literature

MAXWELL. I

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July 20th, 1999

Dear Journal,
Tonight is the night.  I will propose to my darling Genevive.  I am so nervous.  What if it's too soon?  We've only been dating for a year; one, very fast year.  Perhaps she isn't ready.  What if she's never ready..?  I have to ask.  Come on, Maxwell, buddy.  You can do it.  Yes, you will do it!  You will do it tonight, no questions asked.

      Wish me luck, journal.
      Maxwell.



July 21st, 1999

      Dear Journal,
I… Didn't propose last night.  I would have, if Genevive would have shown up at all.  I even became desperate enough to call her.  After the 11th call, I finally gave up, went home, and went right to bed.  It angers me.  I saved up so much money for that overnight trip to a beach house I rented.  All I get in return is a no-show.  How dare she, I can't even express how angry I am at her!  I have tried calling her once today.  I'm not going to waste my day trying to get ahold of her, though.  No, I won't just let her do what she wants and still be Mister Happy Jolly Maxwell.  Oh, the nerve of her.  I feel bad for being angry.  But she knew how important this night was for me; for us.  I'm going to end this entry, and try just one more call.

      I really do need that luck I asked for.
      Maxwell.



July 22nd, 1999

      Dear Journal,
I'm worried.  I haven't heard anything from Genevive.  I miss her.  I'm not even mad at her anymore, I'm just so concerned.  Why doesn't she want to talk to me?  What have I done to cause this?  Surely, I had to have done something bad.  When she does reach me, I will be so happy.  I'll tell her how much I love her, and I'll run to her house and kiss her over, and over.  I'll hug her and never let her go.  I miss her ever so much.  I love her.  I will ask her to marry me the moment I see her next.  Oh, why won't my Genevive respond?

      Still waiting on that luck, journal.
      Maxwell.



July 23rd, 1999

      Dear Journal,
My Genevive… The love of my life.  She's gone missing.  Her father called me this morning (I knew at that point something was bad, because he hates talking to me), and told me that she wasn't at her apartment.  Not only that; her purse, keys, everything was still there.  Even her cellular phone was there.  Her father made our conversation short, and called the police to report her missing.  We created a search party, and I was out looking all day.  I want to look for her more, but I've no idea where to look.  I just don't know…  I suppose that's all I have to report.

      You're not lucky at all, are you?
      Maxwell.



August 3rd, 1999

      Dear Journal,
I know, I haven't updated you in a while.  I do offer my apologies.  Genevive has not been found.  Everybody has given up, and assumed her dead.  She can't be dead.  She isn't!  Not my Genevive.  Her heart is too good, and too pure to be stopped.  Not so young… She's only 19.  She can't die…

      Screw you and your "Luck".
      Maxwell.



August 5th, 1999

      Dear Journal,
This isn't exactly Maxwell typing.  But, he isn't in the state to be able to type, so he's having me, a professional investigator working on Genevive's case, do it for him.  He wanted me to tell you what happened.
Genevive Lassen has been reported officially dead today.  Maxwell received a package (not sent through postage, but dropped off personally).  It was from an anonymous source, of which we are still trying to track down.  Inside the box lies Genevive's dead body.  A lot of her bones seem intentionally broken so she could fit in the box.  A note was taped to her malnutritioned, underdressed body.  It merely said "FOUND."
You won't be hearing anything else from Maxwell, for he will be sent to the nearest hospital that can help mental patients.

      Indirectly,
      Maxwell.



November 4th, 2005

      Dear Journal,
It's me, Maxwell.  I am back.  I do sincerely apologize for the abruptness of that last entry.  I feel so bad.  Forgive me?  I am not mentally ill, if you're thinking that.  I am in perfect health, hence being back home.  The doctor kept saying I'm "stable".  But I am perfectly okay.  I made a few friends in the hospital, actually.  The doctor told me that they're not really there; I'm just imagining them.  But that, as well as many other things he tried telling me, isn't true.  Let me tell you about them.
First, there is Lucy.  She is a peach, and I love talking to her.  She is sweet, and she never gets frustrated or angry with me.  She's so patient, and understanding.  She's a perfect listener.  I asked her if she existed, one day.  She told me that she surely does, as well as my other friends.  But the reason the doctor says he cannot see my friends is because he's a loon.  She said only sane people can see them, and that I'm special to be sane, so I can see my darling friends.  How funny, a loony doctor trying to call ME crazy.
There's also Tom.  I try to call him Tommy, but he really hates in and gets mad at me.  Though I would love to call him Tommy, I do not, because he does not like it and I don't like being rude.  He sure does make me laugh, though.
Lastly, there's Alison.  She's ugly, but her personality is beautiful.  She tells me lots of stories, and makes me feel happy.  I love the innocence, and simplicity in her stories.  It makes a very nice feeling in heart before a nice, long nap.
I miss Genevive.  Lucy tells me that she'll be back, but I know she's just saying it to make me happier.  I'm crying again, so I'm going to take my medication like I was told to, have Alison tell me a nice story, and then nap.

      Tell you more tomorrow,
      Maxwell.



P.S.  My friends say hello.  Well, Tom made a very vulgar joke, but let's pretend he just said hi.

November 16th, 2005

      Dear Journal,
I'm sorry I don't write every day.  I don't ever have much to report.  I do write some poems, sometimes though.  I will type some down for you sometime.  I am mad at Tom.  He keeps making fun of my poems, and says they're so stupid that they're funny.  Allison and Lucy tell me it's not nice to say mean things, but I called Tom a poop-head anyway.
I visited Genevive's grave today.  I cried a lot.  But that's okay, because I apologized to her for soaking her dirt.  I dream of her smiles, sometimes.  I told her that.  I hope one day, she'll crawl out and be with me again.  Maybe someday that will happen.
I miss you, Genevive.  I love you, Genevive.

      Bring her back, journal.
      Maxwell.



GENEVIVE
Oh, my sweet.
When I'm under your spell,
It's hard to tell
That I'm sad.

But, you're gone.
I always cry,
And it makes me sigh
When I wake up to your empty pillow.

We could be married.
Every morning I'd kiss you,
And wait patiently until two
O'clock for you to be home.
Please, come on home.



November 20th, 2005

      Dear Journal,
Thanksgiving is close.  I bought a turkey, and I'm going to celebrate alone.  Well, not alone.  I'll be celebrating with Tom, and Lucy and Allison.  Tom has been a lot nicer to me lately.  I don't know why, but it makes me happy.

      I don't have anything real to report today, so that's it.
      Maxwell.



November 31st December 1st, 2005

      Dear Journal,
I feel like I have lived my entire life as a lie.  I could have sworn there was such thing as November 31st.  I could have sworn!  Tom told me it doesn't exist.  At first, I thought he was practical joking.  But I asked Allison, and she said it was true!  Even Lucy said so.  Oh, I feel so mislead.  I don't know what is true anymore.  I need another story, Allison.  I also need some warm milk.

      I will go calm down, now.
      Maxwell.
The first several entries from Maxwell. I've turned his life into something like a story. It's all going to be journal entries, and poems. Though, there's only one poem thus far.

I really would love it if you took the time to read these, and even comment. Thank you.
© 2011 - 2024 SedulousSara
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SammiNicole's avatar
Sara, I absolutely adore Maxwell. He is a doll. Please keep writing/ drawing Maxwell stuff. His poor Genevive ): this story just about broke my heart </3