Special 3: Max's Respite
By Roach
Like a tendril, the growth burrowed and slithered beneath Max’s feet. Before the growth had a chance to even breach the surface, Max could see its light pulse and shimmer through the dark soil. Then, gradually, it started to branch and fold into the fields around him. A network of roots—as intricate as veins—lit up his surroundings. Soft hues of blue, gold, and pink coursed through the earth like a rush of poison through a bloodstream.
Then, one after one, the budding roots emerged from the ground. Slowly, they reached skywards—growing round caps on each tip as they thinned and stretched out. Aside from their kaleidoscopic light, glowing like bioluminescent creatures from abyssal seas, they reminded him of some kind of fungi… or maybe lichen. Max traced them with his gaze, toward a crescent moon.
He didn’t know how long he watched as the moon swelled and grew fuller. It could have been minutes, hours, days. Enough time passed that the tendrils began to wrap themselves around his ankles. They crept up his legs and rooted him to the ground. But, even so, Max didn’t feel trapped. There was something calming about them—something in the way they swayed as they reached for the moonlight. The longer Max stared, the more at ease he became with the fungal tendrils dancing around him.
All the while, the closer the moon came to its climax, the more apparent its flaws were. At first, Max noticed its missing craters. Stargazing as a kid, he had always wondered what it would be like to explore the expansive plains left behind by asteroids and lava fields. The craters had played into his imagination, creating the illusion of a man’s face–changing his expression throughout the moon’s phases. But now, as the tendrils grew from the ground and reached toward it—almost as if feeding off the moonlight itself—he could see that there was something wrong with it. The shrunken craters, their misplaced positions… And, most of all, how low the moon hung to the ground—how it filled up the starless sky, carving out thin silhouettes of each tendril. A thrumming sounded in the background, faint like the noise from the one faulty ceiling lamp in the history classroom.
While transfixed by the strange sight, Max sensed a tingle against the skin of his ankle. It was unlike the soft, almost squishy feeling of the roots; a small prickle, nearly unnoticeable at first. As the sensation intensified, goosebumps crawled up his neck.
He shifted instinctively. But, once he tried to move, the realization that he was stuck hit him full force—washing away his former tranquility. Like the strings of a marionette, the tendrils now tugged at his feet and arms. Panic rose through him, catching his breath in the back of his throat. The tendrils tightened as he struggled against their grip. Simultaneously, the tingling moved from his feet and up the length of his body.
Max tore his gaze from the moon—or at least, the thing that looked like the moon—and peered down.
Writhing shapes crawled up his legs, up his torso—all over him. As he let out a shriek, he barely recognized his own voice in it. The thrum he had heard before now crescendoed into a loud buzz.
Hundreds upon hundreds of bees swarmed him. They crawled up his neck, his face, smothering him with their buzzing hymn. His throat grew hoarse from screaming, until he could no longer hear himself over the hum. Within a heartbeat, the sight of the moon and the bioluminescent growths disappeared behind a veil of bees. He collapsed to the ground as the mass pressed in on him, surrounding his frame.
Max tried to roll over, but the roots held him down. Yet, in that moment, it was as if part of his world had shifted. Something was off. The tendrils had grown softer—lighter, almost fluffy. Trying to reorient himself, he flailed his hand through the swarm, and shot up into a sitting position.
When he opened his eyes, Max found himself in his bed. A cold sweat enveloped his body. He wrestled free from the blanket—of course it had never been those strange tendrils, but the blanket weighing him down. In a swift, almost practiced, motion, he patted himself down the length of his body. Although the tingling sensation lingered with him, it was fainter now—the bees had dissipated alongside the nightmare. But even so, he checked, just to make sure.
Once he had reassured himself that it really was part of the dream, he pulled his knees up to his chest. As he wrapped his arms around himself, he let his chin come to rest on his knees. His staccato breaths made up the only sound in the dark bedroom. The walls of his throat had tightened, overcome with a dryness. For a long time, he sat as still as a gargoyle, trying to steady his breath.
