4
Society had never been too kind to Max Traum. A stocky build and an unparalleled ability to be awkward in any social interaction left much to be desired from the world around him. Unlike most, however, he fully realizes his flaws and embraces them. While he can not do much about them, he acknowledges it whenever someone snidely remarks his weight or incapability of forming a full sentence in conversation. His lack of social skills and physique left him as an outcast. Throughout high school, coming home to his mother with feces stained shirts from swirlies and black eyes was a common occurrence. His mother always tried as much as a single mother of one could do but with constant isolation from peers and abandonment from a father, consoling was all anyone could do. He managed to battle through clinical depression and suicidal tendencies by escaping to alternate virtual realities in video games, movies, and books. Needless to say that his weight and social skills did not improve.
Despite his bleak outlook on college, without his mother being there for support, things did improve. Independent freedom, after overcoming the initial paranoia of leaving his guardian, cleared the weight off his chest and his best and only friend helped battle back the darkness in his mind. Still college students were cruel to him but it was something about the commonality of sharing the emotional weight that rehabilitated him.
The first time they met was much like moments ago. He had been the last to exit Primrose Auditorium after an entry presentation about the daily life of a college student at Liberation U. The result had been a grueling hour long "did you know" presentation filled with yawns, rolling eyes, and pointless facts about the campus. To avoid social interaction, he sat in the back and waited for everyone to exit. Upon exiting he froze dumbfoundedly only feet away from the glass doorway. He had been a deer in the headlights when confronted with the situation he had involuntarily laid eyes on. Rowen had been grounded by a group of prospects for the football team. Max stood bewildered on how to help. The three athletes, whose descriptions aren't even worth mentioning, had tackled Rowen to the ground and had begun lining up to kick him as if they were kicking field goals. Their excuse was that Rowen was the perfect fit for a "tackle dummy". In part, Max thought they made a good point. Rowen had an athletic build and no confidence to stand up for himself. The perfect target and man was he able to take a hit. With each shockwave to the ribs Max had cringed but remained in place only ten feet away.
It wasn't until Dr. Freig nudged him from behind that he had helped Rowen up from the ground while, subsequently, the athletes sprinted off tripping over one another. He had guessed that he probably would've ran to avoid being in trouble when spotted by an authoritative figure too but Dr. Freig was not intimidating by any means. However, Max did remember that she did come out of nowhere that day and he could recount that he had always felt a strangely convenient connection between the three of them.
Rowen ended up escaping that day with a black eye, a couple broken ribs, and not one punch thrown by him. Max recalls in the aftermath of the chaos asking him why he didn't fight back. With a delusional façade and a blood -soaked grin he had replied, "Because I won". No complaint as to why Max hadn't helped him sooner or why it was him instead of the chubby, antisocial geek. Just that he had won somehow.
Max leaves their dorm towards the cafeteria for breakfast and tries to comprehend what special kind of coward it takes to take advantage of someone who is vulnerable or outnumbered. And not in just a physical way either. Many do not understand the power words actually have on people. He hovers on that and gets a deep feeling of disgust. People talk people into hurting themselves or to commit suicide. They lull people into feeling inferior in every which way. Hell, even Hitler had his followers. The worst part about it was that now people can do similar things without even meeting face to face. At this thought, Max finds himself turning his phone over and over in his hand as it lays active. With it he breaths a sigh of anguish.
He settles down in the corner of the cafeteria with his tray that contained a breakfast of eggs, toast and a waffle with whipped cream. In his eyes that was the beauty of it. His eyes roamed the entirety of the dining space and not one person took their eyes off their phone while they ate. Never had he had such a companionship with someone where phones ever entered their hands. For socially awkward people, the two of them had raw, unfiltered, genuine communication with one another.
There was almost a terrifying thing about the mindlessness of it. Beings that seek gratification from digital hearts and demoralizing comments seems almost sociopathic. Digital anomalies designed to distract and restrain the mind, yet people still feed into it. Max chuckles to himself as he pictures the entire cafeteria as zombies walking around limply with eyes glued to a half-clutched phone.
Despite having a grand moment of tragic comedy Max remains worried for his friend. Never had he acted with such lack of energy. This morning was different. He had looked more soulless than those around him that were recording his "starting too early" escapade. Couldn't be drunk. Wouldn't be drunk. Was he having an intense panic attack? Even if so, Max had never seen him that stressed for an exam.
I don't know what to do. He has never acted this way before. So paranoid. So distraught. So vulnerable. What if I can't help him? What if he goes and does something tragic? I'm starting to get goosebumps thinking about it. I need to help my friend somehow, but I don't think Carbzilla can just dish out his many rolls to make him feel better. Man am I squishy. If only it wasn't so hard to lose all this weight. The miles I do don't even come close to outweighing my lardiness and love for food. I gotta try harder though. In the meantime, maybe I could just talk to him about how he's feeling. But isn't that weird? I don't want to come across as weird. He'll probably just get uncomfortable and keep it bottled up. He needs to open up though, but I don't want him to think I'm coming on to him by asking him to lay his mind out on the table. Ugh. Why do people have to think of it that way? Why is it so strange for people to care about each other's feelings?
