999 Pieces

Chapter Ten: Aspen

“Maxon?” I call, rolling into his office. 

A sob answers me and I quickly shut the door. I quietly make my way towards his crying figure, putting my hand on his shoulder.

“It’s been four days,” Maxon croaks out. “Four damn days and everyone expects me to be fine. I don’t understand why some people can’t understand that I need time! I need time to heal, and by pushing me like this, i-it’s just making everything so much worse.”

“What happened, Maxon?” I ask calmly. 

“She was the light in my life, Aspen, and now I’m stumbling around in the dark without her,” he cries, pure anguish on his face. “I-I can’t give up on her… and marrying someone else… I just can’t, Aspen.”

“Maxon! What did the Italians say?”

“They can help. But they also want an alliance.”

“That’s good, right?” I ask cautiously.

“The Italian king told me that some of his advisors might be against forming an alliance with Illea because our country is unstable. If I die, it’s over Aspen!”

I remain silent as he sobs, waiting for him to continue.

“The King suggested that I consider marriage,” Maxon cries. “I know that with a wife, and later an heir, it will help create more stability, but I can’t, Aspen... How can I marry someone that isn’t America?!

“But if I don’t then Italy might not help us. And without their help, I don’t know if Illea will be able to get through all this shit with the Southern Rebels,” he spits. “I don’t mean to be selfish, but shouldn’t I at least get to willingly choose who my wife is? Don’t I deserve that?”

Maxon stands, kicking over an easel in the corner of the office. Curses spew out of his mouth as he proceeds to tear the office apart.

“Maxon!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me, continuing to cause destruction.

“MAXON!” I shout, and this time he hears me. He drops the book in his hand, numbly looking around the trashed office.

“Take a seat and take some deep breaths,” I order. “You need to calm down.”

He slowly falls back into his chair, breathing heavily. I watch the anger seep out of him and it’s soon replaced by sadness.

“I’m just like him,” he mumbles.

“Like who?”

“I’m just like my Father,” Maxon whispers shakily, looking as if he’s seen a ghost. “He would go on rages like this. He’d take out his anger on the contents of the room he was in. Sometimes also on me. Thankfully never on my mother.”

“What did he do?” I ask quietly, almost afraid to ask.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly unbuttons his shirt. He turns his back towards me and I suddenly feel sick to the stomach. Scars from lash marks cover his back, similar to Jemmy’s from when he was whipped for stealing fruit. But Maxon’s scars… There were so many of them.

“Not a word to anyone,” he whispers as he puts his shirt back on, taking care with his sprained arm.

I nod, still speechless.

“My Father was a terrible man,” Maxon says angrily. “I’ve vowed that I would never end up like him, but look at me,” he gestures to the room, ”I’ve become the very thing I’m terrified of.”

“You aren’t your Father, Maxon,” I reassure. “Don’t even think that for a damn second.”

Maxon lets out a humorless laugh. “Don’t lie to me, Aspen.”

“I’m not lying. You just need to stop making excuses,” I answer. “You’re grieving, Maxon. You’re grieving the loss of America, your mother, and, even if you hate him, your father.”

Maxon is silent considering my words.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Would America have fallen for you if you were like your Father?” 

Slowly, Maxon shakes his head, tears falling.

“Come,” I say, patting his arm. “Let’s go visit America’s room.”

“No, Aspen… I can’t,” he argues weakly.

“You’ll have to eventually, Maxon,” I whisper. “Maybe it’ll help.”

He gives me a doubtful look but nods, slowly standing. 

Together, we exit the room and Maxon leads me to the newly repaired elevator. Once inside, he pushes the button to the second floor and the doors close. We are both silent as the elevator goes down to the second floor where the Selected’s room were.

Before we know it, we’re standing outside America’s old room. Maxon stands frozen, just staring at the doorknob. Eventually he turns to me, looking absolutely terrified. “I can’t do it, Aspen.”

“Yes, you can!”

“No, it’ll only hurt more,” he argues, turning away.

I put my hand on his arm, stopping him from escaping. “Maxon, would this be what America would have wanted for you?”

His head falls. “No.”

“Damn right,” I reply. “Don’t hide, Maxon. If you want to heal, you have to do this.”

“How do you know?”

“When my dad died, I went through something similar,” I admit. “But his death made me realize so many things. I began investing all of my energy into working to get my family a better life, to get them the life that my dad wanted for them.” I look away, swallowing. “The last thing America said to me was telling me to make sure that you lived. So live, Maxon. Live the life she wasn’t able to finish. Do it all for her.”

He’s silent, considering my words. “For America,” Maxon finally whispers, letting out a shaky breath and putting his hand on the door knob.