Marlowe's Massacre | ;

CHAPTER 26

[.24.9.2.]

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The clicking sound of Maxwell undoing his Van Cleef links echoed off the lonesome Billiard room by the second he went over the main bar counter.

Nearly eight bands pulled into his hands disguised as two fine Pierre Arpels but, he dropped them in exchange for movement to his wrists. Hiking up his sleeves he began to scan his dark eyes over the array of liquor shelved on the glass walls, his mind settled on something quick and hard, Gorbatschow Vodka hit his finger tips first as he pushed his glasses atop his head.

His hands find a simple shot glass nearby as his gaze poured the smooth liquor; in times when pills weren't around, drinking gave him pleasure—maybe Maxwell couldn't live without a quick fix because how long could he really go? How long could he not think about it? How many times a day did urging thoughts loom his mind? How long did the gnawing at the insides of his mouth bleed corpse blood the hour after he just relapsed again and again and again and again—the taste of the second shot brought tears in his eyes!

Before he knew it, they burned his neck as he looked down at his trembling hands, shit! He was crying. Panting. Sobbing. Heaving out rugged breaths of pain, furious at himself for not clenching his teeth. His heart knocking in his ears, was he hyperventilating? Had he even breathed in a single breath of oxygen before the third shot gagged his throat?

He is feeling too much! Every unholy moment of needing a kick more than his heart steady afloat treaded his will to live. It is cruel how his mind splashes black gaps and warping aches through his vision! He can't get his body to move, for his heart to beat slow, he finds the countertop below him, its touch freezing but his skin is clammy, he can't feel his face, his lips dry, he's starting to feel spacious, airy, faint, numb, scarcely weak—"Maxwell?"

"Dear?" He fears he is on his fifth one before arms wrap his frame, they feel familiar but strange against his skin.

"Honey?"

"Breathe."

His mother's hands bring him into a strong hug, her chest clasping with his as his heart looks for her temperance—she can feel his lungs shocking his rib cage like this! Annette tightens more; her pressure, her bones, her body molding itself around his back until his hands start to scale her frame. "Breathe, Breathe in. Breathe out."

His legs feel loose as his weight doubles bringing them to the floor yet, her arms still locked around his shuddering body—"Maxwell, you have to breathe."

"Can you hear me?" Her voice sounds so far away as his eyes mimic darkness—there, in this fabricated space, her words become clear.

"Breathe."

"Baby, you have to breathe."

"..Maxwell?"

"..Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Look, please! Don't close your eyes, dear! Max? Please?Please, look, look, look—hey!" Fuck, Annette needs Max to exhale right now! God, please let him exhale right now because he's going unresponsive on the floor! She's trying her best to soothe him free of his mind, to get him off the ground, to have him stand, to pray no one walks through the billard room but, as she looks to her son's face she believes he may be having an episode.