Chapter 8
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The food had gone cold.
Max knew because he'd touched it. Multiple times. Checking. The bread was hard now. Stale. The other food—whatever it had been—felt congealed. Wrong.
He didn't know how long it had been sitting there.
Long enough.
His stomach had stopped cramping hours ago. Or days ago. Time didn't exist here. Just the dark and the silence and the growing emptiness inside him.
But he hadn't eaten.
Couldn't.
Last time he'd eaten, he'd woken up with new stitches. New lines carved into his skull. Time stolen.
If he ate again—
No.
Better to stay awake. Stay aware. Even if awareness meant feeling everything.
The hunger wasn't the worst part.
The thirst was worse.
His throat felt like sandpaper. Each swallow sent sharp pain down his esophagus. His lips had cracked. He could taste blood when he licked them.
The cup still had water in it. He'd drunk half before. But the other half sat there, untouched.
Drugged. Had to be.
The food was drugged. The water was drugged. Everything they gave him was designed to make him sleep. To make him forget.
Max sat with his back against the wall. The scratches on his arms had scabbed over. They itched now instead of burning.
His throat hurt.
Really hurt.
He tried swallowing. The pain made his eyes water.
How long could a person go without water?
Three days. Maybe four.
How long had it been?
He didn't know.
Max's hand moved to his throat. Touched the dry skin. He needed water.
But not their water.
His mind drifted. Circled the same thought over and over.
There was another option.
He'd read about it somewhere. Survival situations. Desert. Ocean.
People drank their own—
No.
The thought made his stomach turn.
But his throat hurt.
Max sat in the darkness, debating with himself.
It was disgusting.
But he was dying.
Not dying. Not yet. But getting there.
The thirst clawed at him. Constant. Demanding.
He shifted position. Felt the pressure in his bladder. He'd been holding it. Trying not to waste moisture. But eventually—
Max stood. Moved to the corner of the room. The farthest point from where he'd been sitting.
He urinated against the wall.
Then stopped mid-stream.
The cup. He'd left it by the food.
Max fumbled his way back. Found the tray. The cup. Dumped the remaining water onto the floor.
Returned to the corner.
Started again.
The sound of liquid hitting metal. The cup filling.
Max finished. Set the cup down carefully.
Stood there.
His hands were shaking.
This was survival. That's all. Just survival.
He picked up the cup. Brought it close to his face. The smell hit him immediately.
His stomach lurched.
He couldn't.
His throat burned.
He had to.
Max lifted the cup to his lips.
Tasted it.
Warm. Salty. Bitter.
He gagged. Pulled the cup away. Bent over, dry heaving.
Nothing came up. His stomach was empty.
He straightened slowly.
The cup was still in his hand.
His throat still hurt.
Max brought it back to his lips. Drank.
Swallowed quickly. Trying not to taste it. Trying not to think.
The liquid hit his stomach. Warm and wrong.
He finished the cup. Set it down.
Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Stood there, breathing hard.
The taste lingered. He tried spitting. Nothing helped.
Max lowered himself back to the floor.
His throat felt slightly better. Wet, at least. The sharp pain had dulled.
He closed his eyes.
Waited for his stomach to settle.
The voices started quietly.
Muffled. Distant.
Max's eyes opened.
"—don't lie to me, I know—"
His mother's voice.
Coming from somewhere. Through the walls. Through the floor. He couldn't tell.
"—you're insane, you're actually insane—"
His father.
Max turned his head toward the sound.
"—saw the messages, I saw everything—"
"—going through my phone again, you're sick—"
The voices got louder. Clearer.
"—her name was right there, don't pretend—"
"—what about him? What about that man from your work?—"
Max pressed his back against the wall.
They were fighting. His parents. The same fight. Always the same fight.
"—you started this, you drove me to—"
"—don't blame me for your—"
"—YOU were the one who—"
Their voices overlapped. Rose. Became shouts.
Max sat very still.
"—cheating, lying, you've been doing it for years—"
"—YOU did it first, you did it and you know it—"
"—with her, with that woman from—"
"—with HIM, I saw you, I SAW you—"
Back and forth. Accusations. Denials. Blame.
Max's hands clenched into fists.
"—destroyed this family—"
"—YOUR fault, always YOUR fault—"
"—ruined everything—"
"—I hate you, I hate you, I HATE you—"
The voices filled the room. The black room. Or his old house. He couldn't tell anymore.
Max's breathing quickened.
"—waste of a marriage—"
"—should never have had—"
The laughter started low in his chest.
Small. Almost inaudible.
Then louder.
Max laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it wasn't.
He laughed harder.
The sound echoed in the darkness. Sharp. Unhinged.
His parents' voices continued. Fighting. Blaming. Destroying each other.
Max laughed until his stomach hurt.
Until tears ran down his face.
Until the laughter broke into something that might have been sobbing but wasn't quite.
He gasped for air.
Laughed again. Shorter this time. Harsher.
Once more. A bark of sound.
Then silence.
Max sat in the dark.
The voices had stopped. Or he'd stopped hearing them.
He wiped his face with his hand.
His throat hurt again. The laughter had torn at it.
He sat there. Breathing. Tasting his own urine on his tongue.
And then he spoke.
Quiet. Clear.
"No."
A pause.
"It's my fault."
The words hung in the darkness.
No one answered.
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