Max didn’t stir until something soft brushed against his leg. Fur, he realized. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could make out the contours of Kazoo, the family cat, slinking through the darkness. He reached out to her. With a purr, she rubbed her nose against his hand.
“Hungry?” His tired voice was barely more than a crackle—like stepping on a dry leaf.
The black cat returned the question with a blank stare, the darkness emphasizing her bright yellow, saucer eyes. Max turned to the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was 5:30 am—too early to really do anything meaningful, yet too late to go back to sleep.
Or, rather, he didn’t want to risk slipping back into his restless dreamscape again. That same nightmare haunted him every night—or, at least, some variation of it. The moon looked the same across all his dreams; that is, there was something subtly wrong with it. But, there were times when he had explored other parts of the strange landscape. He had followed the bioluminescent tendrils all the way to crystal caves and oceans covered in sunburst algal blooms. And, beyond the glowing fields, Max discovered a labyrinth of trimmed hedges. Its foliage had a blue-green tint, not unlike the bulbous plant he grew for the Science Fair. In one dream, he entered the maze—just to find himself lost within its intricate paths. While the hedge walls were too tall to look over, he had heard indistinct voices, a chiming laughter… Yet, whenever he tried to follow the voices, they became fainter, more distant.
But, no matter what, he always woke up in the same way—terrorized by a swarm of bees.
It was one of the few fragments from that day which had stuck with him. Sometimes, he wished he could remember more of it. No matter how dreadful the reality was, he would rather have the memories than the horrible scenarios his imagination came up with. At night, his mind filled in the gaps from the glimpses of footage he had seen online, posted by the football players in the aftermath…
But other times, he just wanted to forget it all, and pretend it never happened.
Max rose from bed. He dressed himself in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt which he recovered from the floor—maybe it had been yesterday’s outfit, although he couldn’t remember what he wore. Then, with Kazoo at his heels, he walked into the kitchen.
He didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, he navigated by the fridge’s glow as he poured a bowl of milk for the cat. He wasn’t really supposed to give her milk, but she seemed to appreciate the treat—besides, no one was awake to tell him otherwise.
Afterwards, he prepared a bowl of cornflakes for himself and shuffled over to the couch in the living room. He turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels.
The History Channel showed a documentary about First Degree—a villain who could will people into a murderous rage, and had used his powers to terrorize Wall Street during the 90s.
Animal Planet ran old episodes from a show about an animal rescue in Tennessee. The show’s hostess could alter the color of her own eyes—apparently tinting her vision in colors of her choosing. No, it didn’t help her with the rescue efforts or seem to have any other practical functionality, but she still pointed out how the world turned blue after discovering an injured opossum in a dumpster.
The morning news reported on the death of Strömkarlen—last year’s Herovision winner; an annual event which Max understood to be some kind of competition for European heroes. While he had never watched it, it turned out that Strömkarlen had passed away last night in some kind of freak stage accident during his Denmark tour.
Finally, Max settled on a baking show—some sort of reality cupcake competition. He watched it absent-mindedly, occasionally petting Kazoo. A couple of episodes in, he heard his mother call out to him.
“Don’t forget your appointment, okay sweetie?” she said.
Max turned to look at her where she stood in the doorway. She wore an apron under her jacket, ready for her shift at the bakery. But, although she faced his general direction when she spoke, she didn’t really seem to fully register him. It was as if her gaze went straight through him.
In the beginning, he had thought she just needed some days to process what had happened. But, weeks had passed by and they neared April, and now he was starting to think she would never look at him the same again. That look in her eyes had appeared when he woke up in the hospital, and had never gone away.
That look, like he was some stranger.
“I won’t,” he replied. She nodded, then disappeared down the hallway. Shortly after, he heard the thud of the front door closing.
