Pagebound

Chapter I

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times
-Charles Dickens(A Tale Of Two Cities)

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

From the very second you are born you begin dying. That is one of the scariest thing to get your head around. Right at this moment... as you are scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, you are dying, practically a zombie just waiting for your days to hit zero. Then, something happens, no one knows what or if it's good or bad but something happens or you go somewhere or you just lay in the ground slowly rotting away until you are a single skeleton, just like every other skeleton laying dead next to you. The only people who truely know the answer are, of course dead. Thus the great mystery of life after death continues to blow the minds of even the greatest philosophers and scientist. Is there a heaven or a hell... nobody knows but in Maxwell J. Parsons' personal opinion, even if there was a hell, there is no way that it could be any worse than the depressing excuse for a rock petty humans call home as long as Lucifer was in possession of a incredibly large library.

There was nothing really extraordinary about Maxwell J. Parsons. He had blazing red hair that was cropped at a precise number 3 blade around his ears, letting it remain as a curly mess perched on top of his head that seemed to resemble an incredibly untidy birds nest. His thick metal spectacles were constantly sliding down his nose, lightly dusted with freckles as someone would dust the surface of a donut with powdered sugar. His thick 4.50 prescription glasses magnified his abnormally green eyes causing the illusion that they were bulging out of his head like the eyes of an insect. That is of course, if he ever lowered his book enough for them to be visible(accidentally of  course, he would never risk losing the flow of the story).

He was that annoyingly awkward build were he was not small enough to be small, not tall enough to be tall, not skinny enough to be skinny and not fat enough to be fat. The other kids at school could never make fun of him by picking on his size or weight or even on how he looked because(as many of he girls who had only just glanced over at him at the rare time were he was without literature would agree) he looked pretty fine indeed. This caused them to pick on the only other part of himself he let known to any other soul... his love of reading.

But by this they were mistaken, as their useless strive to push everyone into their pitiful idea of 'normality' just pushed Maxwell further and further into the peaceful world of literature. The only place that he ever felt at home.

It was days like these(along with every other day of the year) that Maxwell J. Parsons felt like doing nothing but lay in his insulated blanket burrito and read about the magnificent adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The rain, littered with small pebbles of hail rapped steadily at the filthy windows of the attic.

Maxwell had always thought there was something magical about rain. Due to his constant daydreaming in all subjects beside art(in which the main criteria was the ability to say dream) the exact scientific genesis of the small crystal-like pellets drumming against the window was a mystery. But it was not only that. It was the sweet smell of the ground as though you could inhale the relief of whether the grass would survive until next rainfall. It was the invisible layer that hung in the air and wrapped around his body like a blanket, sheltering him from the deadly lightning.

Maxwell sighed heavily, he had read the same sentence again and again, each time coming up with new pointless theories to draw his attention away from the grave tales of "good ol' Huck". Another sigh. He slapped to book closed firmly sending a sweet bibliosmia into the air. In one fluid movement he rose, pulling his dull-coloured "Shut Up And Let Me Read" hoodie over his head misplacing his hair in a destroyed yet somehow attractive manner.

He climbed down the ladder swiftly before descending the wooden stairs that lead to the front door in a rather dog like way. He paused at the old, musty bookshelf that sat gloomily next to the shining modern door that lead out of Maxwell's house. Running his finger gently along the spines he landed on his pocket edition of 'The Maze Runner' he had recently auquired for his fourteenth birthday just little over 143 days ago. The only book in Maxwell's unusually large collection that could fit discreetly into his pocket along with a magnifying glass-nearly the size of the book itself that enlarged the near microscopic text near enough to be read. He pulled it out quickly and twisted the cool, squad doorknob revealing the war zone that was outside.

He ran quickly, trying to save his book from the powerful crystal bullets shooting at him. Sprinting as fast as his thin, un-athletic legs would carry him until he reached the shelter of a nearby balcony. Turning around slowly, he gazed up at the imposing house before him.