Donnie always knows the moment Max steps into the room. Not because of the sound of the door or the shift in the air, though both happen but because the dead arrive with Max. They never crowd Donnie. Though with so many of them he always fears they will, but they never do. They always gather around Max like a cruel shield of death. They blow in like a harsh cold air that never settles it just gets colder and Donnie's chest gets heavier as more of them flow in. He has never seen these many ghosts and they all seem to eerily point at Max as if Donnie is suppose to ask him a question but he never can find the right time to say the dead are looking for answers and they say you have them.
A man with his throat opened stands too close to Maxâs left shoulder, fingers twitching like heâs trying to remember how to smoke. A woman sits on the arm of the couch; her eyes fixed somewhere behind Maxâs ribs. There are others. Too many to count without starting to feel sick. Donnie always does his best to block them out and avoid eye contact with them. He isn't always successful because there are truly just so many of them, he can rarely find a safe spot to rest his eyes. So, he finds it best to keep his eyes on Max's eyes or somewhere he knows he won't be met with death.
The dead donât accuse. The dead donât beg. They just⌠wait.
Max drops into the chair across from Donnie like this is any other night. Like he isnât carrying a graveyard in his wake. âYou look like hell,â he says. Donnie snorts. âOccupational hazard.â Donnie keeps his eyes on his coffee because if he looks at them too long he will start seeing patterns, and patterns always lead to questions he doesn't want answers to. But tonight, he doesn't get the luxury of pretending. Something in Donnie's chest tightens. That familiar pressure. The one that means ignoring this will cost someone something later.
Donnie exhales slowly. âMax.â the air gets tighter and Max looks up. Donnie can feel his eyes burning into him. âWhat?â Donnie finally lets his eyes wander to meet with Max's eyes. âThere is more to the story than you are telling me.â The dead stir. Max stiffens like Donnie just reached out and stuck Max with something sharp. âWhat story?â Max says, too fast. Donnie glances past him again. A man kneels on the floor now, palms pressed flat like heâs bracing against a fall that is never ending.
âYours Max.. Your story..â Donnie say quietly. Max scoffs, pushing up from the chair. âYou donât get to do this, Donnie. Not with whatever psychic crap youâve got going on.â âI donât want toâ Donnie says. And God, he meant it. âI never want to but I have to..â Max begins to pace. Donnie watches a woman flinch every time Max turns, like sheâs afraid heâll see her. âI see this stuff everywhereâ Donnie continues. âHospitals. Alleys. Old houses. Literally everywhere..â Donnie swallows and takes a deep breath then clenches his jaw before biting his lip and shaking his head slightly. âBut Max it doesnât follow people. Not like this. Not like every time I see you..â
Max stops moving. He is so still yet shaky all at once. His eyes gleam and sparkle with tears that want to fall but his eyes just turn this reddish pink fighting them away. The room goes very still. âHow many?â Max asks. Donnie closes his eyes for half a second. âEnough that I stopped counting..â Max's breath hitches. âThey canât talk, right?â Donnie shakes his head âNo.â âGood.â Max's voice cracks anyway. âThen they canât tell you I didnât know. That I was a kid. That I thought my parents were justâŚâ Max's words fade like a thought lost. He doesn't finish he just hangs his head in what looks like shame. Max opens his mouth, then close it. This isnât Max's confession to give and Donnie can see it.
âTheyâre not here because of something you did, Donnie says quickly. Max turns on Donnie with anger. âThen why are they here?!â Donnie stands. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal. âBecause youâre alive, and they arenât. And somehow, that makes you the closest thing they have to an ending.â Max shoves past Donnie. Just a raw reflex. His shoulder clips Donnie's and the ghosts ripple through him like smoke in water. âI didnât ask for thisâ Max snaps. âI knowâ Donnie says, louder than he meant to. Max freezes and Donnie steps closer, his voice softer now. âNone of us ever do Max.â Donnie notices Max's hands curl into fists. He raises one like he might hit the wall, or Donnie, or himself â and then his hand just drops. The woman on the couch leans forward, like sheâs listening. Like she knows something important is happening. Donnie feels something twist behind his ribs.
âTheyâre not angryâ Donnie tells him his voice soft with comfort. Max laughs, hollow. âYou donât know that.â Â Donnie shook his head and put his hand on Max's shoulder âI do. Anger is loud. This?â Donnie's hands gesture helplessly. âThis is just unfinished.â Max finally looks at Donnie, really looks. Their eyes locking and Donnie can see Max soften a bit before muttering âSo what do I do?â The dead lean in. âYou live,â Donnie says with a small smile. âYou live well. You choose kindness when it would be easier not to. You make room for joy even when it feels like theft..â Max shakes his head. âThat doesnât fix anything.â âNo But it keeps the story from ending in the same place. While we figure out a way together to make them move on so you don't have to carry all this dead weight with you where ever you go.â
One of the ghostsâan older man with kind eyes and a ruined chest lifts his hand. Not pointing. Not accusing. Just resting it over Max's heart. Max doesnât see it. But Donnie does. And for the first time since Max walked in, the pressure eases.