Nov 26, 2013 – First Choice Timeline

As the clock at the front of the room gradually ticked down the minutes towards the final bell, Max began tidying up her desk, closing her notebook and slipping her pens and pencils into their carrying case. William’s camera was already tucked securely in her messenger bag; she still almost never took it out. On her right she saw Kate listening attentively to Principal Wells who stood at the front of the class droning on as he read from the assigned text. Unable to find a substitute for the last day before Thanksgiving break, the principal had resigned himself to heading the class personally, but unable to lecture off the book due to his absolute ignorance on photography he merely read their assigned reading out loud, occasionally pausing to question the class and ensure that they were paying attention. Max was pretty certain, however, that Principal Wells didn’t really know if the responses he received were right or wrong. Apparently Language of Photography was all participation this semester. Despite the principal’s monotonous recitation of the text, Kate remained the ever conscientious student, only turning briefly from Principal Wells and his reading to flash a smile at Max.

Max smiled and waved back as she tucked her notebook and her pencil case away. To her left, Victoria sat tapping and swiping on her tablet. Unlike Kate, Victoria had resigned herself to the reality that she would be learning very little in Language of Photography until a real teacher was brought in. Max wondered momentarily what occupied Victoria’s attention on her device. Was she browsing more insanely expensive cameras? Perhaps picking out new resins for that 3D printer she’d purchased for her dorm room?

Yeah, that’s called jealousy, Max.

And of course it was. Max had no real interest in 3D printing, and she didn’t feel the need to convert to a modern digital SLR, but she couldn’t deny that there was some advantage to having the best equipment. She’d kill for a good lighting rig, a vintage Polaroid Land Model, or even simply for an old Minolta analog SLR. It lacked the fun of instant photography, but there was still something deeply pleasurable in the tactile process of developing your own film; of going to the dark room to…

Max’s thoughts trailed off.

… the dark room…

The Dark Room.

Blinding light all around. So much light that Max couldn’t see. She was lost in waves of overexposure, hidden not in the darkness and the shadow, but in the glare of the giant LEDs and the flash of the speed lights. 

“I choose you… your portrait.” That voice, his voice, whispered in her ear — not the even sociopathic monotone that she remembered — but an almost breathless whisper of anticipation. 

FLASH.

“Oh, that’s great… Oh Max.”

FLASH

“Oh, those eyes…”

FLASH

“Max…”

She shook her head, that tiny shake to try to rid herself of those haunting voices.

“Max…” the voice continued. Only there was something off about it; no longer a whisper it reverberated, almost but not quite a shout. And the tone was deeper, not Mr. Jefferson’s faux pensive lilt.

“Maxine,” Principal Wells said, stretching out her full name for emphasis, and this time, the glare of the lights faded and Max returned to the reality of the classroom.

“Yes?” Max asked.

Before Principal Wells could answer, the bell sounded and seats scraped back from the desks in a hurry as the excitement of the now commenced Thanksgiving break overrode the need to wait for a formal dismissal. Principal Wells stepped back towards the door, leaving Max with a pointed stare and a disappointed shake of his head, before addressing the class and blocking their exit.

“Now, now,” he started. “I know that you are all in a hurry to start your break, but do remember that you are representatives of Blackwell Academy. Just because school is closed for the remainder of the week does not mean that you no longer hold the honor and responsibility imbued upon you as students of this prestigious institution. Upon your return, you will submit your photography assignment. I would like to see two submissions from each of you that play with the elements of photography in unique ways — specifically, they should engage negative and positive space through manipulation of shape, line (implied, physical, or psychological), or form be it organic or inorganic. Your use of each of these elements should vary from photograph to …”

Max tuned Wells out. She knew that the chance of her turning in this assignment stood at near zero. In order to complete it, she’d have to be able to snap a picture. She could barely even think about photography without finding herself drawn back to that awful place, just like she had been mere moments earlier. She had to wonder what that meant for her future at Blackwell. She could try to deny the gravity of her situation as much as she wanted, but her photography scholarship remained reliant on two primary factors: her grades and her craft. Her grades were already slipping, and there was no craft in photography when the photographer couldn’t even take a single photo. Yes, her future prospects were abysmal at best.

