Mocha 1, Coffee 12, Malt, Whipped Cream
Title: Nothing Gold Can Stay
Disclaimer: Actually, I do own them. Sweet!
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Prompt: Mocha 1. I think I can, Coffee 12. frame, Malt, Whipped Cream
Story Note: Writer’s Cafe prompt: Things I would rather forget about Malt: Mocha 1- Max- I need some back up!
WARNING: People who are easily triggered shouldn't read this. It's nothing bad, check the rating, but if you think you might snap and binge on the self destructive behavior of your choice please skip this one.
Summary: He didn’t fight that hard when Justy kidnapped him.
There’s always a system. Max wouldn’t hear anyone else say it until he was much older, but he knew it when he was very young. There’s a system to everything they do.
An addict is always an addict. Max wouldn’t hear anyone else say that one until he was much older, too. And they would be controversial when it was said. But, like the system, Max was certain of it for a long time before it needed words.
He hadn’t understood it at first. He’d been baffled by the tiny bottles in the bathroom cabinet next to his toothbrush. He hadn’t been perplexed when he’d found them between the couch cushions. When he found them stowed in his sneakers, though, he’d started asking questions. Innocent questions. Questions like ‘What is this and why is it under my pillow?’.
But if there’s something worse than one addict, it’s two.
He hadn’t understood that, either. He’d been confounded by the lube scattered around the kitchen. He’d been puzzled by the strange toys stashed in the pockets of coats and the cabinet in the laundry room. When he found clamps dangling from the picture frame, though, he’d started asking questions. Innocent questions. Questions like ‘What is this and why is it under my pillow?’.
Max, besieged with questions, did what all clever children besieged with questions and out of options do. He’d gone to the library. He’d crept out of the clearly marked CHILDREN’S ZONE and into the adult section of the library like a thief in the night. With no real idea where to start his search, he’d spent a lot of time studying the titles at his eye level and keeping a lookout for people trying to drag him back to the vibrant yellow carpet and baby blue bookshelves where he ‘belonged’.
It had taken a long time, but eventually he’d come up with some answers. Those answers were spelled A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C and N-Y-M-P-H-O-M-A-N-I-A-C. He wasn’t sure how they were pronounced, but he knew that they were the best words for the problem he had. So he’d turned to the books for an answer. They’d suggested interventions, hospitalization, and taking away the thing that they were addicted to. Maxwell had pondered that. Then he’d gone on an impromptu Easter egg hunt, without Easter. Or eggs. He’d tossed his spoils in the neighbor’s garbage, and been satisfied with his work.
Then his parents got home.
His father hadn’t been home for an hour before he’d turned the house upside down, looking for his bottles. He’d finally found one stashed in the top of the closet, where Max couldn’t reach. His mother had discovered her little friends missing and shrugged pragmatically on her way to the shower.
It was the first time Max watched things fall apart in a tidy circle with him at the untouched center.
It wasn’t the last.
Disclaimer: Actually, I do own them. Sweet!
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Prompt: Mocha 1. I think I can, Coffee 12. frame, Malt, Whipped Cream
Story Note: Writer’s Cafe prompt: Things I would rather forget about Malt: Mocha 1- Max- I need some back up!
WARNING: People who are easily triggered shouldn't read this. It's nothing bad, check the rating, but if you think you might snap and binge on the self destructive behavior of your choice please skip this one.
Summary: He didn’t fight that hard when Justy kidnapped him.
There’s always a system. Max wouldn’t hear anyone else say it until he was much older, but he knew it when he was very young. There’s a system to everything they do.
An addict is always an addict. Max wouldn’t hear anyone else say that one until he was much older, too. And they would be controversial when it was said. But, like the system, Max was certain of it for a long time before it needed words.
He hadn’t understood it at first. He’d been baffled by the tiny bottles in the bathroom cabinet next to his toothbrush. He hadn’t been perplexed when he’d found them between the couch cushions. When he found them stowed in his sneakers, though, he’d started asking questions. Innocent questions. Questions like ‘What is this and why is it under my pillow?’.
But if there’s something worse than one addict, it’s two.
He hadn’t understood that, either. He’d been confounded by the lube scattered around the kitchen. He’d been puzzled by the strange toys stashed in the pockets of coats and the cabinet in the laundry room. When he found clamps dangling from the picture frame, though, he’d started asking questions. Innocent questions. Questions like ‘What is this and why is it under my pillow?’.
Max, besieged with questions, did what all clever children besieged with questions and out of options do. He’d gone to the library. He’d crept out of the clearly marked CHILDREN’S ZONE and into the adult section of the library like a thief in the night. With no real idea where to start his search, he’d spent a lot of time studying the titles at his eye level and keeping a lookout for people trying to drag him back to the vibrant yellow carpet and baby blue bookshelves where he ‘belonged’.
It had taken a long time, but eventually he’d come up with some answers. Those answers were spelled A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C and N-Y-M-P-H-O-M-A-N-I-A-C. He wasn’t sure how they were pronounced, but he knew that they were the best words for the problem he had. So he’d turned to the books for an answer. They’d suggested interventions, hospitalization, and taking away the thing that they were addicted to. Maxwell had pondered that. Then he’d gone on an impromptu Easter egg hunt, without Easter. Or eggs. He’d tossed his spoils in the neighbor’s garbage, and been satisfied with his work.
Then his parents got home.
His father hadn’t been home for an hour before he’d turned the house upside down, looking for his bottles. He’d finally found one stashed in the top of the closet, where Max couldn’t reach. His mother had discovered her little friends missing and shrugged pragmatically on her way to the shower.
It was the first time Max watched things fall apart in a tidy circle with him at the untouched center.
It wasn’t the last.