Marlowe's Massacre | ;

CHAPTER 23

[ 23.4.13. ]

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Jack Yios Richard breathed backwards since the day he was born. Inhaling, inhaling and inhaling obstacle-defying air that made him too lenient about his life—he thought about making a contraption that forced him to breathe upright. He went to college for this—tinkering through fields of study that made him not think about his pace of breathing no more than the clusters of books piled on his dorm, desk, office space—he was an all-around rational but troublesome young man by the time he met Annette and was going to be a more destructive father when he had Maxwell and Marlowe. When that time had come, he laid out his life. In order, he was a Pulmonologist. Pharmaceutical Engineer. A lawyer. Politician. A husband and then, a father. He was never prepared to have children but he liked the idea of raising them, of holding them.

He really did.

On the night of Maxwell's birth, to his surprise he breathed forward.

He had finally made a contraption that soothed his lungs. He marked March 10th as his rebirth day as he exhaled through his pores! Mouth! Nose, regulating his body properly—falling in love with the idea of a son, of Annette being a mother, of a child he could call his own. He never felt so complete in his life. This was wonderful!

Enchanting!

Surreal!

However, on the morning of Marlowe's birth, January 10th exactly 10 months later, he inhaled again—and had not exhaled but continued to breathe backwards. Hyperventilating. Gagging. Anxiously gasping into the man he once was—he marked this day as his death. He should not have.

He also was afraid, ashamed to admit this as well, but when Marlowe passed, a weight lifted off his lungs—yes! Yes, he cried and sobbed and tanked down to his knees for his late son but he could not help but notice this pressure evaporate. He felt ill knowing this and he died every day for his sorrow. Could he call himself a father? Could he? This is probably why he focused most of his attention on Marlowe; he wanted his approval, to prove he was worth more than not breathing. For crying out loud, he was his son, how could he feel this type of way? He breathed easily now, thinking about this. Thinking about the way he catered towards him and not Maxwell. Thinking. Wondering. Observing a point of view that now required Maxwell in it: the one left over.

How could he pay attention to the son that made him feel full, when the other had already died prematurely from his cursed wrong-doing? Everyone knew Maxwell was good. Annette knew this too. Now, Jack had to claim it. He opened the wide door to his children, all of them were his life's love work, he loved them. Protected them, because he saw that Maxwell loved and protected them.

Admittedly, he was Max's shadow. Always doing him a favor, always trying to make him feel present. Jack had learned quickly to pick up the things, objects and kids Max surrounded himself with and keep them near. He gave them space to grow, even a room if they wanted in the mansion, a relaxing life, a new meaning and more. This was the least he could do for Max. For himself, his openly caring heart. His drinking buddy, Todd had once told him he was starting to house too many of them. "What are you, an orphanage? Jesus Jack calm down with the kids."

"No, not an orphanage. A family, you bastard!" He remarked sternly because André. Raymond. For crying out loud, poor Cassandra who was weeping away. Ardie—where had that boy been? And James was not just some random kids. They were kids he cherished. Loved. Endured. This was the part of him that Max had taken on kindly——and now, unexpectedly another one had showed up at his doorsteps.