Terralux

Chapter 2: Max's Story

Max, my best friend Quinn's older brother, used to be a cocaine addict. Sloth City was the main place from which he could get his regular fix. He and the man who used to sell him the drugs always met on the roof for the hand-off. At the time, Max was only about seventeen, but was still one of the man's highest paying customers. 

However, this man only got his merchandise by purchasing it from another, more expensive dealer. He was called Bones. They called him Bones not only for his sickly, skeleton-like frame brought on by drug overuse, but because of how he was known to kill those who broke a deal or went against him. In Sloth City, murder was almost as little an offense as litter was in the rest of the world. So Bones, one of the area's few residents, always carried a gun and a knife in his notorious satchel. A gun for the initial kill, and a knife with which he often sawed off part of a limb from his victim. It was believed that he then went home and fed it to his dogs, since there were always bones strewn across the abandoned property on which he lived, the majority around the large hole in the house's foundation, where his two dogs took shelter.  

One night, Max was running late in sneaking to the rendezvous point on the roof. The dealer only sold to select customers, always up there, because he didn't dare sell in the Block, where Bones and the majority of others sold their merchandise. Formerly a successful law firm, the Block was like the mall of Sloth City. 

After finishing the journey up the emergency ladders on the side of the building, Max arrived just in time to see Bones had caught up with his dealer. He watched him pull the gun from his mysterious satchel and shoot his dealer cleanly through the skull. But despite the scene playing out in front of him, Max could only bring himself to possess one thought. What was in that satchel? Weapons, drugs, alcohol, and limbs were the rumors. The first three would make anyone a fortune while selling in the Block. 

Max, out of pure impulse, pulled his own pistol out from his pants pocket, and in a few seconds, Bones lay on the rooftop next to his victim, dead, with knife in hand in preparation to saw off a limb. Still in shock, Max walked over to the bodies that lay in overlapping pools of blood. He reached down to pick up Bones' satchel, mentally trembling. He was afraid to put his hand into the bag, so instead dumped the contents out onto a blood-free area of the roof. With the gun and knife still being over near the crime scene, what was spread out before him included a Swiss army knife, a digital camera, some bloody tissues, three bundles of cocaine, and about 2,500 dollars in cash. Bones obviously hadn't trusted his neighborhood enough to keep his money anywhere but beside him at all times.  

But for some reason, Max's attention followed his curiosity. What pictures could Bones possibly have taken? Max, fueled by this question, turned on the camera and the cracked screen came to life. There, in the camera's memory, were over thirty pictures of thirty different men. He recognized a few of them, from seeing them around the Block maybe once or twice. In the pictures, each of them had eyes opened wide, some with mouths portraying fearful expressions. And yet, despite this, it took Max a little bit longer than it should have to clue in on the nagging similarity between the thirty men.

All of them were dead.

The camera suddenly weighed a ton in Max's shaking fingers, and dropping to his knees was all that kept the camera from falling alone and shattering on the concrete roof. Eyes as wide as the men in the pictures, he let the camera tumble out of his hand as his eyes found their way to the wad of money that was beside him. All at once, the money itself disgusted him. He wanted to burn it all and toss it over the ledge, only wishing that Bones had enough life left to watch him do it. 

Still, he pocketed the money and promised himself that he would turn it in to the police. Turning back to the camera, he wondered if Bones had taken the pictures, printed them out and kept them in a file or strewn across the walls of his shack. 

Partly out of spite, partly out of want to get all evidence out of his hands, he proceeded to delete each picture from the camera's memory, but stopped. A bright light was shining onto his skin. He slowly looked into the sky, expecting to see choppers hovering above, waiting to take him into custody. Strangely, the sky was clear except for a few scattered stars. 

But straight ahead, Max's eyes fell upon the source of the light. Like a celestial beacon, the Empire State Building stood in the far distance, a bright radiance from each floor collecting into a magnificent glow, shining onto him. Wondering how he'd never noticed before, he walked closer to the edge of the roof, captivated by the sight. 

Max spent many minutes sitting there, on the edge of the Block, wondering how such beauty could possibly possess the influence to challenge the darkness and evil of a place like Sloth City. But it did, and he wanted to remember it, because at that point, he vowed never to set foot in the corrupted society again, at least not without pure intentions. 

Using his hands to reluctantly prop himself up and stand, his fingers fell upon the camera, sitting beside him like an old companion where he had set it and forgotten about it. For the first time, he picked it up without disgust. Observing it, he finally built up the resolve to turn it back on and quickly delete each photo before he could get a good look at which man's face was being lost in cyberspace. 

Then, the air became cleaner. The darkness seemed to become less heavy and gave in to the faraway light; just like the mental filthiness building in his mind that made Max feel itchy. With the camera in hand, empty of the murders that it once held, he turned towards the Empire State and captured a photo, beautiful in all meanings of the word.  

Walking away that night, Max had committed a murder. He wouldn't ignore that. He had become no better than the merciless sloths he placed himself so high above. But he didn't fear arrest; not in the least. People dropped like flies in Sloth City every night, and the rest of the world had no choice but to ignore it, which it did happily. What he feared were the nightmares that he felt creeping upon him, laced with guilt and regret. That was worse than any sentence. Killers lived amongst the regular people by day, possessed by these feelings, the inevitable pain forcing them to fall into their second life at night, searching for something to numb it. But now, only the first part of the statement remained true for Max, because he knew now what he wanted to do with his life, which was damaged, but still applicable. 

All there was left to do was find help.