The Story of Maxwell

A bitter-sweet short fiction of family, cancer, youth, freedom and love.

It was a terminal illness. Constant unbearable pain and completely incurable. How can one deal with constant suffering? So much so, that they are slowly rotting away?

How can one watch constant suffering? Constantly seeing their loved ones in pain without being able to do a thing. So much so, that they are watching them slowly rot away.

Perhaps what happened to Maxwell was for the better. Perhaps.

Maxwell was a bright boy, this was evident even at a young age. He was fascinated with the outdoors more than his peers and preferred a good book over a night at the movies. Although on the outside he may have seemed like a loner, he truly loved spending time with his friends at school and playing in the park with his dog Rockie. He loved his parents and told them this everyday. He admired his teachers which showed through his well thought out work and notes. He had his flaws just as anybody else did, he was clumsy at times and a bit awkward, he liked the smell of gasoline and always had scratches on his legs from nights of wondering around the woods in the dark. He was an odd but likeable boy, he was unique, yet completely ordinary.

Maxwell lived a satisfying life, his home was near the woods and he often ventured through the thick brush looking for bugs and listening for birds. Besides the woods, Maxwell’s home was also far enough away from the city so when the sun would finally set and it was dark enough, you could see the stars shine from the sky. Maxwell’s family was everything a family should be. Kind and caring, loving and compassionate, his parents loved him more then anything else in the world.

Maxwell’s mother was a free spirit with a motherly nature. She loved experimenting with cooking and reading romance novels and sci fi mysteries. She had a weird taste in fashion and loved wearing over sized jackets and old floral dresses. She spent most of her time outdoors and in the woods. When it was summer she’d take Maxwell and his father to go camping. She said it was a traditional thing to do when it was summer. She loved stargazing and photography. She preferred horror movies over romantic movies because the romantic movies seemed too unrealistic to her. She loved dancing, but it was more like sporadic jumping and strange movements of the feet. Not really planned or organized, but free formed and fun. She loved her family, she adored her kind spoken husband and brilliant son.

Maxwell’s father was always a rough around the edges kind of guy, but he was truly full of life, funny and easy to talk to once you got to know him. He liked Shakespeare plays and Elton John’s voice. But was not really the outdoors type. He hated pop music and the color red. He loved the sound of violins in the morning, which is what he set his morning alarm to every morning. He liked to take Maxwell to the movies and he prided himself in his movie knowledge. He loved his family, he adored his beautiful wife and his brilliant son.

In the end though, despite the wonderful home he lived in and the loving parents he had, nearing the end of his high school career Maxwell wasn’t planning for his senior year of highschool like all his friends were doing, instead Maxwell was planning for cancer treatment.

It was pancreatic cancer. A cancer that hits the pancreas, which is located in the upper abdomen, behind the stomach. Maxwell and his family were stunned at this development. He was diagnosed during his third marking period as a junior at the local public school. He had so much going for him. Good grades, good friends, and good family. Petrified and confused at Maxwell’s diagnosis his family tried to come up with a reasonable conclusion. Was it because Maxwell liked the smell of gasoline so much? Perhaps he attracted it from the time he smoked weed once in the eighth grade? Maybe it was due to the little sip of wine his mother had when he was still growing in her stomach? Regardless of what it may have or have not been, it was there and Maxwell had to live with it, or at least die with it.

With impending pain already starting to seep in Maxwell’s pancreas, he began staying at home, wrapped in comforters and fuzzy blankets, Maxwell spent his days reading and texting friends. People often came to visit him. They’d wish him well, tell him he’d look good, they’d say they missed him and would often add an anecdote about how their day was, “Yea Mr. Fisher was really angry today.” “It rained during lunch and everyone played outside,” “we had a fire alarm drill during sixth period math today.” Careful to include the details Maxwell had missed out on, carefully picking and choosing specific stories for Maxwell to hear. Maxwell was touched at his friend’s thoughtfulness. He would thank them, and would tell them how much he missed them, how much he wished he could go back to school, how thankful he was for their friendship, but as each visit came and went Maxwell’s words started growing less and less meaningful. His caramel toned skin began growing paler and paler. Fewer friends visited and their visits dwindled down from hours to minutes. They’d say their traditional “we miss you” phrases but leave in a matter of moments. Maxwell would watch them slip away from his gray sickly home to the fresh colorful world outside. Maxwell envied this of course, but with the constant pain and throwing up, there wasn’t much he could do outside anyway.

