Something Hidden Inside

Max Green wasn’t a normal baby.

When he was brought into the world on December 15th in the cold winter of 1985, he was his parents little miracle. Throughout the pregnancy there had been many complications that had threatened not only his life, but the life of his mother. Luckily enough, they had both managed to pull through, and Jeph and Alice considered Maxwell Scott to be their blessing.

There was never anything physically wrong with their baby, and all of the nurses would always comment on what a gorgeous pair of eyes he’d had. It was just the fact he never cried that worried them. All of Alice’s visitors would say how they wished their child had been the same, had just stared up at whoever was holding them in curiosity and never made a peep, but it just felt strange to Max’s mother; unnatural.

As Max grew up into his terrible two’s, that completely changed.

He wasn’t really that naughty of a toddler, and he kept to himself more than anything, but when he wanted something he’d kick and scream and yell until he got it. There was no way past his temper tantrums.

Sometimes, if his parents continued to refuse him the sweets he wanted, or the expensive toy on the shelf, he’d sit himself down and bring his hand to his mouth, biting down so hard into his own flesh that it would finally break. His fists would bleed and real tears would overtake his crocodile ones from the pain, but he never learnt. Once the sore’s had healed and he found himself in want of something new, he’d repeat the same self-harming act for attention.

When Max started school, he began to have problems.

It was never with the work; he was more than capable at keeping up with the class and was passing with flying colours. It was interaction with the other children that he lacked. He would always be too shy to introduce himself and too quiet for any other child to bother talking to for long. The boy didn’t seem to mind, however, that he didn’t have any friends, and looked more than content sitting with his colouring books during play.

Max’s teachers and parents tried to persuade him to befriend at least one of the others, but he’d just shake his little brunette head and continue to move his Texta perfectly between the lines.

Drawing was the only thing he ever seemed interested in.

If his father called, he’d always go and play catch with him and if his mother called, he’d cook with her, but when left to his own accord he’d always be found in his room, sketching or colouring, surrounded in his pencils. Alice loved this, ecstatic that her little boy was going to be an artist, and a fine one at that. His drawings were exceptional for a child of his age.

It was all brilliant, until the things he drew began to change.

Max had always loved puppies. He’d never had one of his own, but ever since he had seen his cousins’ for the first time he’d adored them, so they usually became the focus of his drawings. There would always be a little cartoon dog playing with a little cartoon Max in the park, or sitting in the backyard of the house he’d created.

Look, mummy, look, he’d say proudly once he’d filled up yet another page, waving it above his head to catch his mother’s attention. She’d gasp and faun over just how beautiful the drawing was, until a certain one landed in her hands not long after Max had turned seven.

Maxie, why did you draw this?

The smile had fallen from his pink lips and he’d looked upset, almost ashamed, refusing to answer as Alice fussed over the gruesome drawing. Because the puppy wasn’t sitting in his kennel or chasing a Frisbee, he was lying in a puddle of his own blood.

This isn’t a nice thing to draw, Max. I want you to put this in the bin and draw me something pretty.

The drawings went back to normal, leaving Alice no reason to think twice about the mishap. She had nothing to worry about – until she found the stack shoved under his bed while cleaning his room.

Page after page filled with blood and fire, ugly black scribbles crossing out smiling children and knives sticking through animals. Alice stared, horrified, as she flicked through the pile, stopping towards the end on a certain picture. It was obviously of the little boy himself, standing happily beside yet another bleeding puppy.

Max, why would you want the puppies to be hurt? Jeph had questioned calmly as Alice wiped away her tears, both looking down at their son who ignored their questions, pushing around his red fire engine. You don’t want puppies to be hurt, do you? Have you ever wanted to do this to a real puppy?

Max’s tiny fingers slowly recoiled from the toy automobile as he kept his head down and his green eyes on the carpet.

Yes.

Max passed through most of Primary School without too much more of a problem. He still had trouble mixing with other children, but had managed to earn himself a rather close friend. The other boy’s name was Craig, and though he was a year younger than Max, the two got on rather well, despite Max’s inability to hold long conversations or share his belongings.