He turned to the television, where a middle-aged woman served her winning cupcake—topped off in glazing fashioned after a sunflower—to one of the judges, a broad smile plastered across her face.
For a moment, he envisioned his mom in her place. His grandma’s old lemon cupcake recipe would bring in victory and reality TV fame, and his mother would laugh again with the knowledge that there would be no lack of customers at the bakery. And she would be happy again.
He turned off the TV.
His psychiatric appointment wasn’t until 9 am, so he had about an hour to get there. The building was within walking distance; once he had brushed his teeth and put on his hoodie, he headed out into streets shrouded in fog.
About twenty minutes later, Max reached his destination. While he sat in the waiting room, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked his notifications. It was a message from Thad—short for Thaddeus—who was the only one of his classmates who had bothered to text him since he stopped coming to school. But it wasn’t out of concern for his well-being. No, Thad’s motives were far more self-serving. The message read,
> hey max, can u write my nietzsche essay for tomorrow?
When Max didn’t answer right away, Thad followed up with another message:
> i can venmo u asap
Max let out a deep sigh. Since the start of sophomore year, he had made an arrangement with Thad. It was simple, really. Thad needed to raise his grades to stay with the Albatrosses, and hopefully secure college scholarships. And he was desperate enough to pay his way there. Max was a better student, and not in a position to tell him no.
On the bright side, Thad had stopped his habit of pouring vinegar over his locker once Max had secured him his first A in English. At the time, Max had been saving up for a proper gaming PC, hoping to upgrade from his mom’s old hand-me-down laptop. He supposed he still was, but since everything happened… Well, he hadn’t played many games at all. Did he really still want it? He wasn’t sure.
Just then, Dr. Lewis popped her head into the waiting room. “Hi Max, welcome in.”
Without answering Thad’s texts, he pocketed his phone again. He trailed after the psychiatrist, following her down the hall to her office. Her door plaque read, “Dr. Lewis, Psychiatric Power Trauma Specialist.” Since the hospital released him, Max had been meeting with her about three times a week.
Max entered the dimly lit room, which was filled with plants and a variety of small laughing Buddha statues. Dr. Lewis sat down in her maroon office chair. He seated himself in the armchair across from her.
“So Max, how have you been?” she said, while typing something up on her computer.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Fine,” Max murmured. He always wondered whether or not he was supposed to ask her the same—at least, that would be the script for a normal conversation. But he didn’t exactly come here for small talk. He was here because he wasn’t fine. Should he be asking her how she is doing on top of that? What was she supposed to say to that, other than life is dandy? Was she even allowed to say anything else?
While these thoughts ran through his mind, Dr. Lewis swirled her chair around to face him. Squared glasses framed her pale face as she peered at him over the lenses.
As her title implied, Dr. Lewis treated survivors of powered events. Usually, bystanders who had been caught up in villain attacks and had to deal with the psychological aftermath of it all. The collateral damage, so to speak.
But could he really consider himself collateral damage, when he had been the cause of it all? How could he have possibly been just a bystander? He had been…
Max didn’t want to finish the thought.
Dr. Lewis didn’t hesitate to jump right into the session. “So, on Monday you expressed some trouble sleeping. How has that been going for you?” She spoke in a low lull.
“About the same,” Max said.
“How so?”
“Still having those… dreams.”
Dr. Lewis nodded. “That’s perhaps not unexpected.” Max felt weary of her matter-of-factly tone. She continued, “It’s normal to experience nightmares after a traumatic experience.” He had heard all of this before—how normal it all supposedly was, when nothing about it felt normal at all.
“It’s not just that…” Max started, searching his mind for the right words to explain. Dr. Lewis watched him patiently. Then, he said, “Sometimes, it’s like… The dreams… They fill in the gaps.”
“What gaps?” she asked.
“In my memory.”
“So, do you think your dreams represent events you may have suppressed?”