Maxwell’s mother and father were stricken with misery. It was as if life couldn’t go on. Though Maxwell’s mother was never a strict Christian she began to spend time at the local church, soon it got to the point where she was spending more time at the church then she was spending at home. She’d go to Maxwell’s bedroom early in the morning and leave him breakfast and a letter. She’d drive to the local church and pray with the priest, go to work for the rest of the day, then return again to the church. She’d pray, sometimes cry, then would go home and clean whatever leftovers there was from dinner. Then she’d collect Maxwell’s uneaten breakfast and leave a dinner plate piled high with food. She didn’t touch him though. Not anymore. She would tuck the blankets around him, she would say a few words, but she would never touch him. He was too cold, like touching a snowflake, she was afraid she would melt him away.

Maxwell’s father, despite his wife’s constant persuasions, refused to go anywhere. He spent his time at home now, moved to in home working. He dealt with his clients at home and whenever someone asked him why he had moved his work space he’d simply say, “just needed a change of scenery.” In the morning he’d watch his wife drive off to the church, he’d work his day away, while watching old home videos between pizza orders and emails. Before dinner he’d always go into Maxwell’s room and tell him about his day. Maxwell, half there, half not, would murmur and cough under his breath. Sometimes he’d throw up over the side of the bed. Half of it would spill over in the the red rottened bucket, half on his face and the wall. His father would simply wet a rag and clean off his son’s face. He’d lay Maxwell’s face to the side, and clean the wall. Then he dump out the throw up and return again to the chair next to Maxwell’s bed. Sometimes it’d happen again and again and he continued to follow the same procedure, sometimes he wouldn’t.

The chair next to Maxwell’s bed was painted light blue with bursts of white puffy paint. Maxwell had painted the chair back in his middle school years, claiming the chair was the sky and the seat was a giant cloud. Removed from the basement of things-forgotten-but-still-remembered, it now took it’s place as a guest chair beside Maxwell’s bed.

Sometimes, but on rare occasion, teachers would come and visit Maxwell on their off days. They’d tell him what a wonderful student he was. They’d wish him well and try their best to ignore the persistent smell of rotten food and stomach acid. They’d ask him how he was doing, not really expecting an answer. They’d leave his parents with work they had done in school, “Once he’s feeling better I took some extra notes so he can catch up in his free time.” His parents would not and smile and thank them for coming. The teachers, feeling as though they had done a good deed by visiting this poor and sickly boy would smile and later, treat themselves to ice cream and go home and tell their family about the good thing that had happened that day, but the moment the teacher left, Maxwell’s parents would dump the hand written notes and extra credit into the trash. Maxwell didn’t have any free time to work on extra credit and school lessons he had missed, having cancer was a full time job.   

It was around mid October when the cancer began to worsen. Between doctor visits and loving cards something in Maxwell snapped. Perhaps it was because his friends had stopped visiting him. Or maybe it was because he couldn’t eat without throwing up anymore, or maybe it was because his mother slept over at the church one night and came home drunk and distort, or because the pain was so unbearable he’d often lie crying in his sleep. Or maybe because Rockie became malnourished and died in her sleep one night. Perhaps it was one of these things that had driven him over the edge, perhaps it was a mixture of all these thing, or perhaps it was none of these at all. Maybe he was just tired of being lonely, and sick, and tired. So he started saving up his pills. One by one, the small pills left his breakfast tray and slipped under his pillow. It started out small, but by the end of the week he had collected dozens of colorful gel pills with plastic coverings. The pain he felt without the medication was almost unbearable, almost. Maxwell knew it would all come to an end soon. All he had to do was hang in there just a little bit more.