Max was in his last year of Primary School, almost twelve-and-a-half years old, when his parents found the real problem.

Maxwell, you tell me the truth. Did you do this or not? Max, look at me! Look me in the eyes and promise me you didn’t do this.

Max kept his eyes on his fingers, his lengthening hair falling across his vision as he refused to look up, just like he did when he was younger. He had thought he was safe, that they would never find out; he thought the hole was deep enough.

I didn’t do it, Dad.

He’d washed his clothes, washed everything he had used and made the grave almost undetectable – how had they found it?

Don’t lie to me, Max. If you didn’t kill Jessie, then who did?

Max slowly raised his head, eyes landing on the corpse of the families’ cat, now wrapped in blankets, soft material covering the rough, ragged knife wounds. He swallowed thickly.

Fine, I did it, I killed her. But I didn’t want to, I swear I didn’t. I couldn’t help it. It wouldn’t go away.

By his first year of High School, Max had been enrolled into therapy.

His parents had hoped, almost prayed, that the killing of their cat had only been a one off thing; just a mistake. But slowly, other pets from the neighbourhood started to go missing, and Jeph had found the grave Max would re-dig and re-fill after every animal he killed, in the park by their house. They had come to terms, finally, that their son needed help.

Max had changed a lot since he had started High School. When he had been in Year Six, the other children didn’t bother the strange silent boy, they just left him alone. As he entered Year Seven, however, it was the opposite. Max became a target to a lot of people, his quiet nature drawing attention to himself, and they began to bully him. They would push him and call him names, a lot of which he had never heard before or didn’t know the meaning of, but they hurt nonetheless. Still, he stayed silent, letting the stronger boys steal his money and trip him.

He’d never open up about his experiences in therapy. He would always ensure Ms. Wallace that he got along just fine with everyone at school. He convinced her that his new, dark image had nothing to do with his feelings – it was merely a fashion statement. He promised that he didn’t get those urges anymore, they had never come back.

Max found his way throughout his first three years of High School without any major trouble, until he reached Year Nine.

Nice make-up, faggot.

Max kept his head down in the same fashion he always had, taking his sketchpad from the pile of schoolbooks and opening to a clean page, letting his obvious frustration flow through the led of the pencil. Craig sat beside him, defending his friend how he never would do for himself.

Shut the fuck up.

Max’s lips flicked slightly into a smile of gratitude towards Craig’s actions, but he kept his eyes hard and cold on the paper before him.

I wasn’t talking to you, cunt, I was talking to your little boyfriend. Answer me, faggot.

Even as there was movement behind him, Max had still kept his head down, shading and contouring the new design he was etching into the paper.

Just going to let your boyfriend do the talking?

A hand had collided swiftly with the back of his head and Max’s eyes fell closed, face showing none of the pain inflicted, but fist balling tightly around his pencil.

He’s not my boyfriend.

Max spoke low and monotone. He had no real need to try and convince the other boy’s that he and Craig weren’t a couple; everybody already knew that they weren’t. Nobody honestly believed that Max was gay, but they used it to try and get him fired up, though it never worked.

Oh, so you can talk? So your whore mother didn’t squeeze you out of her cunt for nothing.

Max could withstand almost any of the insults they threw at him, but he wouldn’t stand for anybody talking down on Alice. His mother was a lovely, beautiful woman who had taken care of Max despite his therapeutic problems and Max loved her immensely. He wouldn’t just sit and let somebody bad-mouth her.

A deep, almost animalistic, growl was emitted from the falsely raven-haired boy before he pounced. He took the taller boy standing behind him by surprise, both falling to the classroom floor as Max brought down his clenched fist into the sandy-haired boys face. His nose had cracked easily under his fist, warm blood spilling thickly and trickling across Max’s pale white skin.

Yelling and screams of surprise echoed around the class as Craig grabbed at his friend, trying desperately to pry him off the other while the rest of the class stared.

