Legacy In Fire (Book 1)

Amorphous (Chap-15)

The song for this chapter is "Flashlight" by Jessie J. Enjoy.

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Max's POV

Minutes had slowly ebbed away as Max found himself becoming terrible complacent in his journey towards some aspect of Zen-even though he didn't often delve in the spiritual. It wasn't the spiritual elevation that he needed, but the peculiar peace that partnered the state of this eerie silence. In these few minutes that he wasn't being interrogated, tubed and probed, and treated like someone on the less-than-stellar part of the list for a revelry. He was assured, with incontestable faith, that one day he would have these people on their knees-perhaps, all in dresses and powder pink faces, and why not throw in a wig for the merry pleasure of it?-begging for the reconciliation of their actions. And in that moment, he planned to smile with his devilishly handsome grin and amble towards them with a graceful gait, and then bestow the honor of their fate in the hands of Jade.

Jade, Jade, Jade. The thought of her was like a blow to the chest that unexpectedly released all the required air from your body, and you were now left suffocating without oxygen. Without life. He had tried, in all his efforts to stop her from coming here. For he knew the detriments, he knew the ill-effects; he knew the fate she might boast if she had come. He knew that first, or rather, second hand...through what happened to his mother. Though, he could not vacation on such a topic, it would only lead to worry.

And Max already comported enough apprehension to wash the world, in its entirety, in the morose palette. If any more complemented what he already detained in a tight yet colossal ball within himself, he would surely explode.

At this point, he had regained all the feeling in his limbs. He could wiggle his toes, and feel them caress the tip of the boot he wore. Black. Plebe-Styled. Appallingly Unfashionable.

The fashion department here was in terrible need for a refreshment in taste, or a strut along a runway where they'd be wonderfully disfigured by a plane. Any of the two would suffice; the latter would be more interesting.

A spark of crimson light shot through the glass on the other side of the room for a nanosecond. So fast, Max might've imagined it, but he was sure his imagination would not be so dull as to be creating spurs of light for its mollification. Or perhaps this place had finally got to him?

No. He was sure that he had seen that light before. It had flashed when he came in, but due to its succeeding absence and his delving into a reverie, it was of no concern.

But now his curiosity piqued.

He rose from the metal chair, stunned by how cold it was, and sauntered towards the glass, placing first, a tentative finger on it, then his hand, and then his face, attempting to see what was on the other side. He thought he saw the faint outline of a body but the thought could not tarry. Eyes the color of a scarlet sun shone and he was pushed inexplicably, falling on his bum by some unseen force. His mouth hung agape. The state of shock was fleeting and anger suddenly assumed its place. He attempted to get up...attempted.

He could not move. Movement was impossible, and all his efforts to do so were futile. His face contorted into a picture of consternation.

"You bloody bastard!" Max spat "What in hell do you think you're doing!"

He felt his right hand move, against his accord; there was no consensus on his part. He wondered ruefully if this was how the teachers felt when he had played tricks on their eyes and mind. Poor souls, them.

The hand rose to his face and it struck, the first blow was bearable. But then a string of hits followed, and the pain was high and concentrated. With such intensity, that he could see its color, something bright and beautiful. Pink, then red, then a yellow so striking, it was like intangible gold. He had to now revert to seeing things through his mind, because his eye hurt so badly. He was sure an ugly mark would be left later.

But in the moment of the not-so-much-so-as masochism, he realized he had now gained control over his left arm. He quickly made it useful and detached his hand from his face, but then the control of the arm dissipated. The right hand took the task of debauching his left with such determination that he would have been proud of its zeal and strength if the situation was not such.

His right hand took its triumphant last hit, and he felt his arm dislocate from its comfy home in his shoulder.

The self-mutilation had done him good. He almost laughed; he would've, if he could feel his face, he was afraid that if he laughed, he would hear the sound emerge from his...

He was left feeling shapeless. Amorphous. Without an identity, able to be molded into anything, anyone. He felt no longer like Max...maybe he was no longer Max.

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OK, here we go. Did you like it? I don't know if you guys like third person as much as first person, or if you even like Max close to how you like Jade...but I guess, the inevitable question is WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL HAPPEN NEXT?

Please vote and comment, feedback means the world to me. Love y'all <3