[jback]

He was soon subdued. The thought in his mind just disappeared like it was blown away by the faint breeze from the open window. He had thought about it a thousand times, but each time was interrupted by a menacing, yet reassuring voice. As he laid motionless on his bed with his arm hanging, the scars were visible. And as he rested on the tattered mattress, everything seemed a million miles away.

Max was a very disturbed twenty year old man, who had endured years of abuse. Both parents were angry alcoholics who never cared about their son. Many different issues plagued Max’ childhood and helped shape the man he had become. He soon turned to a life of crime and drugs and continued to fight his inner demons.

He tossed and turned until he could no longer escape his problems. He sat up too quickly, it had been almost two days since he'd gotten up, and almost instantly fell back down. He tried again, this time moving slowly, head spinning. He made it onto his feet still feeling a bit tipsy. His legs were almost paralyzed and tingled as if a thousand little needles were poking them. He made his way into the cramped bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked dishevelled and unrecognizable -- bruises, cuts, and dirt showing all over his skin. He had a thick beard that made him look at least 10 years older.

After he washed up he made his way back to his bedroom, which also happened to be his living room and kitchen. He sat on the bed which was simply an old mattress on the floor and pulled out an old shabby note pad and began to write. As he gripped the pen his hand trembled, making it difficult to finish. The words were smudged and ran together making it almost illegible. Once the letter was finished Max read it out loud making sure it sounded somewhat coherent.

"I don’t blame anyone else for my demise. The struggle that I have is all on me. My vulnerability may lead to my inevitable down fall. The many imperfections I have, keep me locked inside my own little world and has unleashed my suffering. But I will try and hold on for you”.

He stopped without finishing the letter. He threw down the note pad and went to the small round table to the left of the bed, littered with empty bottles and newspapers. Max rummaged through everything and picked up a razor blade. He sat on a small wooden chair that creaked when he placed his weight on it. The sound was chilling, almost like a small child crying. Max laid his arm on the table revealing the many scars draped across his flesh. He took the blade and carved a large line causing bright red blood to ooze out of his arm. He devilishly smiled at his new addition. Max knew he cut himself because it allowed him to forget his other issues.

He got up and stumbled towards the one and only window in the dimly lit room. The crisp morning air filled his lungs and allowed some fresh air into the dungeon like area. He stuck his head out and the sun rays hit his forehead, reminding him of the summers he spent at camp, happy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two small children playing and sadly remembered his two year old son who he never saw. The unhappy emotion soon turned into hope. He remembered that today was the day the social worker was going to pay him a visit. If they found that everything was alright he could get visitation with his son.

Max, still a bit unstable on his feet, was able to get his apartment to look somewhat put together. Once his tiny abode was looking cleaned and respectable for the condition it was in he sat upon the window sill, listening to the clock. He listened as each second passed with an annoying tick. Finally a stern knock at the door awoke him from his dream like trance and he nervously tip-toed to the door. One thing that was common knowledge about Max was that he rarely ever got nervous, but this was not the case as perspiration dripped from his forehead.

“Hello” greeted Max as he extended his arm, which looked like it was waving while trembling.

“Good Day, I’m Alicia Raymond, your social worker”

“Come in” slurred the grisly man, who had acquired a natural slur from years of substance use.

The woman walked in, took a look around the tight but put together place. She had a stiff, statuesque look to her and exuded a certain smug attitude. She kept eying Max, as she scribbled in her notebook. Twenty minutes had passed and Max had not loosened up a bit. He sat at attention, fidgeting with his fingers while hanging on every word of the social worker. At times he forgot to breathe and would awkwardly gasp in between words. Then it was over. She got up and led herself and Max to the door.

“I’m very impressed with how far you have come, Mr. Riley. Keep up the good work and you will see your son in no time at all.” As she spoke it was the first time her lips curved, leaving a approving grin.

“Thank you, Ms. Raymond,” said the father as a slight drip slid down his cheek. All he could think of was cradling his young son in his arms. He then raised his arm to shake the young woman’s. His sleeve parted, exposing his self therapy. The social worker gazed down as she saw the evidence. She shook her head and abruptly left. In less than a minute he went from being the happiest and most hopeful he’d been in years, to having nothing left. He staggered to his bed and sat down.

He was so calm and sedated. The thought again entered his reality. Max had always been a little bit obsessive, and has always worried about everything. He wanted nothing more than to forget about anything and stop hurting. But for some reason he could not get enough of his own self destruction. It all piled up until he just couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up his notebook and a picture fell out. It was of his son, and the sight of it made Max break down and cry. Tears flowed down his face and it made him feel human, a thing he hadn’t felt in months. He kissed the photo and sat it down beside him. After he wiped his wet face, he finished reading his letter he wrote.

“To feel nothing would be the best thing to happen, because I cannot get a moment to myself. I’m going down hill fast and nobody can stop the inevitable. I’m losing my grip on what’s real and fiction. I just wanted to say I tried and fought a good battle for you my son, but in the end the demons got the best of me. I will try to fight for my son”.

After that things took a turn for the worse. He ripped the picture of his infant son and dropped it on the note pad. Slowly he got up and crept to his dresser and opened the top drawer. There he pulled out a small black handgun. He waved the gun around with a smirk on his face, since he had realized the pain was soon coming to an end. A feeling of relief greeted his pale face, leaving a tint of color. He sighed then pointed the gun to his head, his hands trembled, fingers closer to the trigger. Then he pulled the trigger and in that split second before, the last memory of his son, childhood, and forgiveness entered his mind.

It was done and over with it. His body hit the floor like a ton of bricks. Blood splattered against the wall leaving a mesmorizing pattern, speckled like a sky full of stars. His body lay motionless, except for an involuntary spasm when he hit the floor. It was three weeks before anybody found the body. It was decomposing and the scent was of death. When his friend walked into the room a mysterious gentle breeze came from the closed window, welcoming him.