Post by Max on Aug 19, 2011 0:28:26 GMT -5
A/N: Some of you may know a bit about Max's past -- whether it be how he got the money to attend Aozora or the fact that he was adopted by a couple that were wonderful, but oblivious. This is an explanation of how the latter came to be.
I had to dumb down the writing/writing style quite a bit to fit a child's perspective. The year is 1998, and this is all over the damn place. I don't know how to structure prose, forgive me.
She was singing to him, words that he didn’t and couldn’t comprehend, but he knew it was her voice. That was enough for him. Just that. Her voice never wavered, never escalated above a whisper, and he believed that’s what made him the happiest.
His mother was singing for him and him alone. She never sang for anyone else, and that made Max feel special. Even at the young age of four, Max knew that his mother’s singing was his and only his. He cherished that, the first real toy he’d been given.
The boy only had to ask, and his mother would begin to hum. Seconds later, she would be singing for her baby boy, singing her favorite songs. By extension, Max’s favorite songs, too.
It was what he had grown up with, and all he needed to know to find his way home.
“If you’re ever lost, Maxxie – ever – follow my voice,”
Those were the words she repeated to him, over and over, at bedtime, during breakfast, when they played outside, whenever she had finished a song, Max’s mother would say those words to him. The same nine words, he remembered that better than he remembered his own name sometimes.
What had changed? That was a good question.
She hadn’t sung in days. Their apartment had been so quiet, unsettlingly quiet. The traffic passing streets below provided the only noise through their open windows. It had been the very beginning of spring, eleven days away from Max’s fifth birthday.
They had woken up early on that day – “Eleven days and my little Maxxie will be five years old!” she had cooed – and got dressed and ready to go somewhere quickly. Max had asked a thousand times where they were going, why he had to get up so early, will you sing for me on the train, Mommy, over and over again.
A boney finger had been held to his mouth to quiet Max as his mother bent down to tie his shoes for him. He hadn’t learned how to yet. The boy had folded his lips happily. His mother quieting him had always meant she was going to sing for him.
But the humming never started.
She reached down to grab his hand – ignoring the confused boy looking up at her with wide eyes – and took their leave. In her other hand was a large bag. Max had never seen it before. It was blue and shimmered when they stepped out of the building’s lobby.
“Mommy,” he tugged at the hand he was gripping, “Mommy, I like your bag.”
There was a beat of silence.
She didn’t turn to look at him. Her voice sounded off somehow, like she’d been crying, but Max couldn’t see her face. “Thank you, Maxxie,”
Neither one of them said anything on their walk to the train station. On the train – Max sitting on his mother’s lap, the blue bag sitting in the seat to her right – Max had tried to twist himself to look up at her, to make sure she was alright, but she held him tightly in place. If he wiggled even a little bit, she tightened her hold to stop him.
The two of them got off the train somewhere that Max had never been before. His eyes lit up as he looked around him, every person, bench, poster, crack in the pavement was interesting to him. Max was somewhere new, he loved visiting new places.
In his mother’s other hand was the blue bag still. He was beginning to hate that bag. It was following them and he didn’t like it. It was silly, harboring a grudge for a bag, but his mother never carried a bag before, at least, not one as big and off-putting as the blue one was becoming.
“Mommy, why do you have that bag?” he had asked her, leaning forward to glare at it around his mother’s legs.
More silence before an answer.
Her voice sounded far away again, like she had been thinking deeply and wasn’t quiet finished yet. He had interrupted her. “It’s for you,”
The boy’s eyes narrowed even more.
He didn’t want that bag. What about it could possibly be for him? It was glittery and didn’t look like it could belong to a boy at all. Max looked up at her again, opening his mouth to ask her why it was his, but caught a tear falling from her cheek, soaking into the fabric of her pink dress. There were several in the same spot. She had been crying.
Max’s voice was weak. He didn’t want to see her sad. “Mommy,”
There was no response. They just kept walking. Up, up, up out of the station and into the sunlight again. Max shielded his eyes, the brightness too much for him so suddenly. He couldn’t look up at his mother as they walked anymore.