So one night, when his mother left him dinner and another daily dose, Maxwell slipped the colorful pills down his throat. He sucked the water glass until it was dry and lay back in his bed relaxed for the first time since he was diagnosed. It will all end now, he thought to himself quietly.

It was around three in the morning when the storm of vomiting began. His stomach turning itself over and inside out tried to dispel all of the pills Maxwell had taken the night before. It was too much for him and he soon fell unconscious. His parents, hearing the sputtering and coughs from his room much louder and more violent than usually called for 911. Medics hurried and carried his limp body out with a stretcher. His mother in tears had called the priest at the local church and kneeled before the ambulance praying. His father went back to the house, made a cup of coffee and followed the ambulance as it veered through the streets of their small town.

Maxwell woke up in a haze, he was use to the fogginess by now, being drugged up all the time, life had become heavy and damp, like a wet towel. But this was a different kind of fogginess, like there was something after him, life was heavy but it was as if he was being held down by a five ton boulder but moving at the speed of light. Doctors crowded his room, white blurs of nothing. His parents sat on a couch to the side of the bed he lay on. His mother a dark figure of what she once was and his father, his father nothing more but a father. An emotionless hand rubbing his wife's back, but nothing more. The doctors spoke in deep voices. “Suicide possibly”. Maxwell’s mother’s face was stricken with grief as she stood and walked out the one roomed door. His father stayed, a little shocked looking, a little sad looking, a little bewildered looking, but still, stayed. Arms crossed, eyes forward. Maxwell looked up at the blurs, their faces coming into focus, old, gray, wrinkled. Nothing but a look of concern on their faces as they leaned forward and asked him questions. “Maxwell, can you hear me? I’m your doctor? You remember me right?”

The doctors had worked with cases of cancer before, yes, but pancreatic cancer, had and has been incurable. So the doctors continued with what they had done before. They drugged Maxwell, so he was numbed, they lessened the pain, but also dulled his senses. Yes Maxwell was no longer a functioning being, but he was still him. Right? Besides it’s not like they had another other choices. This was Flordia. Physician assisted suicide was illegal.

As the days started moving forward and weeks turned to months, it finally became summer, Maxwell’s favorite season, but despite the fresh air and open windows in the one room hospital, Maxwell, was having trouble breathing. Yes the hospital room was admittedly a bit better then his bedroom. Old friends came to visit him now that he smelled of clorox wipes and sanitizer instead of death and puke, and Maxwell had the luxury of sponge baths and 24/7 access to doctors. But he felt suffocated in the starched, stiff environment. He missed his old blankets. Sure, they were molding and smelled rotten, but they reminded him of the times he built forts with them out in the backyard. Sure, it was nice to wear clean clothes again, but Maxwell missed seeing his old clothes, clothes full of adventure and love. But most of all, he missed his old books. It's true he couldn’t focus enough to read anymore and even though the nurses had brought him books they were too new. They didn’t smell of the library they smelled of ebay. They were all plastic coverings with font too big. They were as white as Maxwell’s hospital’s walls. They felt too orderly, no ripped pages, no dog ears, no words written between the stories. They were books, yes, but they were not loved like the ones back home were.       

Soon the warm weather began to turn and shift. Soon, it was winter. That is when it had happened. Cold, misty and gray. Foggy and dark. The sun hadn’t even come up when it began. Maxwell was crying out in pain again. His nurses rushing to his side, nothing much to do but pop a couple of pills, pump a little drug and soothe his tiring screams. His father, watched on the side of the couch emotionless. As the cries of pain dwindled little by little and the nurses headed out one by one Maxwell and his father were soon left alone. Maxwell didn’t say much, instead he just stared at his father, emptiness reflected in Maxwell’s eyes of years lost. People he never get to meet, experiences he would never get to experience, emotions he’d never be able to feel. His father looked at him, eyes of pity, grief, loss. To him, it was as if Maxwell was already dead.  

