I suppose all good stories must have a beginning a middle and an end, but I’ve never been very fond of that order. Beginnings tend to be dry and boring whilst the endings tend to be so fast paced. I’ve heard some stories that begin with the ending first, but those are horrible stories I’ve always felt that I’m being ripped off when I hear one of those stories. Trying to guess how a story will end is always half the fun hearing them.
So just as the story tellers before me I shall begin my story with the boring bits, the bits which are rather annoying to read but are somehow relevant to the things to come later on.
I suppose my name is relevant to a story that’s about me, well my name is Maximillian Riddle.
My Dad told me once that I was named Maximillian because when I was born he and my Mum saw greatness in me, and Maximillian is supposed to mean ‘The greatest.’
I can’t help but chuckle at the irony in my two names though, because anyone I look at it my parents had amazing foresight in choosing the name they did. On the one hand they’ve an absolute failure of a son, one might even say the greatest failure to ever live. Which is an incredible mystery considering my parents positions in life, if I were even remotely like them in any fabric of my being then I would not be anywhere as great a failure as I am. My parents, as well as most people I know, are often perplexed by turn of events and I often feel it’s an unsolvable riddle. Like my name.
On the other hand while society has pretty much decided on my mental state for me (my current situation is evidence of that) I have yet to come to a conclusive decision on the matter. I feel that I am in a ‘Catch-22’ of sorts, in that if I admit I’m crazy then I must not be crazy because only sane people can think they’re crazy. But if that’s true then no one can truly be crazy because on some level everyone must wonder whether they or crazy or not. That is part of being human. And even if that’s not true and then why has society labeled me as crazy. Because I often wonder whether I am or not, which must mean I am sane if only sane people can wonder whether they are crazy or not.
I apologize if I begin to ramble, I find I tend to do that.
Lets see what’s next? I’ve given my story a character but what of a setting? Right now it is merely Max sitting in a room of nothingness, if that, because for it to be a room would imply there are 4 walls a roof of some sort and a floor. I have confirmed none of these. I may be sitting outside transposing my thoughts onto the sidewalk in chalk.
But alas it’s nothing so exciting, I am just a normal average Joe. My stories setting is not something extravagant such asAntarctica, the jungle, or even a big city. Nothing that exciting. My story takes place in the middle of nowhere, but remember nowhere does not equate to nothingness. Even though I’m nowhere in particular I’m still somewhere.
Yet I’ve yet to describe what nowhere looks like. Well to be more specific my general vicinity in nowhere is my room. Outside my room I’ve a large number of trees that are turning majestic colors for the fall, they really are quite beautiful and I often stare out my window at them in awe.
Protected from the cold hard grip of mother nature lies my room, yes it leads to protection for me but it also separates me from the outer worlds beauty. Inside my room is of course myself, I’m currently on my bed transposing my thoughts as I’ve been assigned to do. My walls are of some note, most of the time when people come into my room their jaws drop open and they stare aghast at my walls. No there is not blood on them. Just intricate patterns. I used to draw when I wanted to think, I’ve recently stopped that. To describe the patterns would take far to long as there are simply to many to talk about in a reasonable amount of time. But even I must admit they do appear quite chaotic.
I’ve neglected to describe two very important things about my setting, my home. First would be the smell. My mum has always been a wonderful cook and the one way to know for certain that I’m home is for the smell of her cooking. It doesn’t matter what it is, there’s always just a hint of something special in the food she makes that’s non-existent in the store bought food. My dad says that my mom makes her food with a special ingredient, as cheesy as it sounds, it’s love. I’m suspicious of that as I often wonder how it’s possible that my parents love me when I’m such a disgrace to them.
The other thing I must describe is a tad bit more difficult too as I’m never quite certain if it’s real or not. I am talking about the sounds of my home. Sometimes they are peaceful and calming, others they are terrifying as if straight out of my nightmares. It’s not so uncommon for me to wake in the middle of the night hearing dogs howling or what sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
But the biggest issue I have with sound is that I never get a moments rest, I cannot remember the last time I had some silence. There are a multitude of reasons for this, the biggest two are that one my little sister adores making noise. She’s about 11 and is determined to become a rock star, she doesn’t even really care which instrument gets her to stardom. Whether it’s vocals, an electric guitar, or just plain old drums, she plays them all. I’d be lying if I said she’s bad at them though, it’s just that when you wake up to the sound of drums every few nights and the other nights it’s a guitar you begin to become a little on edge.
The final thing that is note worthy about sound before I go and rest is that I sometimes hear things that aren’t actually there. And I don’t just mean sounds such as wolves howling in the night, I also hear voices. Or at least I hear voices. I can’t really be certain sometimes I think they’re just in my imagination, like everything else.
Oh and these voices aren’t the typical voices one hears about on the news that convinced someone to become a killer. No these voices just talk to me. Casual conversation normally but occasionally I’ll we’ll get really in-depth in our discussions.
Perhaps I’ll tell recant some of the conversations later. But for now I’ve one last thing I must tell you about my story. So far there is a main character and a setting. Yet those do not a make story or I suppose they do but a very interesting one, and my life is anything but boring.
Unfortunately I’m not quite sure how to word the plot of my story because it’s really unfolding right before my very eyes. But it seems that men in suits are slowly taking over my home. And when I say home I mean the area outside of my house not my actual home.
When I ask my mum about it she’ll brush it off and say either that one there is not anyone there or that those men are here with the government and here to protect us. Yes, yes men in suits, government, blah it sounds like the typical conspiracy theory.
But I’m not crazy, Am I?