Only a few blocks passed before a park came in to view. Max grinned hugely. Excitement tore apart the resentment he had been feeling for the shining blue bag, replacing it easily. His mind wandered over the plethora of park activities deciding on the slides first, then the swings, then the monkey bars and back to the swings.
But his mother walked them to an empty bench instead, hoisting Max up and setting the bag down next to him. The bag. A four-years-old’s mind could be convinced of anything, and Max was certain the bag was the reason he wasn’t on the slides.
“Stay here for a moment, Maxxie,” his mother told him, moving the bag closer to the boy. “And hold on to this, alright?”
Max made no move to hold on to the bag, merely crossing his arms over his chest an glaring at it like a fierce kitten. He didn’t seem to be threatening the bag. He wanted to kick it.
The sounds of other children laughing and the creaking chains of the swings wove their way in to Max’s ears, but he didn’t move his gaze from the bag the entire time his mother was gone. She came back with an ice cream cone, and Max’s eyes lit up again.
He lapped at it, oblivious to the sniffling from the woman beside him. She wiped his mouth when he was done, tossing the garbage away, over her shoulder somewhere Max didn’t see. He was happy, so happy. The boy was at the park with his mother – his favorite person in the world – and he’d had ice cream for no reason.
That was a good day for the boy. If only his mother would sing… it would be perfect.
“Mommy,” Max said, swinging his head to look at the woman. Her eyes were puffy and red, like they were angry. “Why won’t you sing?”
That time, Max didn’t get an answer.
She smiled sadly at him, reaching up to touch his face once before standing again. “Watch the bag, Maxxie, watch it for me, okay?”
He nodded quickly, bottom lip jutted out in confusion. Nothing was making sense to him anymore. The woman walked away from him, never once did she turn around and look back at the boy. The crowd gobbled her up, but Max watched the bag.
A gentle nudge woke the sleeping boy hours later. It had gotten dark, and the only people around him were running on the sidewalks. Tiny fists rubbed the sleep from tiny eyes, an arm still latched around the straps of the bag. He didn’t like the dark, he didn’t like it at all, and was so close to screaming for his mommy when a large hand came out of nowhere and reached for the bag.
The boy screamed for a completely different reason, shrill and frightened, but the noise subsided when a police officer’s badge came in to his line of sight. The officer told him it was alright, he was his friend, but all Max could say was, “Mommy. Where’s my mommy?”
Swinging his legs off of the side of a chair in the park’s small security stand, Max now found himself starring at the ground, a sterile smell in the air. The officer had put on a pair of gloves – Max watching with intrigued eyes – to rummage through the contents of the blue bag, pulling them out and placing them on to the table in the small room.
Clothes, a pair of shoes, a picture, a CD in a broken case, money.
Max scrunched his face up in confusion. Nothing in that bag was exciting. The officer opened the CD case, and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. He retrieved it, the door opened behind him. Another officer peered inside, shaking his head solemnly.
“Do you know what this says?” the officer asked gently, holding the paper close for Max to read.
The characters on the paper were unrecognizable. Max told him ‘no.’
It hadn’t made since then – there wasn’t a reason for it! – and, twelve years later, Max still had no idea as to why. His mother had walked away from him at a park, leaving him nothing but a few t-shirts and a note he couldn’t read until he was seven.
The CD had been his mother singing. The note had been her cautionary phrase to him.
“If you’re ever lost…”
At four, Max had been walked away from by the only person in his life. He had no other family that anyone knew of, no place to live until he was six. At six, the Kimori family adopted him. At eight, Max finally got a straight answer from the family he had been living with for two years. They called him ‘son’ often. It was confusing. The kids at school called him ‘parentless,’ and that hurt for a while. But now he could brush it off with ease.
At nine and ten, he was angry, angry at the woman he couldn’t picture correctly, angry at the letters on the note she’d written, and angry at the voice on the CD. From age eleven on to thirteen, he was a shut-in, depressed, the anger had finally drained him.
At thirteen, he started to change, some for the good, some for the bad, but Max didn’t know what was what until he had been accepted to Aozora Academy. A clear picture of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ parts of his past was finally attainable to him.