It was around six in the morning when it happened. The Sun was breaking through the clouds and a purple red sunrise glowed from the horizon. Maxwell’s father had slipped a pistol into the sleeve of his over sized t-shirt. He walked through the hospital halls as he normally did. People said hello, they waved, they smiled. Maxwell’s father said nothing. He simply walked emotionless to Maxwell’s room.

Maxwell was making soft whimpering sounds as his father walked into the room. It had been another long and painful night, lonely and agonizing. When his father looked at him, Maxwell cried, but they weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of joy, because finally, after so long, and after so much suffering he would finally be free. Maxwell’s father closed his eyes, and let the pistol shot ring out.

It was around six thirty in the morning when Maxwell’s father was charged with murder.  

Author's Note

Any advice on how to revise the story? Does anything not make sense? Does the overall story need improvement? Any grammar problems I over looked?

Any and all feedback is appreciated :)
thank youuu xoxo.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is a very well-written story! Your storytelling is vivid & flows logically & keeps the reader's interest intensely. Despite being a familiar topic, you've used original details to keep your version fresh. Good mix of short simple sentences for emphasis & then longer complex sentences to convey the complex background. The ending twist was completely unexpected & satisfying, as you set us up to be hating this too-slow process of painful dying. Glad to see you posting your stuff -- I think you don't know how good you are! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Elizabeth Mars]

You are too kind! Thank you so much for taking the time to read my piece, and I really appreciate what you have to say on the piece :)

[49k_jdys]

This is such an interesting story. It really captivated me all the way to the end. The ending was very good as well. My only suggestion is that you make the ending more sudden instead of leading up to it with the father holding the gun. It'll have more of a punch because the reader will initially be confused and then it will dawn on them what happened, resulting in a more powerful ending.

[Elizabeth Mars]

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your advise, I'll be sure to try and create a more suspenseful ending :) Thank you!!!

[Jason Baptiste]

Wow Elizabeth Hey you've captivated me Thanks for a master class from a master story. I 'am not capable of advice at this level but what a extremely touching story Loved the humor and ~ books smell of ebay ~ That's creative Marvelous You've just started? Hummmm You're gift to writing Great Great Great

[Elizabeth Mars]

Aw! Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked the story :), honestly, I've been writing for several years but I still have so far to go! Thanks again for the kind comment!

[Asante]

Holy s**t! That ending! I really want to ask you: What inspired this story inside of you?

The first story you'd written was easily my favorite that I'd read on here in ages, and this second one may have even eclipsed that one.

"but as each visit came and went Maxwell’s words started growing less and less meaningful. His caramel toned skin began growing paler and paler. Fewer friends visited and their visits dwindled down from hours to minutes. They’d say their traditional “we miss you” phrases but leave in a matter of moments. Maxwell would watch them slip away from his gray sickly home to the fresh colorful world outside."

^ This. It was almost as if to snatch the air out of the room, because asking it to leave would've come across as too polite for the moment. This was where the story jumped off the page at me, and everything to follow stood at that level, UNTIL THE ENDING, which all but felt like a stab.

Amazing, clear, fluid work! You're a better writer than you give yourself credit for!

[Elizabeth Mars]

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed the story, Maxwell's story was inspired by one of my classes where I had to write a fictional story on a current controversial topic, I wanted to write a short story that somehow incorporated assisted suicide in it. However, I wanted to write a story where the act of assisted suicide could be both a justifiable and unjustifiable act. I wanted to write a controversial story that could be fairly argued and debated on both sides. At least, that was what I was going for. Thanks for reading! :)

[Asante]

Taking the backstory into account, you sure as hell did a solid job! Thank you for sharing it! :)

[Elizabeth Mars]

I really appreciate that! Thank you so much for reading :)

[SilverInk]

I'm speechless... this hit me so hard. His struggle with the longing for death was so hard to read, but made me want to keep reading at the same time. The end was unexpected. The conflict Maxwell's father faced with having to watch his child in pain was so real. Thank you for this.

[Elizabeth Mars]

Thank YOU for reading, I'm so happy that you were able to understand the real emotional depth of this piece :)