The Chapel

Chapter 1: Maxwell Higgins

For as long as I could remember, I've always been unwanted.

I know you think I'm joking.

I'm not.

My father went off to war shortly after I was born. He died in war.

My mother—she's not doing well currently. She's in the hospital waiting for her death. It's been that way for a year now. She seemed to have wanted me before she went into a coma, but it's very clear with my luck that if there was a God, I was unwanted by him.

So, I'm living with my aunt.

Did I tell my name? I should tell you my name before I go any further. My name is Maxwell Higgins. Max for short.

Today is the second Monday of my first year of high school, and I'm so excited. (That was sarcasm if you couldn't tell. I probably shouldn't use sarcasm while writing, Mr. Paul would be disappointed in me). I've already made some upperclassman enemies.

The 'enemy's' name is Billy, (which is a stupid name if you ask me). Billy hates me. I've known him for awhile though, so we've been building a mutual hatred for each other for a while now, about three years. I have no friends as far as I can tell, probably because, again, my luck is very poor.

I walk into the entrance gates of the high school and notice a homeless man sitting there. How long would it take for the school to notice the trespasser? He smiled at me as I passed. I avoided his gaze and kept walking. That day happened to be a normal one: it started with Billy beating the shit out of me, ended with Billy beating the shit out of me. Hey, the homeless guy got a show! He didn't even have to pay, lucky him.

"Really, Bill? You wanna go today? Okay, fine. Let's go." I always tried to defend myself, and yes, I was able to throw some punches, but I was a stick. (Still am).

Now I'm on the ground unable to move. I'm waiting for someone to notice before they lock up the school yard. I usually wait five minutes before leaving. Today, I waited seven minutes before deciding to get up. My luck. What did I tell you?

"You okay, kid?" the homeless guy asked on my way out.

"Yes." I said and I walked as fast as I could to avoid embarrassment.

My aunt was a heavy drinker which meant she never really cared when I came home looking like shit. Usually, it was I who put her to bed, made sure she was comfortable. Then I was able to treat my wounds and go to bed. (Yeah, I didn't do my homework that night. Whoops).

This was the cycle. Until that Tuesday.