And at least once a week, if you paid enough attention to him, you could find Max trying to draw a picture of a woman with long hair. The eyes would never be quite right, though, no matter how many times he tried.
I had to dumb down the writing/writing style quite a bit to fit a child's perspective. The year is 1998, and this is all over the damn place. I don't know how to structure prose, forgive me.
She was singing to him, words that he didn’t and couldn’t comprehend, but he knew it was her voice. That was enough for him. Just that. Her voice never wavered, never escalated above a whisper, and he believed that’s what made him the happiest.
His mother was singing for him and him alone. She never sang for anyone else, and that made Max feel special. Even at the young age of four, Max knew that his mother’s singing was his and only his. He cherished that, the first real toy he’d been given.
The boy only had to ask, and his mother would begin to hum. Seconds later, she would be singing for her baby boy, singing her favorite songs. By extension, Max’s favorite songs, too.
It was what he had grown up with, and all he needed to know to find his way home.
“If you’re ever lost, Maxxie – ever – follow my voice,”
Those were the words she repeated to him, over and over, at bedtime, during breakfast, when they played outside, whenever she had finished a song, Max’s mother would say those words to him. The same nine words, he remembered that better than he remembered his own name sometimes.
What had changed? That was a good question.
She hadn’t sung in days. Their apartment had been so quiet, unsettlingly quiet. The traffic passing streets below provided the only noise through their open windows. It had been the very beginning of spring, eleven days away from Max’s fifth birthday.
They had woken up early on that day – “Eleven days and my little Maxxie will be five years old!” she had cooed – and got dressed and ready to go somewhere quickly. Max had asked a thousand times where they were going, why he had to get up so early, will you sing for me on the train, Mommy, over and over again.
A boney finger had been held to his mouth to quiet Max as his mother bent down to tie his shoes for him. He hadn’t learned how to yet. The boy had folded his lips happily. His mother quieting him had always meant she was going to sing for him.
But the humming never started.
She reached down to grab his hand – ignoring the confused boy looking up at her with wide eyes – and took their leave. In her other hand was a large bag. Max had never seen it before. It was blue and shimmered when they stepped out of the building’s lobby.
“Mommy,” he tugged at the hand he was gripping, “Mommy, I like your bag.”
There was a beat of silence.
She didn’t turn to look at him. Her voice sounded off somehow, like she’d been crying, but Max couldn’t see her face. “Thank you, Maxxie,”
Neither one of them said anything on their walk to the train station. On the train – Max sitting on his mother’s lap, the blue bag sitting in the seat to her right – Max had tried to twist himself to look up at her, to make sure she was alright, but she held him tightly in place. If he wiggled even a little bit, she tightened her hold to stop him.
The two of them got off the train somewhere that Max had never been before. His eyes lit up as he looked around him, every person, bench, poster, crack in the pavement was interesting to him. Max was somewhere new, he loved visiting new places.
In his mother’s other hand was the blue bag still. He was beginning to hate that bag. It was following them and he didn’t like it. It was silly, harboring a grudge for a bag, but his mother never carried a bag before, at least, not one as big and off-putting as the blue one was becoming.
“Mommy, why do you have that bag?” he had asked her, leaning forward to glare at it around his mother’s legs.
More silence before an answer.
Her voice sounded far away again, like she had been thinking deeply and wasn’t quiet finished yet. He had interrupted her. “It’s for you,”
The boy’s eyes narrowed even more.
He didn’t want that bag. What about it could possibly be for him? It was glittery and didn’t look like it could belong to a boy at all. Max looked up at her again, opening his mouth to ask her why it was his, but caught a tear falling from her cheek, soaking into the fabric of her pink dress. There were several in the same spot. She had been crying.
Max’s voice was weak. He didn’t want to see her sad. “Mommy,”
There was no response. They just kept walking. Up, up, up out of the station and into the sunlight again. Max shielded his eyes, the brightness too much for him so suddenly. He couldn’t look up at his mother as they walked anymore.
Only a few blocks passed before a park came in to view. Max grinned hugely. Excitement tore apart the resentment he had been feeling for the shining blue bag, replacing it easily. His mind wandered over the plethora of park activities deciding on the slides first, then the swings, then the monkey bars and back to the swings.
