D8 // MAX CALE [DONE]

max cale.

”Max? Max? Your name is Max? Isn’t that like… a guys name.”

The question proposed tugs a snarl onto my pale pink lips. I stare at the girl in front of me, grey eyes filled with spitting hatred and rage (that was hardly unusual, though, I was always angry at something, or if I wasn’t I was very quick to anger. It wasn’t my fault I had horrible anger management issues. The worst part was that I couldn’t blame it on bad genes; my twin sister was anything but aggressive. She was an angel compared to me). I could hit her. I really could. I could hit her hard enough to send that petite jaw of hers flying backwards – so far that it would, in fact, snap in two. That was simple enough. I was highly skilled in the art of punching. I had, actually, punched so many people that it no longer broke my knuckles anymore. That was skill.

Right now I could feel my hands itching to lash out forwards, to feel the crunch of smashed nose against my skin, bone breaking and warm, sticky blood spilling across my palm. The highlight would be seeing them in pain, their faces contorting as they tried not to scream, eyes filling with tears. It always made me laugh. Now, I’m not a sadistic person. I’d never ever kill someone, that would be just mean, but I see no harm in mutilating. Killing was a horrible thing, and the very idea made my stomach clench.

I’d almost killed a person before, that had been super-duper hard to resist, they had punched my twin – don’t get me wrong, I don’t love my twin, (I don’t love anyone are anything.) but my twin was very useful, she was the one I could throw under the bus when I needed a good escape. Or when something went wrong I could use her to my advantage, so someone hurting my backup plan? No way, man. That shit was not going down. So I kind of hit him and hit him and hit him again and then I hit him one more time for good luck. That sent him flying backwards until his head smashed into the ground. He did not move, he did not get up and two years later he sits in a chair and drools. That is all he ever does. Ripred it sucks. What is the point in teaching someone a lesson when they become so mentally fucked that they can’t even remember it? That had been a waste of my time.

”Wanna say that again, girl? Because I have a very good feeling that you do not want to see your intestines on this side of your body.” I snapped, eyes flaring with barely controlled anger. Bentley and I always seemed to get some kind of prissy, stupid little pathetic comment about our names. Our mother had had a thing for being odd, she was partly a hippy as well as a crazy lady that had disappeared a few years back. I didn’t care, I’d never loved her, and neither did I love my father who worked twelve hours a day at a factory down town. He was always complaining that we kids never did a thing to help him. Who cares? I don’t. He can work; he is a man, Ripred he needs to grow up. I, however, get money in a thousand different ways. I do this thing where I sleep with guys and then they give me money. But I never actually sleep with them, I just get them drunk – or if I am feeling especially nice I’ll drug them with homemade concoctions of weird ass stuff. Don’t ask me what is in them, I have no clue, I just grab a bit of this and that whack it together and bam you have an unconscious guy.

Hold up.

I’m not always like this. Sometimes I do sleep with the guy, well actually I normally always do. This technique, as perfect as it is, is only used for the older creepy ugly men. Like at school, I’ll do every guy and girl I can get my perfect hands on. I don’t care who they are or what they look like as long as I think they are attractive, or even if they just catch my eye I’ll snag them. Screw ethics and morals and all that righteous shit. I do what I want to do and if that means doing every guy in the district then so be it. I am, in other words, a self-confessed whore. I see no shame in the title, because that is exactly what it is, a mere title, Names and words hardly mean a thing when it comes to what I do with my body. The only times, or things I ever get upset is anything else. Like seriously, call me a whore and I don’t care, but call me a slut or a girly girl or well my sister names and you will soon find it is hard to breathe without a nose. I told all this to Bentley once, she snorted her water everywhere. And then I punched her because some landed on me. That made her shut up and then she said I was such as weirdo. I hit her again. The conversation ended there.

So that stuff happens when I ‘sleep’ with older men, it became habit, after a little while, and besides they always pay the best. They wake up they groan and I’m lying beside them and they give me money and everyone goes home happy. I seriously don’t understand why the old man is complaining I earn heaps of money. Like I bought all my clothes myself and being part of district eight we had a lot of them. There were plenty of factories here, with plenty of things. I mean we didn’t get many of those things, but being me, and being the sociopath was I had gained the ability to break in and not care. It was tricky stuff, but when you were as carefree and blissfully rebellious as I was you could do anything.

”I’m so-sorr-sorry.” She stammers, her feet moving backwards, and her arms drawn out in front of her in what could possibly be a defensive gesture. I wasn’t sure. I mean people always seemed to think shoving your arms in the air would stop someone stepping forward and hitting you. It had never stopped me before. I still hit people; I still hit them very hard. Two arms facing me did not deter me away from smashing in your face. Trust me; I had met people like this before. They were ignorant, arrogant and self-absorbed. The only thing they valued as important was themselves and if there was any way their life was in danger, even if that meant getting a teeny tiny little cut they would panic. They were people who were going to die of old age, with wrinkles and frail bones. When I was the exact definition of rebellion, anger and aggression, I was everything that was naughty and untameable. I hated rules and I lived for a thrill, even if that thrill be pain. I had no clue how I was going to die or when for that matter, but all I knew was that it was going to be bloody, painful and awesome.

Rolling my eyes I turn to away. ”Max, we should go. We have things we need to do.” Oh, yeah. We did. I turn to face Bentley, the girl slipping completely from my mind. Smiling I clapped her on the back. ”Yes, we sure do.” I had almost forgotten we were actually out here on a supply run. You know, just to get the normal stuff to make things that explode. I was a fire crazed bitch. I had this odd obsession with fire. It was so destructive and crazy and oh my god, it burned things. Who could possibly not love things that burned. I had an amazing knack for making fires. I could use sticks, rocks, any type of powder. Matches were like the things that only an idiot, useless piece of rubbish had to use to make a fire. That was like leaving the training wheels on the back when you had been riding a bike for twenty years. I was good with fire. And I loved using it. Bentley called me a pyromaniac. Maybe I was. No, I think I am, but who cares? I don’t think I do.