Nearly a month had passed since the night of the Halloween party. Max had never made it further than the gym exterior, but that night she had learned that there were those at Blackwell that really did care for her. Dana had done her best to bring her out that night, but since then, she had also learned to give Max the space that she needed. Warren remained oblivious, but he had (for the most part) stopped trying to invite Max to the drive-in or ask her out on a date without actually asking her out. Now he mainly swung by to geek out and watch classic sci-fi movies. Victoria remained the Queen Beeotch, and while she did occasionally corner Max for more evil fairy godmother advice sessions, her main interest seemed to be in protecting Kate.

Speaking of which, Kate had been Max’s most reliable shoulder on which to lean. They were both hurting and both needed one another. Kate had no memory of what had happened to her in the Dark Room ( and thank Dog for that ), but she had seen the evidence binder with her name on it. While the victims of Jefferson had not been made public, outside of Rachel Amber, his crimes had made the headlines and made Arcadia Bay infamous. Kate may have been spared the memory of her victimization, but she understood it; she knew what had happened and she knew what was behind the looks of her fellow students, the prying gazes, the not-so-subtlety averted eyes, the whispers behind her back. Before Jefferson she had been the Christian girl that ran the abstinence campaign; she had been bullied and ridiculed, but she had held her head up high. After Nathan drugged her, she had become the viral slut and she had been abandoned by those that should have been there for her; she had learned who would stand by her side and who was nothing more than a fair weather friend. Yet after Jefferson’s actions became public knowledge, her image had shifted once more. Now she was the victim. She was a different sort of social pariah, one treated like glass; fragile and to be handled with care. When her peers looked at her, they no longer saw the innocent church girl, but rather damaged goods; they pitied her even as they objectified her in all new ways.

Over the past month, Max had spent just as many nights comforting Kate over her shattered trust and damaged faith as Kate had calming Max’s nightmares. Though, where Max understood the trauma at the foundation of Kate’s suffering, where Max had knowledge of how Kate had been victimized and of the deep violations that plagued her, Kate could only comfort Max in ignorance. To everyone at Blackwell, Max was simply the girl who saw Chloe Price killed by Nathan Prescott. She was a witness to a crime and she had lost a childhood friend, but she was not considered a victim; not really.

While Max was thankful for this, thankful to not have to bear the constant pitying and the mantle of victimization, thankful to avoid that scarlet letter, she also found herself battling demons that she could not explain. Her panic attacks, her anxiety, her frequent absences were seen as excess. When a thunderstorm sent her into hysterics, there was no understanding. When Mr. Madsen grabbed her by the wrist as she was caught hurrying through the halls and she screamed bloody murder, no one understood about the tape that had bound her in the Dark Room. When the whistle of a train caused her to freeze up, no one could know how many times she had heard Chloe’s screams cut abruptly short as she had been too slow to save her on the tracks. When the flash of a camera hurled her into darkness, lost within a hallucinatory prison, no one knew that she was the only one of Jefferson’s victims that remembered what had been done to her.

Kate could comfort Max at a surface level, but she could never reach the root of Max’s trauma, not without Max revealing her secret. And Dog, she wanted to. Max wanted to show Kate, to bend time and space, and once more have the support of a friend who understood with a completeness that through which Max was suffering. She wanted to rewind time and explain to Kate all that had been lost. Yet, Chloe had… ( don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t thinkaboutit,dontthinkaboutit… crap I’m thinking about it )… Chloe had sacrificed herself to prevent the storm. Max had let her best friend die to grant her that final request (the second time you directly murdered her), and she couldn’t risk using her powers now and letting that sacrifice have been for nothing. So, Max continued to struggle, while she could only be comforted with weak condolences that, oblivious to the actual root cause of her trauma, could only heal so much.

