Hey there. It's me, Maxwell. You might think that starting a story like this would be easy, but trust me—it's not. There are parts of my past I wish I could forget, and then there are parts I wish I could relive just to feel the warmth of those memories one last time. But here I am, sitting on the cold pavement of a city street, with the ghosts of my family whispering in my ear.
Let me take you back to that fateful day when my world crumbled. I was just a kid—seven years old, to be precise. My birthday had been two days earlier, filled with laughter and the sweetness of cake. My older brother, Derek, had even gifted me a toy truck, his way of showing me that he thought I was still his little buddy. We were on our way to the mountains for a family hike, my parents excitedly chatting in the front seat while Derek and I bounced in the back, energy bubbling like soda.
"Mommy!" I had called out, my voice filled with the innocent bravado of childhood. "When I grow up, I'm gonna give you everything the world has to offer! And I'm gonna be strong like Daddy!"
My father, a retired boxing champion, had turned around in his seat, beaming with pride. "That's my boy! You'll be the strongest. Just remember to keep your chin up."
My mother, with her warm smile, chimed in, "And always stay kind. Strength comes in many forms, Maxwell."
If only I had known that those words would be the last I'd hear from them. Just minutes later, everything changed. One moment, we were cruising down the highway, the sun shining bright and warm, and the next, a truck appeared out of nowhere, barreling toward us like a raging bull. I can still remember the way time slowed, how the world outside the window blurred as our car crumpled like paper, and then—darkness.
When I came to, I was alone. My body was unscathed, but my heart felt shattered into a million pieces. I had no idea what had happened until I found myself in a sterile hospital room, surrounded by somber faces. The doctors told me my parents were gone, victims of a terrible accident. It was as if someone had reached into my chest and pulled out all the love I had ever known.
I remember the day of the funeral vividly. The sun shone brightly, mocking the heaviness in my heart. I sat in the front row, small and silent, while friends and family whispered their condolences. I felt like a ghost, invisible and intangible, drifting through a world that no longer belonged to me. I should have been with Derek, but he was gone too—lost somewhere in that wreckage.
"Maxwell," they said, "it's not your fault." But deep inside, I couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, I was to blame. If only I hadn't shouted. If only we'd stayed home. The weight of those 'what ifs' crushed me as I withdrew into myself, the vibrant boy I once was fading into the shadows.
When it came time to select a guardian, my aunt stepped forward. She was my mother's sister, a woman with a soft voice but cold eyes. I remember feeling lost as the adults discussed what would happen to me. My aunt's house was cramped, filled with the stench of stale cigarettes and unwashed dishes. I didn't understand then how much her life revolved around gambling and her own whims. I just wanted someone to hold me and tell me it would be okay.
At first, my aunt was kind—or at least, she pretended to be. I think she was just trying to win me over for the inheritance. My parents had left me their house, property, and a decent amount of money. I had no idea how much it was; I was just a kid. I went along with everything the adults decided, staying quiet, hoping to blend into the background.
But soon enough, her kindness wore thin. The plates of food grew smaller, and the sweet words turned into mutterings about burdens. I became a shadow in my own home, a nuisance to her and her husband, who spent whatever money he could on gambling. I found myself malnourished and deprived, doing household chores that were never-ending, locked in my room like a stray dog.
When I turned sixteen, I felt as if I had slipped into another dimension. One day, driven by hunger and desperation, I snuck into the kitchen, praying for just a scrap of food. I got caught. My aunt was furious, her eyes narrowing as she locked me in a closet, shouting that I was nothing but a burden.
I stayed in that closet for three days. I thought it would only be a few hours. I imagined someone would come for me, but no one did. By the time she remembered, it was too late.
So, how am I alive? A miracle, I suppose. Or perhaps a curse. It's a strange thing to consider the notion of surviving when all you feel is loss. But here I am, telling my story, hoping that somehow, it might mean something.
Welcome to my world. It's not pretty, but it's mine.