This isn’t even remotely close to being even slightly decent. x/ Sorry. EITHER WAY it’s dedicated to Demolition-GIRL-33236. I’m sorry you had to deal with all that emotional crap last week, and I know this is going to make you frown and feel slighted; I mean, if you told me that you were going to write me a oneshot, and I requested angst, I’d been pissed if I read this. So you can complain, and I will humbly lower my head for you to smack with a bat.

MAX DRAMA. If it means anything, Macy, this angst hits close to home for me. So don’t be too mean. ;-; I’m fragile.

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Max’s point of view.

I remember it all really well: the angered, strained sounds of my parents’ yelling, the smashing of dishes, the shoving of furniture. I remember the dull crunch of my father’s fist as it punched into the drywall of the living room wall, right below our family portrait. I remember sitting up in my room, my head pressed between two pillows, just staring. I remember that between my bare feet, there were exactly 67 bumps in the carpet. The poster across from me – my Iron Man poster – had three rips in it. My toenails needed to be trimmed. I had a strange freckle on my shin. And about a million other little details, too: anything to help distract me.

I remember when my mother came storming upstairs, still yelling. She swerved passed my bedroom and down the hall to my parent’s, slamming the door so hard I could feel it. I flinched.

The house was silent for the next two weeks, at least when I was around. I could tell, just by the atmosphere, that they had fought while I was at school. We seemed to be missing more and more plates, and one of the dining room chairs was gone. I noticed that pictures had been moved around on the walls, and to the strangest places. It seemed to happen around the same time that my dad’s knuckles started hiding behind bandages.

One day, after school, I came home to find everything locked. No cars in the driveway, no windows left open, nothing. I knocked and knocked. I rang the bell. I called, hoping my mother would realize it was me and open up. But it turned out, as I found after two hours of sitting on the steps of the front deck, that there was no one home at all. Earlier that day, my mother had packed up and left. My father was still at work, and when he got home around nine that night, to find me sitting there, cold, damp, and crying... he just looked at me. I think it was about then that he realized what I was going through. And he led me into the house, without a word, and made me pasta. On accident, he put mustard on it. All I heard him say that night was “I’m sorry, Maxie. I’m so sorry.”

The clocks started ticking again, slowly but surely. My mom was moving to Japan, after taking that promotion. Standing there, in that airport, watching as she vanished among the people and suitcases, waving to me with a tear hanging in her eye… it was one of the worst moments of my life. Not because my mother was leaving, but because it was all real now; things had been a blur up until that point, and as I climbed into the car where my father had been waiting, it hit me. I fought tears the entire way home, and the next day at school my teacher asked me if I did my homework in the rain; why else would it be speckled with dry watermarks?

All of this I remember, with a sort of fond depression. It is the dominant memory of my childhood, after all. At least now my parents don’t argue when they see each other. It’s evolved to that permanently awkward stage, where they act civil and agreeable, even though the only things on their minds are those arguments; those hurtful words. I remember them too, but I wouldn’t let on to know them. Not for the life of me. Perhaps that’s why I try so hard to keep people happy; lord knows I don’t want more people to fall away from me like my parents did. And really, where’s the harm in it? If I smile, they smile. If they smile, they don’t fight. If they don’t fight, I smile. So it’s fair to assume the cycle could be worse. I mean, I could be doing drugs right now. Really, I could. I would be a total meth-head. Yeah, and I would probably have some bastard child somewhere. But I’m not that messed up.

Right?

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Worst attempt at an ending ever. But I lost the mood and couldn’t keep it going for the life of me. Sorry. ): Review?