating his like-named food foe to them. Eating soon turned to gossip about other children and teachers, leaving almost a quarter of the five bucks worth of chips to go cold and soggy. By the time Tim’s phone beeped, indicating he was expected back home immediately, dusk was beginning to creep in and the sun was making for a majestic exit for the day. One by one they each excused themselves and Max began the short walk back to his house.
... By the time he arrived home, the sun was almost ready to disappear for the day, and darkness was creeping in. The streetlights began to illuminate in sequence along the footpath of the estate. He found his house at number 18 Tangerine Circuit, and made his way inside. The house seemed quiet at first but illuminated, and he soon heard the ‘click click clicking’ of his mother working away in the kitchen preparing dinner for the night. By the spicy aromas wafting through the house it was going to be an Indian curry. “Max, is that you?” his mother sang out from around the corner. Max considered just slinking off to his bedroom. After his friend’s efforts to heighten his spirits, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain to his mother why he had run out of the classroom. Instead, he proceeded into the kitchen, embracing his mother as he always did when he saw her. “I got a call from the school this afternoon…” she began. He knew it was coming. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?” “This was a new approach,” thought Max to himself. He just shook his head and tried to keep a positive face, lest she return to her usual, more direct line of questioning. “Well, I am here if you need to talk,” she offered supportively before directing her attention back to the food preparation. Max suspected that she may have been pushier had there not been a bubbling pot of sauce on the stovetop willing itself to burn to the pan. With the potential grilling averted, Max made his way from the room and up the stairs to his bedroom. It was sparsely decorated, with only a few Avenger posters dotted around the walls to add some level of his own taste. Most of the room remained unchanged from his youth, having not grown up with much in the way of wealth, and living in a rented house. Michael had shelves built onto his wall to showcase his collection of superhero collectibles, but Max just had to make do with placing his one Deadpool figurine on his writing desk. The family’s lack of money had never really bothered Max, after his father had moved away at a young age all he had known was his mother. All they had was each other and he had grown to accept that was just life. After his step-father moved in, the situation had only changed for the worse; Ralph had a job at the local fuel station but usually managed to gamble, smoke or drink away his contribution to the family budget. Max was fairly certain that Ralph was currently sitting at the local tavern combining these three habits into one money-guzzling activity. He wouldn’t be expected until later that night in a state of unpredictable inebriation. Max had no idea what it was that his sweet mother saw in the man, or whether it was simply that she couldn’t see another way out. In an effort to pass the time, and maintain his thoughts far away from the topics of the day, Max sat at his computer and opened his favorite role-playing game. Even after their afternoon together, he knew that his friends would be online to complete quests together.
... Max heard the door slam over the game-sounds in his headphones signaling the return of the drunken oaf. “If only he was just a character in the game,” he said quietly to himself shaking away the troubling thought. He had never before put together his virtual and real-world contexts to consider the implication of his passing thoughts. The return of his step-father just made him more steadfast in his decision to stay in his room avoiding whatever scene was likely to be caused below. Some days he would pick up another bottle and sit outside, other days he would just pass out early in their room or on the couch, and on the worst days, an argument would soon follow. After only a matter of minutes, the fate of the evening was announced by the heated voices coming from below. The words were muffled through the carpeted floor and closed door, but the context was clear; Ralph was drunk and looking for a fight. Usually after the fight, his mother would just kick him outside, or throw him out for the night leaving him to make his way to the local motel. Max hoped that tonight would come to the same conclusion quickly. The arguing continued for some time before Max heard the breaking of glass and a shrill cry that could only have come from his mother. This time was different, he knew it. There had only been once that he had witnessed his step-father’s rage turn to actual violence and his mother ended up with a broken arm; she covered for him with some sort of story about falling down the stairs. Max arose from his seat slowly, eased open his door and crept quietly towards the staircase at the end of the upstairs hallway. The shouting continued but now he could make out some of the words. Between the cursing were threats of death, with boasts that he could make it look like an accident and that no one would ever find her. It seemed his step-father had completely neglected to consider that Max was in the house, or even existed. Heat began to rise within max, a raging anger caused his hands to shake. As he crept down the stairs he could just make out his mother’s curled up form on the floor of the kitchen; scared and lying in the fetal position begging him to put down the broken bottle he was waving around. Neither she nor Ralph noticed his approach. They were still oblivious as Max picked up the baseball bat that his mother kept by the door for security; even through the years of drunken rage, she didn’t expect her biggest threat to be within her own house. Max levelled the bat above his shoulders and swung as hard as he could. The room fell silent, as did the limp body of his step-father. “The bully can’t hurt anyone anymore,” said Max to his mother before the realization set in. He had become Kevin, and now his mother would again be the one to suffer.
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