That Little Letter

Chapter Sixty One

'Dear Dove,

What the actual fuck, Dove. I'm trying to make it up to you and now you're pushing me away? I can't believe you. I didn't have the best life and now you're leaving me? You're an ass.

Oh, and my family? I guess you'll find out that I was abused for my entire life. Ha, but I guess that doesn't matter now. 

Thanks for all of the laughs, but I won't remember them. 

Later,

Max.' 

Max bit at his bottom lip before he pressed the send button, and when he did, he felt like his heart was ripped from his chest and devoured by a gigantic beast. He bit his bottom lip harder, but stopped when he tasted the red venom that leaked through his pearlish white teeth. With his jaw clenched, he turned off his phone and got up from his bed, though his body ached with every movement he made. His father wasn't home, so he was a free man for the next little while. Or was he? He wasn't sure what freedom was anymore. Just because he couldn't remember what happened to him a few days prior didn't mean there wasn't any confusion as to why a part of his life lacked any sort of memory. He gripped his head and growled lowly to the reflection that appeared of himself in the mirror. He may not have ever had the greatest memory, but he could always remember waking up in the morning of every day. Something wasn't right. He could feel it deep within his mind. 

He grabbed his phone and started going through every app he had, but nothing told him anything. He growled to himself again and slammed his fist into the side of his head as if to regain some sort of memory, but nothing came. Nothing was working. Something wasn't right. Something was wrong. 

He threw his phone at a wall and watched as it fell to the ground, leaving a large dent in the wall, but Max could care less about that. He needed something to remind him of what happened over the days that he couldn't remember even the slightest detail about. With both of his hands, he began pulling on his hair and howling as if he were a crazed man, and in some cases, he was. His face was growing red from frustration and his hands were balled into tight fists, and if he wasn't alone in the house, he could have easily killed somebody. Maybe it was a good thing that his father wasn't home. 

Max grabbed his sweater that smelt like him and his cologne. He didn't mind the smell, but it wasn't the best. He never understood how girl's would be completely okay with wearing a guy's sweaty hoodie. Like, what was point? They were basically wearing a large cloth that had soaked up sweat, only to be covered with the smell of cologne. Okay, maybe he was thinking way off topic. He pulled the sweater over his head and walked out of the room in a rush, which wasn't good for the stitches that decorated his body. When he felt the pang and the sting from the wounds, he stopped dead still in the hallway. He lifted up his sweater and shirt and studied the marks carefully. He never remembered getting them. The only thing he remembered was going to the hospital, but that was it. He remembered everything that happened after he woke up in the hospital, but before the hospital, he had no memory. What had happened? 

He traced his fingers over his scars, but when that did nothing, he pulled down his shirt and sweater and continued his journey down the hall. Maybe his father was hiding something from him. Would it be in the attic? Or his office, perhaps? Max didn't know. But he would know what happened soon enough after he searched the entire house for clues.