Max bit into his lower lip. His dreams were so far removed from reality—the tendril-like fungi, dancing under the light of a false moon—they couldn’t be his exact memories. But even so, it was all so life-like, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more there. Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Rather, in the absence of any real recollection, his mind could have come up with entirely new fabrications. He sighed. “Maybe, in a way. I don’t know. It’s all… muddled up.”
Dr. Lewis paused, nodding again. “Sometimes, memories from these sorts of things will resurface on their own. It takes time. But, if you would like, there are some techniques we can try to help you sort them out.”
Max looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate.
She continued, “Max, you’re a visual thinker, right?”
He wasn’t sure where she had gotten that impression from, but nodded anyway. He hadn’t really put much thought into what kind of thinker he was. But that was her job to figure out, right?
She opened up a drawer, and retrieved a box and a red ball of yarn. She cut a piece of string from the yarn, before laying it out on the table between them. “I invite you to think of this thread as a timeline.” After noticing his puzzled expression, she continued to explain, “Right now, you may feel like your memories are all jumbled. In other words, your mind is working with a non-linear timeline. So, we will use this thread to recreate your timeline in a linear fashion. You may choose items from the box to represent different memories, and place them on the thread to work out their chronological order.”
Max peeked into the box, which contained a number of plastic flowers and various pebbles.
When he hesitated to grab any of the items, Dr. Lewis added, “Usually, flowers might represent a good memory, and pebbles a difficult one.”
He stared into the box. Fragments of images flashed through his mind. First, the greenhouse, warm and damp. Then, leering voices, calling his name, calling out, freak, freak, freakshow… And a blue light, glowing softly. Flitting, almost like a moth. A seed, lying in the palm of his hand. Buzzing. A watering can, soaking the soil. Reaching for something. The greenhouse, shattered. Buzzing, buzzing, a flash of blue light…
As he stared at the box of pebbles and artificial flowers, his mind turned into a wasteland; an excess of stone, where no flowers could ever possibly grow. He shifted his attention to the thread, still lying untouched on the table.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he finally said.
“That’s okay,” Dr. Lewis replied. She tilted her head, in the way he had come to learn she had a habit of doing before attempting a new angle. “You know, there’s no pressure to remember. You have no deadline, no obligation. Regardless of what happened in the past, you’re safe now. The memories may come to you over time, but even if they never do, that’s okay, too.”
“But how will I…” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his windpipe sealing up. “How will I know?”
“How will you know what?”
“What if…” Max wanted to purge his voice from its nervous tremor, but found himself unable to resist it. “What if it was me?”
“Max, this wasn’t your fault.”
His voice fell. “How can you say that, when you weren’t even there?”
Although her smile seemed trained, it still came across as sympathetic. “Because I see people like you more often than you would think. You’re not the only one who has found themselves strung along, manipulated by some other force.”
She was right, in that he wasn’t alone. Most infamously, Wichita came to mind—he recalled the controlled masses flashing across TV screens. Although he was barely old enough to form a coherent thought at that age, the writhing swarms of people had stuck in his mind. Of course, no one had survived to see another day, let alone a therapist. But there were other mind-controllers out there. A shudder ran through him. The thought wasn’t exactly comforting.
“But I was the one who…” He took a deep breath. In an attempt to keep his hands from trembling, he began to massage his palm with his thumb. “I grew that plant, that thing… I watered it. Watched it grow. I…” He trailed off.
“You had no way of knowing what it would do. People way smarter than me are studying the plant’s remains, and even they barely seem to understand what it was truly capable of. How could you have?” A warmth seeped into her tone. “Of course it’s easy to say in hindsight. But no one knew. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over it.”
The knot in his stomach loosened slightly—yet, his gaze remained on his restless hands. If he looked back at her, he wasn’t sure he could keep his composure.
After a long, tentative silence, Dr. Lewis spoke up, “Max, when you start to feel this way… In those moments, what do you do?”
