Marlowe's Massacre | ;

CHAPTER 12

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[.19.2.18.]

He really doesn't know if there was a glitch in time or a prolonged minute God decided to add to his life because it takes Cassandra a microsecond to get off his lap, grab her satchel and greet Mr. and Mrs. Richard, before Max can fully pull himself together. His lips still burned and his skin had been tainted a light color of red. He hoped it was out of the anger being built upon him and not the essence of Cassandra's kiss, that would surely kill him.

"Maxwell, how are we holding up?" His mother asked, coming over and sitting down next to him, her outfit of choice: Chanel trousers over a surplice shirt. "What did they say about Raymond?" She questioned as Mr. Richard walked over to the bed and touched his forehead.

"The doctors said his liver is failing because of alcohol poisoning." He admitted, his eyes drifting between both his parents. "But, I can assure you both that Raymond doesn't drink."

His father crossed his arms and thought about whether his son was lying to them. He thought about all the things Raymond went through, all the things Maxwell went through and looked back to the present. He could tell he had been agitated because of this but, Mr. Richard couldn't tell if that was the full reason his son looked a bit discomposed. He knew him like he knew himself but he decided not to pressure him about it, after all he taught him well. No one wanted to see a weakling, he mentally praised his boy for his mature attitude.

"How do you kn—" His mother almost asked before a knock at the door came and in entered an older man. Brown hair. Brown eyes, wrinkled hands. Medical personnel.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Byron Smith, are you all the immediate family of Raymond Tyeis Clark?" He asked, holding a clipboard in his hands, his stethoscope glimmering with the lights.

"Yes." Mr. Richard answered, shaking his hand. "So, let's get straight to the point, Doctor Byron Smith."

"Yes, I'm sure you all are aware that the patient is passed the path of having Stage 2 liver failure due to his excessive drinking habit. I also need to bring to your attention that Raymond developed Hepatic encephalopathy—"

"Pardon?" Mr. Richard spoke.

Doctor Smith gave a short puzzled looked before clearing his throat. "My apologies, I assumed you knew of his condition prior. Perhaps, a quick and formal introduction to debrief you will help. Has he been forgetful, writing things more, perhaps a change of mood, have you noticed an inverted sleep schedule, maybe he's even been rowdy or anxious? These are some critical symptoms for Hepatic encephalopathy. This is why he is in a coma. Unfortunately it is being heavily advised that having a serious procedure such as the likings of a liver transplant—"

"We have the money, however much we have it." Mrs. Richard stated.

"Right, that's great." He replied, briefly rereading through papers nailed to the board. "We can file surgical documentations later. The real kicker though depends on the patient, himself." He said broadening his shoulders. "Raymond here needs an adequate amount of brain activity for us to move onto other stages. We wouldn't want him to have an encephalic death because of the stress we would be putting on him if we were to move forward now."

"So?" Max suddenly mumbled out because it didn't often occur, but it happened enough that thoughts like these slipped his mind. There was a strong possibility Raymond wouldn't wake up. There was a strong possibility the small hope Maxwell had of living a somewhat normal life had been ruined completely. Everything he ever wished for, he had wanted and got. What he wanted the most right now was for Raymond to wake up. For them to drive back to the loft and play poker under dim lighting. The loft was home. It was their Havana, balancing all the mayhem that made up the people who roamed its insides. What was the loft? An abandoned lot garage refurbished by modern engineers. Yes, but much more. So much history carried through its walls, so much love. So much hatred.