In short, Max was not doing well. Her grades had plummeted, her photography output was nil, and her friendships were on the rocks, limited to Warren’s schoolboy crush, Dana’s mothering, and Kate’s well-intentioned, but ultimately impeded, consoling visits. Few other students gave Max the time of day anymore, outside of Alyssa; and Max’s interaction with Alyssa could best be described as parallel play: reading books together or watching TV in silence, no more than half a dozen words shared between them.

So it was that afternoon as Max left Blackwell following the final bell before break, Kate holding her hand, and Alyssa walking beside her, the trio leaving photography and heading towards the Prescott dormitories. Max already felt the increasing isolation of the campus. Sure, there was a buzzing about the quad, a frenzy as students filed out of the main building, but the crowd was already smaller than it should have been, much of the student body having left already.

As they entered the breezeway between the main building and the dorms, Max caught sight of Dana, a large pink suitcase rolling behind her. Dana smiled her exuberant smile and waved her spirited wave, then ran up to Max and Kate and Alyssa, giving them all deep, individual hugs. Then, just as suddenly as she had accosted them, Dana flew down the walk and away from campus towards a waiting car pulled to the side of the road.

“See you next week, girls!”

They lost sight of her as she threw her bag in the trunk and the three of them turned the corner passing by Principal Well’s residence. Ahead of them, the dorm’s lawn buzzed with departing students. Alyssa nodded her farewell and sat herself down under a tree to read, as Kate and Max continued inside.

The two parted at last in front of Kate’s room with deep hugs and a promise to text over break. Kate wanted to hear all about Seattle and wished Max a safe trip home. Max promised to text but failed to correct Kate. She had no intention of leaving Arcadia Bay over Thanksgiving. She wasn’t ready to leave it behind. It held too many precious memories for her, and she feared that if she returned to Seattle, she wouldn’t come back; she was not ready for that. She also knew better than to tell any of her friends. They worried too much about her as it was. None of them would have been okay with her staying alone on campus.

All of this Max kept to herself hugging Kate goodbye, then heading off to her own dorm room to ‘finish packing.’ Once inside, she plopped down on her bed, rolling her bedspread over her and cocooning herself within it. She thought about taking a nap, losing herself to the comfort of sleep, but she feared that it would hold little comfort for her this afternoon, thoughts of the Dark Room too close at hand. So instead, she wrapped herself up like a burrito and gazed over her Memorial Wall. So many familiar faces now looked back at her from those Polaroids: innocent Maxes from Seattle and  naive Maxes from her first month at Blackwell, along with smiling portraitures of Dana and Kate, of Warren and Justin, and candid, and often displeased or at best disinterested, portraits of Victoria and Brooke. There were also shots of Samuel and of Mrs. Grant; of Principal Wells and Ms. Hoida; even shots of Mr. Keaton and Mr. Cole.

There had been shots of Mr. Jefferson, but Max had been quick to remove them. Now only empty squares of wall remained to signify their absence, unable to be filled due to Max’s inability to take any new photographs. Those blank patches, those squares of negative space, shouted at Max, yelling at her, screaming their significance even as she tried to rid herself of the reminders that had once hung there. Even in his absence, Mr. Jefferson’s presence was unavoidable.

Max screamed into her pillow, muffling her frustration, then curled into herself and waited for the dorm to empty. She listened to the sounds of her retreating classmates, to the honks of horns from parents’ cars outside, and the shouted goodbyes of departing students, and she drowned herself in the banality of the everyday to keep her mind afloat against the pull of her nightmares.

An hour passed, then another, and then, the unthinkable happened. Buried in her anxieties and wrapped in her loneliness, Max drifted off to sleep.

Once more, Max stood on the wooded trail that led to the lighthouse. All around her were signs of destruction. The path was overgrown and numerous trees lay collapsed over the trail in various states of rot. The woods surrounding her were thinner than Max remembered, and throughout the underbrush she could see signs of more toppled trees and fallen limbs.

At the same time, the  peaceful quiet of nature blanketed the scene. The low murmur of forest animals, of life, permeated the woods. Birds circled overhead, and crickets could be heard singing in the night. To her right, a twig snapped and she could hear the rustle of leaves. She turned to find a mother deer and two fawns. They froze as they locked eyes with Max, and without thinking, she reached for her messenger bag, as if to grab her camera. It surprised her, and as realization hit her, Max felt the shock of her actions radiate throughout her entire being. For the briefest of moments, she felt as if she could actually take a picture again.