But his mother walked them to an empty bench instead, hoisting Max up and setting the bag down next to him. The bag. A four-years-old’s mind could be convinced of anything, and Max was certain the bag was the reason he wasn’t on the slides.
“Stay here for a moment, Maxxie,” his mother told him, moving the bag closer to the boy. “And hold on to this, alright?”
Max made no move to hold on to the bag, merely crossing his arms over his chest an glaring at it like a fierce kitten. He didn’t seem to be threatening the bag. He wanted to kick it.
The sounds of other children laughing and the creaking chains of the swings wove their way in to Max’s ears, but he didn’t move his gaze from the bag the entire time his mother was gone. She came back with an ice cream cone, and Max’s eyes lit up again.
He lapped at it, oblivious to the sniffling from the woman beside him. She wiped his mouth when he was done, tossing the garbage away, over her shoulder somewhere Max didn’t see. He was happy, so happy. The boy was at the park with his mother – his favorite person in the world – and he’d had ice cream for no reason.
That was a good day for the boy. If only his mother would sing… it would be perfect.
“Mommy,” Max said, swinging his head to look at the woman. Her eyes were puffy and red, like they were angry. “Why won’t you sing?”
That time, Max didn’t get an answer.
She smiled sadly at him, reaching up to touch his face once before standing again. “Watch the bag, Maxxie, watch it for me, okay?”
He nodded quickly, bottom lip jutted out in confusion. Nothing was making sense to him anymore. The woman walked away from him, never once did she turn around and look back at the boy. The crowd gobbled her up, but Max watched the bag.
A gentle nudge woke the sleeping boy hours later. It had gotten dark, and the only people around him were running on the sidewalks. Tiny fists rubbed the sleep from tiny eyes, an arm still latched around the straps of the bag. He didn’t like the dark, he didn’t like it at all, and was so close to screaming for his mommy when a large hand came out of nowhere and reached for the bag.
The boy screamed for a completely different reason, shrill and frightened, but the noise subsided when a police officer’s badge came in to his line of sight. The officer told him it was alright, he was his friend, but all Max could say was, “Mommy. Where’s my mommy?”
Swinging his legs off of the side of a chair in the park’s small security stand, Max now found himself starring at the ground, a sterile smell in the air. The officer had put on a pair of gloves – Max watching with intrigued eyes – to rummage through the contents of the blue bag, pulling them out and placing them on to the table in the small room.
Clothes, a pair of shoes, a picture, a CD in a broken case, money.
Max scrunched his face up in confusion. Nothing in that bag was exciting. The officer opened the CD case, and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. He retrieved it, the door opened behind him. Another officer peered inside, shaking his head solemnly.
“Do you know what this says?” the officer asked gently, holding the paper close for Max to read.
The characters on the paper were unrecognizable. Max told him ‘no.’
It hadn’t made since then – there wasn’t a reason for it! – and, twelve years later, Max still had no idea as to why. His mother had walked away from him at a park, leaving him nothing but a few t-shirts and a note he couldn’t read until he was seven.
The CD had been his mother singing. The note had been her cautionary phrase to him.
“If you’re ever lost…”
At four, Max had been walked away from by the only person in his life. He had no other family that anyone knew of, no place to live until he was six. At six, the Kimori family adopted him. At eight, Max finally got a straight answer from the family he had been living with for two years. They called him ‘son’ often. It was confusing. The kids at school called him ‘parentless,’ and that hurt for a while. But now he could brush it off with ease.
At nine and ten, he was angry, angry at the woman he couldn’t picture correctly, angry at the letters on the note she’d written, and angry at the voice on the CD. From age eleven on to thirteen, he was a shut-in, depressed, the anger had finally drained him.
At thirteen, he started to change, some for the good, some for the bad, but Max didn’t know what was what until he had been accepted to Aozora Academy. A clear picture of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ parts of his past was finally attainable to him.
And at least once a week, if you paid enough attention to him, you could find Max trying to draw a picture of a woman with long hair. The eyes would never be quite right, though, no matter how many times he tried.
