End Of The Line (SeaMexican)

Day 4040 2:41 p.m.

Max should be dead. As a matter of fact, he wished he was, due to the stabbing and sharp pain in his upper left shoulder and chest.

It took him several minutes to get acquainted with his surroundings. Every time he tried to sit up, his vision went black and fuzzy, and his breathing got so labored he thought he was going to pass out all over again. Finally, though, he propped himself up against the sturdy iron bars and made it into a sitting position where he could figure out his situation.

He tentatively lifted his hand to feel the pained spots on his left side, wincing as he gingerly found one. Bullet wounds. Oh god, he had been shot? But then it all came back to him.

Day 4038, 5:53 am

The day Max and Adam were caught. He never thought it would happen. He was so sure they were going to get away with being together. Not plausible, but it was all they had. And now it had been ruined.

Screaming. God, so much screaming. He wished Adam would just stay quiet, so he wouldn't have to be so concerned about if he was hurt. Sark shoved him outside the door, and Max took the opportunity to lunge at him.

He could hardly remember what he did, all Max knew is that he kicked Sark's ass. He had always been more skilled when it came to combat, so this was no surprise. Max had the gun.

He was going to end it. He was going to shoot the smug grin off of Sark's stupid mug, and do good by everyone who had been wronged by him.

Minx. Chilled. Ze. Renee. Himself.

A D A M.

He could feel his power. They would all be free from this horrible institution.

And then came the gunshots. Max hadn't even seen Scott pull the weapon from his pocket, and before he knew it there were two bullets lodged inside of him. There was so much blood.

Blood on Scott, blood on himself, blood on their clothes.

And Sark laughed.

He couldn't remember what came next. But he was here, and Adam wasn't. Clearly they were both in trouble. Max was weak, though, and unable to leave this stupid fucking prison cell Sark had tossed him in.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded on the cement floors nearby. A person. A person who could help him. Everyone here loved him; he could make someone release him.

The footsteps were closing in. He had to yell out. He tried to make a sound, but his throat was so dry, it felt as though he had eaten a piece of chalk. Max coughed, hitting his fists on the bars.

"Help, please," he managed to cough out, so quietly he could hardly hear himself.

But the footsteps stopped. It was a brief pause, only a little stall in their walk, and a moment later they resumed in their monotonous pattern. He rested his forehead against the cement floor, his head aching more and more with every second. But then, a pair of boots came into his line of sight.

Max looked up, and met the eyes of his wife, or more reasonably, his ex-wife.

"Renee," he choked out, grabbing onto the bars of his cell, "help me, please."

In her hands, she carried a tray of food with hardly anything on it, along with a cup of water and a pill. She didn't say anything as she slid it through the slat in the cell door, just looking at Max. Her eyes were dead, clouded over and foggy almost as if she was blind.

"Renee?" He took the tray, looking at her quizzically. "What's this pill?"

"It's a painkiller, Mr. Gonzalez," she chanted out, not even looking at him. Her eyes were trained on the wall behind his head. "You'll be having visitors in an hour."