“You’ll have to get ’em yourself,” he garbled. I was glad to know that, even high as a kite, he was still capable of being a jerk.
I rolled my eyes and stuck my hand in his pockets, feeling around for his keys. Maxx chuckled and swayed on his feet, finally using the wall to brace himself. I pulled his key ring out of his back pocket and then went through the process of finding the right one to unlock the door.
After several unsuccessful attempts, I got it open and forced Maxx inside. He was laughing and rambling incoherently. I flipped on the light and deposited him on the threadbare couch that sat in the living room.
Maxx fell onto his side and stayed that way. A cut on his forehead had come open, and he was bleeding onto the fabric beneath his cheek.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?” I asked him. But he was past hearing me, so I started searching for something to clean him up with.
Maxx’s apartment was sparse, and what few furnishings he had were old and used. There was a distinct lack of anything personal in his home, and I found that rather sad. It was the space of a man who cared nothing about his surroundings. The neglect and disarray gave off a quiet sense of despair.
The bathroom was down the hallway, and I was happy to see that at least he kept it clean. I found some Band-Aids and antiseptic cream in the medicine cabinet.
And then because I couldn’t help myself, I opened the only other door in the hallway. I turned on the light and knew right away that this was Maxx’s room. The bed was unmade, and there were clothes on the floor. I saw some schoolbooks and an old desktop computer on a table by the window.
I found a clean shirt in his dresser, and then, just because I felt like being a snoop, I started to dig around in the piles of clothing. I found two empty prescription bottles and a ridiculous number of plastic baggies.
Then, in the back of the bottom drawer, I found a folded-up photograph. Pulling it out, I saw that it was a picture of a family. It was one of those generic portrait-gallery shots with the cheesy blue background and awkward posing. A woman with fair, wavy hair sat on a stool in front of a tall man who rested a hand on her shoulder. A young boy with a head full of blond curls stood by the woman’s side, and in her lap was a baby, no more than six months old.
I knew without a doubt that these were Maxx’s parents. I studied the picture, thinking that maybe this would reveal something about the man who lay passed out in the living room. Maybe I could figure out who he was and why he did the things he did.
I heard a bang from the living room and hurriedly shoved the picture back into the drawer. I gathered the items I had gone searching for and closed the bedroom door behind me.
Maxx was sitting up and rubbing his shin. “You all right?” I asked, sitting down beside him.
“Fucking coffee table,” he muttered, turning to me with a wobbly smile on his face. I held up the Band-Aids.
“Let me clean you up,” I said. Maxx didn’t say anything, simply closed his eyes and let me do what I needed to do. I wiped off the blood and covered the cut with a bandage. I cleaned out the scrapes on his palms, which he must have gotten when he was beaten to the ground.
“Who were those men who beat you up?” I asked, not sure I’d get any sort of answer in the state he was in.
So I was surprised when he answered me. “That was Gash. He runs the club. I guess he’s pissed at me,” he snorted as though it were a joke.
“I’d say,” I mused quietly. When Maxx didn’t volunteer any further information, I tried prodding him a little more.
“Why’s he pissed at you?”
Maxx gave an exaggerated shrug, his head starting to droop.
“Don’t tell Landon,” he mumbled again.
“Don’t tell him what?” I asked as I finished my task.
Maxx pried his good eye open and turned to look at me. He grabbed my hands and squeezed them so tightly I winced. “About me. Never about me,” he whispered.
Maxx shook his head and let out a sob. “They would be so disappointed in me,” he cried, gripping his hair in his hands as he became more and more agitated.
I put my hand on his arm. “Who would be disappointed?”
Maxx’s chest heaved, his eyes still closed. “They wanted me to be some great doctor. Something special.” He shook his head violently. “Look at me!” He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled at it, ripping the fabric. He was getting really worked up.
Maxx put his hand first in one pocket and then the other. “Where are they?” he asked, getting unsteadily to his feet and digging farther into his pockets.
“Where are what?” I asked, bewildered by the sudden change in his mood.
“I need them!” he yelled, pushing past me and lumbering into the kitchen, where he started taking things out of the cabinets and throwing them on the floor. When he didn’t find what he was looking for there, he let out a howl and practically ran down the hallway to his bedroom.
I followed him at a distance. I thought about trying to stop him, but a desire for self-preservation held me back.
He ripped his room apart, dumping clothes on the floor. He gathered the empty baggies and ripped them apart.
“Where are they?” His scream was desperate. He tipped over his bedside table and fell to his knees, looking through the stuff that had fallen out. He picked up a bottle and shook it. It rattled, and the look of euphoria that replaced the hopelessness on his face made me cold. I knew exactly what he had been looking for.
“No, Maxx! You don’t need that,” I cried, falling down beside him and trying to pry the bottle from his hands. Maxx yanked it away from me and scooted backward on his knees. He popped the top off, and before I could do anything, he dropped the white pill into his mouth.
He crunched it between his teeth. His mouth went slack, and he leaned back against the wall.
“Maxx,” I said with bone-weary regret. Maxx looked at me, his normally beautiful lips stretching into a lazy smile that was all too familiar. I used to think that smile was sexy and mysterious. Now it was just sad and pathetic. Now I knew exactly why he smiled that way.
I hated that smile.
I hated how happy he seemed.
I hated how easily he gave in, not even bothering to put up a fight.
This was how he lived his life—from one high to the next, bad choice after bad choice, followed by catastrophic consequences that he cared nothing about, not now anyway.
Maybe in the morning, when he wasn’t f**ked-up and could possibly think more rationally, he’d care.