“Nothing.” There was another pause. Then, he muttered, “I just… wait.”
“Before you leave today, I think we should discuss some ways for you to manage your anxiety.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding more resigned than he meant to.
Dr. Lewis put away the yarn and box again. Max finally glanced up, watching as she retrieved another device from the drawer. It almost looked like an old radio, with two wires coming off it. Something almost shaped like Wii controllers hung from each wire. “These are EMDR buzzers. Are you familiar with this technique?”
He shook his head.
“So, you’ll hold one buzzer in each hand. One at a time, they will vibrate for a little bit, and alternate back and forth. It’s a form of bilateral stimulation. It’s not for everyone, but in principle, it helps synchronize the left and right sides of the brain.” As a confused expression crossed Max’s face, she quickly added, “The technicalities are less important, but the point is that this type of stimuli has a calming effect. Wanna give it a go?”
What did he have to lose? “Sure,” he said.
Dr. Lewis gave him the two buzzers, which he held in each hand.
“Now, Max, while we’re trying out this exercise, I want you to imagine a place. It can be a place you’ve been to, or it can be imaginary. The key part is that it’s somewhere which brings you peace.”
He nodded. At first, Chapel’s greenhouse came to mind—but he immediately pushed the image away, a nausea welling up inside of him. He quickly replaced it with his dad’s treehouse, which they had built together when he was about 10. After the divorce, his dad moved into a small, scrappy-looking house up north. Max only visited about once a month, although—over the course of several visits—the two of them had managed to finish the treehouse in the backyard.
Dr. Lewis continued, “You don’t have to tell me what you came up with. But, over time, we can continue working on this image. Mold it something you can turn your attention to when things are stressful or difficult. We’re supplementing it with the EMDR buzzers to create a sensory association with calmness, okay?”
Max nodded along. He wasn’t sure he entirely got it, but it made sense enough.
“Now, imagine your place while I turn on the buzzers.”
At first, the buzzer in his right hand emitted a weak vibration. It lasted for a few seconds, before alternating to his left hand. This pattern continued in a hypnotic rhythm, its pulse switching back and forth between his hands. At the same time, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding back. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, following the rhythmic buzz.
He called the image of the treehouse to his mind. But, instead, his imagination conjured up something entirely different. Once again, he was staring at a foreign moon, filling up a sky where tendrils stretched and danced into the night…
Startled, he opened his eyes again. As the pulse continued to move back and forth between his palms, he fixated on his surroundings; the little laughing Buddhas occupying the desk and window sills, the roosting pigeons outside, Dr. Lewis’ stout frame situated across from him. No, he wasn’t dreaming. But, as his eyes flickered around the room—as the buzzers flickered between his hands—he noticed something else. Between one of the gaps in the vent, there was a faint light—a blue shimmer, pulsating to the rhythm of the buzzers…
Just then, the buzzers turned off, bringing Max’s attention back to Dr. Lewis. “Sorry, I’m not sure I’m good at this,” he said, sheepishly.
“That’s okay.” Dr. Lewis smiled. “It’s not something you have to be good or bad at. Maybe we can save this for next time. Is there anything else you want to touch on today?”
As they wrapped up the session, Max’s gaze lingered on the spot where he thought he had seen the shimmer of light. It was gone now, faded into specks of gray. It looked like traces of mold.
Once they had scheduled his next appointment, Max left her office and started his walk homewards. The exhaustion didn’t fully hit him until he was about halfway home. Somehow, the fog around him now seemed to enter his mind. He usually felt this way after an appointment, like he had stayed up all night or was in the process of recovering from the flu. As if TV static filled up his head.
Max paused to sit at one of the benches, just by a small sliver of greenery which ran between two streets. It appeared to be some sort of miniature community garden, with tomatoes and flowers growing within its beds. His surroundings were fairly quiet—aside from the occasional passerby, the fog seemed to have swallowed up the rest of the city. Through the veil of gray, he glimpsed a splash of color from a hippie-sort-of camper van, which he recognized as one of the guides which tourists traversed the city in. The fog soon swallowed the van as well.