Get the fuck off him, you creep!

Max had fought against Craig’s tugs, swinging down his opposite hand, which was still clutching his pencil tightly, and driving the sharp wood deep into the boys shoulder. He wailed with pain as it broke through his skin and Max was finally torn from him, falling back onto the carpet.

Max, leave him!

Craig held him down, one arm under each of Max’s armpits as Max shook, chest heaving in deep breaths, green eyes glinting and ruby lips smirking maliciously. His shoulders shuddered with a shiver of delight as he watched the boy shake and cry in pain, trying desperately to dislodge the pencil from the gushing wound, while his blood slowly dried on Max’s hands.

Max was put into a Catholic Boys School for the remainder of his High School years.

His previous school had strongly suggested that Max had moved after the incident in class. He hadn’t wanted to leave because Max hated change and he despised being put into new situations alone, but he hadn’t argued, he had just nodded in agreement and kept his head down. At his new school, he was left alone. Nobody bothered him there and he barely had to converse with anyone during his classes. He preferred it over the last, but he’d rather Craig still be by his side.

Max kept quiet during all of his class discussions, but in his Religion studies he could feel his opinions bottling up, the hatred of every word spoken making his fingers twitch, all of the believers ignorance making that need and desire bubble in his veins just so he could rid the world of their stupidity.

It’s all a fucking lie.

His hiss had caught the attention of the entire class and his teacher, rows of eyes watching him as he dug his nails into the wooden desk to ground himself, eyes dark, glaring towards the front through his hair.

What’s that, Max?

They had all looked so shocked, so surprised that Max had contributed to the conversation, yet the spite behind his words almost had them terrified.

God is just a heartless, vengeful fuck. He throws us into this pathetic, shit-filled world just so he can watch us suffer through our lives and then die, and on top of that wants us to beg him for mercy? The sadistic cunt can fucking burn for all I care.

The silence from the room could have deafened them all as they stared wide-eyed, flicking their vision between Max and their stunned teacher, her fingertips ghosting her cheek lightly.

Maxwell, leave the classroom.

Max graduated High School at the top of his year.

As he left school, he also left his home. Though his mother had become sick and he had taken pride in caring for her, she hadn’t needed him. Alice still had had Jeph to take care of her, and Max felt his welcome had been outlived, so he moved into his best friends’ apartment.

Why do you do that to yourself?

Max stared at Craig across the table, watching closely as Craig’s brown eyes skimmed up and down Max’s arms. The gashes that littered his pale skin had barely begun to heal, the habit only being of recent. Craig’s face was full of worry and Max knew it was sincere, but Craig was better off this way. Max had never bothered to lie to him before, and though the things he’d confessed would have driven any sensible person away, it didn’t seem to work on Craig.

It stops me from doing it to you.

When Max had lived at home, he’d had no problem resisting his urges when it came to his parents, or, rather, he’d never felt any need at all to harm them. He didn’t want to inflict pain on them. But ever since he had moved in with Craig, it had been different. He loved his best friend, but he couldn’t control the surge in his blood as he looked at his unscathed skin, the hitch in his breath if he watched Craig sleep.

He wanted to hurt him, to tear apart his flesh and feel his blood drip down his hands. So, to save his friend, he’d cut himself.

Max had been twenty-two when he had his first.

That night had been his first for many things. Craig, who had quickly become a party animal after he had turned twenty-one, had finally convinced Max to come out clubbing for the night. Max had come to largely rely on alcohol, but when he drank, he usually did it alone. This time he was surrounded in the stuffy little club, almost blinded by the flashing neon lights and deafened by the pounding music. He’d lost sight of Craig almost immediately and found his way back outside as fast as he could.

You look tense, baby. I could fix that easy, for a price.

The voice had come from behind him as the smoke rushed from his lungs into the silent back ally. He hadn’t bothered to consider anything, taking the street-walker to his car and driving them back to his apartment for yet another new experience.

