Marlowe's Massacre | ;

CHAPTER 5

~~~

[17.5.14]

Max was thrown into the nightmare. It was the nightmare he had countless times before. He stood on the edge of a diving board attached to a bottomless pool surrounded by darkness. The water in the pool was grimy and murky, decades from proper cleansing. On the other side of the pool sitting on the edge of an identical diving board as his, was Marlowe. As always, Max could never see the bottom of the dirty pool and this, this scared him the most.

"Isn't this fun, Max?" Marlowe called out. It was clear Max was uncomfortable with him sitting so close to the edge of the board. Marlowe hovered his legs above the water and looked back at Max, mischievous and bright eyed.

"Don't," Max said. "Marlowe. Please."

This sick version of Marlowe only laughed. Filthy blonde hair and warm eyes. "What are you afraid of, Max?" He asked inching closer to the murky water, the tip of his Adidas brimming the surface. "That'll fall and drown?"

"Don't." Max warned. "Marlowe."

"Why? It's only a little fall." And somehow, he was sitting next to Marlowe, looking at the empty diving board across the pool. "We can both fall together. We can both drown together." Another moment went by, the deep water climbing up his shorts. Max gripped the sides of the diving board. "C'mon, Maxwell! Last one in is a rotten eg—"

And just like that, Max was thrown out of the nightmare. He was wide awake now. Slick sheen sweat dripped from his body. Breath heaving. Teary eyed and heart beating fast.

The heat in the loft was unbearable.

Max laid on his stomach, one arm hanging off his bed. Sheets chucked down to his waist and pillows thrown on the floor. His skin hot and his hair a bundle of dark strands toppling his head. Shifting onto his back, he eyed the fan forever stuck on his ceiling. It moved slowly, spreading the thick air around him. Rubbing his hand roughly over his face, he shut his eyes hard. Still, humid air attacked him. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed for his glasses. Opening a panel window, he stuck his arm out feeling the cool wind. Turning away he glanced around his cluttered room.

Books and books and books laid all over the place. The map of the world pinned to the wall wasn't helping him either. There was no denying that he wasn't anything but a bookworm and nothing more. Somewhere in the cluttered room, his phone vibrated. Realizing this, he fumbled to the floor reaching under his bed to get it. He had thrown it under there a few hours ago because he had thought about breaking it.

The caller ID shown it was his mother.

"Max!" She said cheerfully.

Within the second he greeted her back, she had launched herself into a conversation about the weather, secrets she heard from Claire—another rich mother with nothing to do—and the new dress she had happily bought for a few grand. Max hoped the dress was worth it. He didn't blame her though, it seemed easier to talk about anything but Marlowe. Getting from off the floor, he sat down at his desk chair eyeing his physics book. He listened politely for eight minutes before cutting in. "It was really nice of you to call."

"Yes, I haven't spoken to you in a while. How are you? Are you okay?" Her concern was genuine and fake, it was meant for show. Still, Max sat unmoved in the middle of his room. He felt disoriented. Dizzy. Cranky and empty. He could have been sitting there for minutes. Hours. Days. Months. Years even, it all felt the same to him. He wasn't okay. It was a hard-core fact that they both knew. "Max?"