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Welcome to the Writing page! Here you will find miscellaneous, non-canonical prose (and possibly poetry) written for this story.
Directory
Untitled #1 (2/20/22)
Trigger warnings:
- Psychiatric hospitalization
- Self-harm
- Depiction of mental illnesses such as depression and psychosis
A short thing I wrote in my phone's notes apps a few years ago. Certain details have changed since I wrote this: Max is now Franklin's guardian, [Mouse] has a name now (Matilda), and Franklin is now more ADHD coded than Autism coded. Also, I've developed the political backdrop of this story a lot more since then, and an inpatient facility like the one alluded to in this snippet probably wouldn't exist. Think of this little blurb as a kind of early proof of concept.
EDIT:I found the date information--the date of writing has been added to the title and corresponding directory link.
Max sits over his cheerios and tries to think of Maplewood charcoal. Summers where the smoker is going and his legs are still stubby and one of his baby teeth are loose. His uncle and grandma, talking about things he doesn't really understand or care about because it's boring adult talk and he has his frisbee to throw around, grass that's damp on his feet.
He stirs his spoon, scraping at the sides of the bowl. He can't think of smokers or frisbees. He's an adult now and he's been absorbed in all sorts of adult talk. That's what he sees while he looks at his cheerios: intake forms, robin egg walls, a room not even big enough to breathe in with a single table and two chairs. A hospital technician with a clipboard. Leaning against a wall in the corner while his young apprentice, Franklin, talks about screaming heads in the walls. Sitting in Franklin's chair while Franklin is lead out by another technician to have his cuts and burns looked at.
How long had he been symptomatic? Probably for a month, slowly got worse over time. Some scrawling on the paper. Were there any environmental triggers? He stopped taking his medication and didn't tell anyone. How long had he been self-harming? No idea. It's February and cold so his sweater hid everything. Who is his primary caregiver? His aunt. Is he in school? Ninth grade. Does he work? He volunteers at the local mail station. Express mail. Just passed his exam two months ago. She tilts her head in confusion. You can ignore that last part. He works.
Max stares through his cheerios as they go soft.
He had visited every chance he had. Visitation hours were supervised and he couldn't bring anything, had to take his belt off even, but he kept Franklin up to date. [Mouse] was working on a new EP, experimenting with "synthwave." [Polar bear] keeps trying to call, but it's always going to voicemail. She can't visit. Lots of doubles, so she's trying to rest where she can. [Deer] still hasn't found his scarf; that wasn't a very nice prank, Franklin. You should show him where it is behind the coffee maker once you're back.
And every time, Franklin sat there, stone-faced, and said nothing.
Max saw how the muscles in his jaw went taut, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he made a point to stare Max right in the eyes even though it must have been incredibly painful for him. How he scratched his thighs where his hands rested.
As soon as the minute hand on the clock hit twelve, before Max could even say goodbye, Franklin was out of his seat and storming straight to his room.
In the present, Max took his full bowl of cereal and dumped it down the garbage disposal. In the present, Max hit the tap's knob and slapped the switch for the disposal on. In the present, Max desperately hoped the drone of the disposal and the water would drown out the ringing in his ears.
In the past, at his last visit, Max asked Franklin how he was doing.
Like you care.