She had laid herself out on his bed before him, tattooed legs spreading and high-heels linking behind his back. Her body arched and her red lips parted as he filled her, his hips bucking rhythmlessly and forehead sweating. His eyelids fluttered as he came, body shaking, desire bubbling in his veins.

His pupils dilated as he watched her chest heave, the small droplets of sweat trickling down her bare torso and the left over adrenaline making his heart crash in his ears. His fingers twitched, burning almost painfully, and he made no more efforts to hold back.

Her dark eyes widened in terror as his hands snaked around her throat, thumbs pressing down harshly on her oesophagus.

Her black fingernails clawed at his hands, at his back, leaving bleeding sores amongst the others on his body, ripping into his flesh. His hands shook, lips grinning in pleasure as he watched her body flail and her tears roll, letting in just that small amount of oxygen; enough to keep her alive, but not conscious.

He’d slowly taken his hands from around her throat, staring, trembling, at her motionless body, purple bruises coating her neck. He needed to do this quick, but it needed to last. It needed to be perfect.

His hands found the butchers knife, its sharp tip shakily slipping between her relaxed, painted lips. He swallowed thickly, tangling his fingers into her black hair and holding her head still, putting pressure on the knife. It chewed through the muscle at the side of her mouth, sliding up through her cheek.

Blood had instantly began to pour, thick red liquid spilling hot and fast onto his hand, trickling down his scarred wrists and dripping onto the white sheets beneath them. Max whimpered, wide eyes watching as the flesh dangled from her cheek, muscles breaking apart and clinging in chunks.

He moved the knife’s edge to the other side of her mouth, and just as he’d began to saw away through the skin, her eyes flew open.

She couldn’t scream, the blood filling her mouth too fast, choking every sound she made, her cries of agony and calls for help coming out as gurgles, dark liquid spilling from her lips and trickling down her chin. Max’s eyes blew wide as she began to convulse underneath him and he quickly removed the knife from her mouth.

No, stop! Stop moving!

She continued to splutter and choke on her own blood, making noises that were far too loud to go unnoticed and Max’s hands began to shake harder. Panicking, he took one hard, swift swipe across her neck, tearing apart her carotid artery. Her eyes bulged as her body gave another heave, blood spurting and rushing from the new wound, coating her bare chest in mere seconds.

Her struggling stopped, choking one last time before her head had lolled to the side, eyes falling vacant.

Max stared down at her lifeless, blood-soaked body, his own torso splattered with red, his hands dripping in the same liquid that slowly sunk deep into his sheets.

Max, are you in here? Why did you leave, man? Are you-

Max flicked his head around to face the doorway, legs still straddling the prostitutes’ corpse, dropping the knife as he caught Craig’s horrified stare.

Oh my fucking God.

After his first kill, Max found it hard to function properly, never being able to push the burning desire from his mind.

Craig, I need to. I-I can’t do this, I need it.

Max was shaking on the couch, hands running through his greasy black hair and legs tucked up to his chest. He’d looked close to a drug-addict trying to go cold turkey, his deathly pale skin shivering and eyes dark and blank.

You have to, Max, because I can’t help you hide another fucking body. You can’t fucking do that again!

Craig’s brown eyes were welling with frightened tears as he watched his best friend writhe in need.

I love you Max, but you scare the living shit out of me. I don’t know how much longer I can be around you.

Max was able to resist his urges for another two months.

He had always felt it there, following him around like a black cloud, fingers curling and nails digging into his palms at the mere thought of the iron smell of blood dripping from his hands.

Every person he had seen, he couldn’t help but picture what they’d look like as their life slipped away, couldn’t help but imagine what words would be their last. He’d bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut as he shook, trying so desperately hard to rid himself of the tempting imagery.

More and more scars were appearing up and down his inked arms, the cutting getting deeper and harsher, but still, it wouldn’t suffice in the way it used to. Ever since he had given in to his temptation, it was all he could feel. The want had taken over his body like a plague.

Max, I’m going out for the night. I’ll be home later, don’t go anywhere.