As Max studied the small garden, he glimpsed a soft glow among the leaves. Just like in the dream, just like in Dr. Lewis’ vents, the faint light seemed to flicker in the dark soil—muted by mist.
Before he could fully inspect it, his phone buzzed. Max had almost forgotten about Thad’s request to do his homework, until he saw his next message:
> well??? i dont have all day
He stared at the phone. Briefly, he considered it. He could use the money for a new video game, or to save up for a PC. If Thad were desperate enough, which it sounded like he could be, Max might even get away with charging him more. And it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Currently, he was supposed to be homeschooled for the remainder of the term, and—if he were ready—transfer to a new school next semester. If nothing else, he certainly had time to half-ass a paper on Thad’s behalf.
But that didn’t change one simple fact; Max didn’t want to. His thoughts returned to Dr. Lewis’ box of pebbles and flowers—each with the potential to represent a memory. He hated how cheesy it sounded, but even so, Max wanted less pebbles in his life. He wanted more flowers. And Chapel had given him nothing but pebbles. After a moment of staring at his phone, Max replied,
> No
Then, before he could think about it anymore or Thad could say anything else, he blocked the number. He put away his phone.
He let out a sigh, allowing his shoulders to sink down. Maybe it had been true for the last few weeks, but it didn’t fully register with him until that moment. It didn’t matter what Thad or anyone else said about him behind his back. It didn’t matter what they threatened to do to him.
It was over.
Max’s attention returned to the glimmer of light, shimmering just beneath the leaves of a budding tomato plant. He didn’t need to get closer to see it more clearly; the moment he fixated on it, the light strengthened, became more apparent. Like glowing roots, it seemed to stretch several feet underground—reaching like spindly fingers.
A man carrying a briefcase passed him by, continuing down the street without acknowledging the strange glow. Could he not see it? Max waited another minute, watching carefully as the next person walked down the street. She talked into her phone, oblivious to the blue glow running through the soils around them.
Max turned back to the light, studying it carefully. It looked like roots, yet, didn’t seem to come from any of the plants or flowers around him. It came from the earth.
Max had spent enough time in Chapel’s greenhouse to recognize most local plants. But this didn’t look like anything he was familiar with. Then, if they weren’t plants, that only left one option. Fungi. He had an idea for what he could be seeing; mycelium, he recalled from one of Mr. Howells’ last lectures. Was that really what he was seeing? Some sort of fungal network?
He leaned over, and placed his fingertips lightly on the earth. The more he stared at the ground, the more he came to appreciate the weirdness of the situation—it was almost like looking at an X-ray of the earth, but instead of revealing bones it now bared these threads of light.
Just like in his dream.
Instinctively, he closed his eyes, as if his sleep had summoned him back again. But, no, the light whir of traffic in the background told him he was very much still awake. Yet, as he listened closer, there was an almost undetectable hissing sound—like the wings of a hummingbird. Like the earth itself whispered to him.
He opened his eyes, retracting his hand. Instantly, the sound stopped.
When he looked to the ground again, the network of light pulsated in a playful rhythm—like a Morse code he couldn’t quite work out. He took a deep breath. This time, he pressed his palm against the ground, feeling the grainy texture against his skin.
The whispering returned, elusive and indecipherable beneath his fingertips. Then, there was a flash of recognition. He sensed the mycelium like an extension of his own body, and—for a moment—there was a spark, like his bloodstream had fused with that of the fungi. The moment lasted no longer than a split second, but it was enough. A glimmer of connectedness—yet, something firmly distinct from the way he had been connected to the plant in the greenhouse, different from how it had strung and pulled him along.
No, this was something else.
It had been a moment of respite.
A faint smile passed over Max’s lips, while the earth continued to whisper underneath his feet.