Page 59 of Penance

“It’s you and me, Princess.”

The doors beep, the sounds getting quicker, closer together, they close. I breathe. I press myself into Max’s heat. His feet pressed flat to the floor, his thighs bracketing me in. My bum trapped between his legs, his arms wrapped around me. The tighter he squeezes the easier I breathe. My chest loosens, the tightness easing, I breathe deep, in through my nose.

“I don’t think I wanna die anymore, Maxi,” I barely breathe the confession, but that’s what it is.

He’s not who I should be telling.

But he’ll understand it the best.

Better than anyone ever could.

Because we’ve been here before.

I see it then and my heart hurts, the decaying organ batters against my insides as my mind travels back in time.

Rain pounds down, lashing my exposed skin. My bruises easing and aching all at once under its intense pressure. My booted feet pound against the uneven pavement, the puddles splashing up my legs Soaking through my torn tights, dribbling down my calves and settling into my boots. The wind whips my hair around me, but the rain starts helping by plastering it to my head. I swipe my forearm over my face, pushing harder, running faster.

Fucking Lucy Roberts.

I hate that nosy bitch, but her big brother Isaac told her to tell me to find Maddox. Isaac hangs in similar circles to Max. So, here I am. Because I’ve had this horrible feeling in my tummy all day. A twisting, something didn’t feel right. It was my first day back to school after Christmas break. I was worried about Maxi the whole time. Since Gran’s funeral he’s cut himself off again, stayed away from me. Even after our moment, I thought we’d made progress. I thought we’d be okay, especially after we spent Christmas together. I broke us into Gran’s, condemned it is, all boarded up, but Max didn’t want to leave again after. He moved his shit back in, ‘fuck the council, I’ll be a squatter,’ he said as he dragged his black bags of clothes back inside in rebellion, in grief.

It’s January and it’s freezing. The rain stings like razorblades slicing into me as I run through it. It was supposed to be dry today, but typical English weather will always prevail. The weather forecast is pointless. It’s always wrong.

I pound my feet down the back alley, twisting my ankle as I hit a pothole, but I keep going.

Something is just wrong.

I can feel it.

I trudge through the muddy grass, forcing open the unlocked back door as the wind tries to steal it from me.

I slow my pace, water dripping onto the kitchen floor. It’s colder in here than out there. All the furniture removed. An entire person’s life dismantled, shipped out in nothing more than a few boxes, the house is nothing but a carcass of a happy life once lived. I head for the stairs, my wet fingers gripping the creaky banister, my footsteps heavy as I ascend but my breathing stops. There is nothing. No sound, no movement, nothing.

Maybe he’s left already.

I make it to the tiny landing, three closed doors leading off it, Gran’s room, Max’s, and the bathroom. I clench my fists, my fingers curling, nails digging into my palms. I inhale, soothing my trembling, I reach for Max’s doorhandle, twisting the knob as quietly as I can. I push open the door, the curtains open, the miserable day outside infecting the inside with its gloom. The room is untouched, unlike the rest of the house, this isn’t empty and bare. This room is lived in, crumpled sheets, jeans on the floor, a full ashtray by the window. Everything in its usual place but no Max. I pull my phone from my pocket, frowning at the screen. I re-lock it, seeing no notifications, I close my eyes, tapping the phone against my lips.

Where else would you go?

I move back onto the landing, closing the door softly behind me. I hesitate, looking down the stairs. I turn back to the doors. Shaking my head, I push open Ruth’s bedroom door. Just an empty room, nothing inside it, but I swear I can smell her perfume, the sweet floral memory making me smile. I close the door, and stare at the bathroom door opposite. My stomach drops as I stare at it. My hand shakes as I reach out, my fingers sliding over the cold round handle, I twist and as the door opens my whole world falls apart.

“Max!” I scream.

His body slumped in the bath, a jean clad leg hanging over the side, wet boot on his foot. An arm flung out, fingers limp. My breath heaves in my chest as I look at his face. His eyes closed, his face black and blue, eye swollen and jaw slack. I step inside, closing the door behind me like we need privacy. I study his chest, my eyes burning in their sockets begging me to blink, when finally,finally, his chest moves. But it’s slow and lethargic and something’s wrong.

“Maxi?” I call, but my voice is barely a whisper. I get nearer, really looking at him, vomit down his t-shirt, on his lip, his chin. “Max!” I yell this time, my voice cracking as I see the pills, the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the ledge.

I rush forward now, panic urging me to move. I drop to my knees beside the bath, my hands going to his face. He’s cool but he’s not cold. I exhale the breath I didn’t realise I was holding. I slap his face, I slap it again, I feel his stuttered breath against my palm.

“MAX!” I scream in his face, rising up on my haunches, the freezing tiles grinding against my knobbly knees. “MAX! PLEASE!” I wail.

I stand up, my hands going to his armpits, I heave him up, so he’s sitting more upright. His leg drops back into the empty bath with a thunk. The water’s been cut off so I can’t start the shower.

“MAX! Please, fucking please, Max!” I slap him again, this time it’s angry, this time,I mean it.

He groans.

Using all my strength I push his heavy body forward, his head flopping, chin to chest. I clamber in behind him, letting his body slump between my bare thighs. I strain to sit up, my hands clinging to the bath edges. I grunt through gritted teeth as I finally get him sat up high enough. Working blindly, I force two fingers into his mouth, ramming them into the back of his throat, and he heaves.

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