"What's up blubber boy? Aart, aart aart!"
"Fuck people." Max mutters under his breath as he walks by a group of athletes entering the cafeteria after an early morning practice.
On his way to class he heard snippets of this morning's incident. "Just another freshman who doesn't know their limit." He heard one prissy rich girl say. He heard chirps from two preppy guys that "that shit was hilarious. Dude was totally shitfaced. What a way to end the semester". Honestly it was disgusting. No one really knows what happened to him last night nor did anyone probably care. Shit, he could've been dead and not a single person would've cared to check. All that mattered to them was the comedy of a situation of vulnerability.
Max furrows his rather thick eyebrows and shakes to try to get rid of the frustration. Such carelessness towards someone else shouldn't be tolerated. He knew Rowen didn't have a social life but would it have been so hard for someone just to ask if he was alright? Lord knows how long he had been laying there. The dried blood on his nose would've told anyone that he wasn't 100 percent okay.
As what he thought of as a small act of rebellion, Max did not hold the door open for the group of people behind him as he entered the Range building of Creative Sciences. He could've cared less of who they were too. Whether it be the athletes or members of the marching band. Nice people or mean people. Attractive or ugly. "Fuck 'em."
The dark red brick aqueduct arches that line the hallways always made Max feel like he was in an ancient civilization instead of an academic building. They ran along each of the four floors of the building and in between them classrooms alternated with renounced projects from former students. The projects varied from digital frames of movie or game trailers to statues made to model characters students had made. It was truly a paradise for creativity and there were multiple times that Max was late to class because of the creative beauty around every corner. The program he was in was even known for its development of a true prototype of 3-D hologram technology. There truly wasn't anything like it in the world. However, nothing quite intrigued Max more than the fact that water followed through the aqueduct structures with each one flowing into a fountain at the center of the building.
Max approaches the fountain and sits down on one of the many marble benches that circle it. The pure silver hands on his watch tell him he still has twenty minutes before class. The hands glisten in the late morning radiance.
It's quite funny in an ironic sort of way. The watch was a rather expensive gift from his mother to commemorate him moving on to college and moving closer to the "adult world". It was supposed to remind him that "the time for you to shine above the people tearing you down approaches with every tick". It really is a good sentiment with good intentions but what runs through his mind is how much time he has left. His poor mental health and his vast weight may just be accelerating that clock. With every tick comes a second closer to life's only promise: death.
"Time is irrelevant you know. Without it nothing would really change. You would still eat when you eat, sleep when you sleep, shit when you shit." He hears a voice come from behind him.
He glances over his shoulder to see Dr. Frieg sitting on the bench next to him, cane laying across her lap. She, like him, was staring thoughtfully into the beautiful fountain with its crystal-clear water and miniature trees clumped in a small island in the middle. Only the two of them remain in the room.
"The only purpose for it is to measure. Hours in a day, minutes in a class, seconds in a race years…."
"Years in a life." Max finishes with a glance at her, accompanied with a retreating smile and shrugged.
"If that's what you want to measure, sure." She replies calmly.
A few moments pass by like an eternity. He could see single droplets being sprayed by the fountain. Each one cascading down to the pool rippling across the surface. Every ripple affecting the outcome and shape of the next. Rays of sunlight reflect off dust particles floating in the air adding a sparkling ambiance. The serenity and fragility of it is almost too real to handle in his anxious state.
"Why do you hesitate Max? Why is it that you hold back so much?"
"I don't know. I just…"
"You don't want to risk losing your friend?"
He nods in a shy and fear driven manner. "He's the only friend I have. He's really the only friend I've ever had."
"Maybe that's the reason why you should." She pauses. "You have a good heart. Throwing compassion towards a dear friend will only strengthen your bond. Even if it may seem uncomfortable at first, at least he'll know you are looking out for him and can come to you for help. It's not weird." She finishes with a smile and a muffled chuckle.
"I'm just really worried about him. I've never seen him act this way. I believe there is something wrong with him." He opens up with a reassured (though small it may be) confidence.
"He'll be okay. Though I need you to make sure you go straight back to your room after class and bring him to my classroom as soon as you can. Try talking to him. No need for the walls of fearlessness and misaligned humor." Time resumes, and she continues.
"You know what happened to him don't you." He looks back at her, trying to say it with a straight face.
"I do." She admits and pauses for a moment to figure out the wording. "The only thing important now is that he comes to me when something like this morning happens. You as well. Everything will be okay as long as your minds are on the table and you keep coming to see me. No lies, no outbursts, no avoiding, no cutting."
The last two words both puzzle and shock him. The words pierce his heart and a look of denial that either one of them would even do that shoots across his face. Frantic eyes dart toward the water and back to his feet, his right leg shakes rapidly up and down and a tear trickles down his cheek. As he asks her why she thought that that would be a possibility and what she meant by those three things she had gone. Like the flip of a switch, like the flash of a blade, like the tick of a clock she had vanished.