Whether she would have been able to follow through on that inclination or not she would never find out. As her hands paused on the flap of her bag, the deer bound away deeper into the woods. Max let the bag’s flap fall back into place and turned her attention once more to the trail. A large tree blocked her path, but somehow she knew that she had to keep going. She crept forward, guided by the bright light of the moon, and pulled herself over the fallen debris. Her messenger bag caught on a branch, but Max freed herself with ease, and continued on.

Just ahead, the logs that had once been piled near the head of the trail lay scattered, blocking the entire path. Scrambling over them would have proven dangerous, but it didn’t matter. The woods had been thinned, and Max stepped off the trail clambering over rocks and other debris until she had rounded the fallen logs and made it to the other side. A short climb later and the lookout point and its iconic lighthouse stood before her.

The latter pulled her attention. The top of the lighthouse had been ripped clean off, and scattered rubble lay at its base, along with more fallen trees, and a boat lodged over top of the nearby shed. It was the same scene that Max had witnessed in her visions during that lost week, only now the storm had passed. She cast her eyes over the water to find clear skies and calm seas; she could not, however, turn her attention to the bay. She did not want to see what she feared she would find.

She saved Arcadia Bay, yet this scene before her, this was not that time; this was not that choice. This was another possibility, a choice that she did not make. In that truth lay a mixture of both fear and hope: fear for the thousands of lives potentially destroyed, and hope for the one that might have been saved.

As if fate had decided to mock her, her gaze landed upon a blue-haired figure standing at the cliff’s edge, just beyond that sole bench of the lookout. The woman was tall and thin, and she wore a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and boots. Max couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t have to see it; she could never forget it, and that face came to her mind’s eye with crystal clarity — every soft feature, the mischievous quirk of her lips, the gleam in her blue eyes. Max focused back on the reality before her, watching as the figure worried the dark blue beanie in her hands and continued to stare out over the bay.

“Chloe…” Max whispered, stepping closer. She had almost reached the chasm between her and the bench, the ravine dredged out by the falling lamp of the lighthouse, where the cliffside had given away.  If she was careful, she could toe around its edge and reach the bench and, more importantly, the figure beyond..

Before she could, however, the figure on the cliff turned around locking eyes with Max. Chloe smiled at her, but the smile was a lie. Max could tell. The light of it never reached Chloe’s eyes; instead those eyes were filled with a deep melancholy, and Max felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and pull Chloe close, to hug her tight and to tell her how much she was loved.

She didn’t get the chance.

One moment Chloe was smiling that sad smile, and the next she stepped into the nothingness beyond the cliff’s edge, silently vanishing over the side. Max screamed, rushing over the broken, fallen earth, and scrambling beyond the bench until she had reached the cliffside where Chloe had been mere moments earlier.

Looking over the edge she could not see her blue-haired angel, only rocks and the calm waters below. Beyond, however, beyond those waters, rose the remnants of Arcadia Bay; a broken, rotted skeleton; the carcass of the town she destroyed and the lives that she had ruined. Chloe had dreamed of dropping a bomb on the city and burning it to glass; the scene laid out before Max was that and so much more. No one could have survived. Not even the shells of buildings remained. All had been razed to the ground. Even the trees were felled, only resuming their upward dance with the sun on the overlooks, the rising cliffsides that framed the bay. Everything between those two outcrops was leveled.

Burn it down and salt the earth.

No life could ever return here. But that wasn’t right. This wasn’t her choice. Max didn’t choose Chloe, much as it hurt her. Max chose Arcadia Bay.

“Be strong.” The words came on the wind, a soft male voice, that she could almost place, but try as she might she just couldn’t quite name. Max glanced about the lookout. Not a single soul but her stood beneath the lighthouse nor at the cliff’s edge.

“I don’t understand,” Max said. She didn’t expect a reply, nor did she receive one.