Max hadn’t raised his head to acknowledge Craig as he had bid him goodbye, staying in his position curled up in the dark, eyes unfocused as they stared at the television.

He’d known that it was going to happen again that night. He had to go against his common sense and best friend to feed the monster clawing inside of him.

Max had dragged the unconscious young female into his apartment easily, her light weight making no trouble. Her blonde hair was tousled in knots and strewn across the mattress as he undressed her, leaving her body in only her underwear, mouth gagged and limbs bound to the bed. She wasn’t another prostitute – which meant there would be people looking for her, missing her, she had a family. The thought of taking all of that away made Max smirk.

Wake up, sweetheart.

He had brushed the waves from her face gently with the point of his knife, sliding the cool metal down the side of her face as she groaned against the material in her mouth, blue eyes opening painfully.

She was already emitting muffled sobs as he traced the knife harmlessly across her wrist, pinpointing her vein, before slicing the vessel down to her elbow. The blood rose and spilled across her arm and she wrestled harder against the bindings, eyes clenching tight, though struggling had only made her bleed faster.

The smirk never left Max’s lips, and the glint had never extinguished from his eyes, as he had carved through her delicate skin, smearing blood across his mouth as he found and opened every vein in sight.

His breathing was ragged and he felt the arousal begin to brew in the depths of his body as the lingering strings of his sanity were cut loose.

It had only taken the police a week to uncover her body.

It was you.

Max had trailed his downcast eyes to reach Craig standing in his doorway, eyes filled with too many emotions to decipher each one.

You did it again. You killed her.

Max shot his gaze back down, head following and long hair falling into his face, not bothering to deny the accusations.

You’re fucking sick, Max. How the fuck could you even do that to a person? You promised me you wouldn’t do that again! You’re not even you anymore; you’re just a fucking psychotic freak. I don’t want anything else to fucking do with you.

Max’s hands had begun to shake as Craig spat his disgusted words, the anger began to bubble and his fingers twitched uncontrollably.

You’re not leaving me.

His pupils began to dilate and he bit down hard on his piercings, fingernails digging into his palms.

I’m going, Max. I won’t turn you in if you don’t try and find me.

The angry tears blurred his vision and his breathing heaved.

YOU’RE NOT FUCKING LEAVING ME!

His hands had shot around Craig’s neck as he’d pinned him to the wall, fingernails clawing into his skin and grip fastening.

Craig’s brown eyes grew wide as he struggled, gasping for breath as he stared horrified at his rabid friend. Max’s eyes were cold and empty as he threw Craig to the ground, legs straddling him and hand finding the hidden knife, its sharp blade pressing dangerously against Craig’s throat.

I’ll fucking kill you if you try to leave.

Max snarled down at the younger male trapped beneath him, his eyes wide and horrified, body trembling in fear as the knife dug into the first few layers of skin.

Max…

The scowl had melted slowly off Max’s face as realization overtook his senses and he flung himself off Craig, getting to his feet and dropping the knife.

Craig…I-I…I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want to hurt you.

Craig scrambled to his feet, pressing himself against the wall, as far away from Max as the room would allow.

Craig-

Don’t.

The apartment door had slammed harshly behind him in the silence.

It didn’t take long for Max to make his decision.

It was bound to come soon enough, anyway, for someone like him. There wasn’t any reason to beat around the bush any longer, and his only regret was that he hadn’t done it sooner.

Max had never had a way with words – it was always pictures. He didn’t have anything to say even if he had been able to, so instead he drew. He drew a picture of the one person who had never given up on him. Granted, they had never found out what he’d become, or had never really seen what he always was, but regardless, it was always her; his mother.

He had left the picture in the lounge room, amongst the other of the belongings Craig hadn’t bothered to retrieve yet. Max had hoped he’d be the one to find it, because he did still care for him. As much as somebody like him could.

He took another swig from his bottle of Jack Daniels, eyeing the noose with a deranged smirk.

He had been doomed from the start, anyway.