In a small, dark apartment in the cheaper part of Daven’s Port, an alarm clock rung precisely five minutes after it had rung before, which in turn was exactly five minutes after it had rung before that, and that occurred five minutes, on the dot, after it had rung the first time.
“Shit! What- no- fuck?” a long, pale arm groped and clawed its way out of a tangled cocoon of blankets, before completely missing the alarm clock and sliding a lamp, along with the clock, onto the floor. No longer being immediately pushed into “snooze” yet again, the alarm beeped incessantly at Max, who tried her best to go back to sleep anyways, ignoring the alarm out of spite. However, the alarm proved too good at its job. Max finally emerged from her cocoon, tumbling out of the blankets to land on her belly and crawl to the alarm, smashing it off. But the damage was done: now she was awake.
In grey boyshorts and a stained, once-white tank top, Max stood up to reveal her form, which could most aptly be described as “gangly.” Lanky, sinewy, spindly, and the underachieving but correct “tall,” would also suffice. Stumbling through the darkness of the apartment, Max teetered amongst her strewn about mess, which was in such an exact state of disarray that she knew precisely where everything was. First her pile of unwashed jeans, each pre-torn yet many damaged besides, leading to a mix of tarnishes juxtaposing the natural and artificial. After tugging up the first pair she blindly grabbed, with several jumps up and down, Max bumbled to her pile of shirts. Here the lottery from a lack of light gave her a black shirt that once bore an obscure band name, which now (much like the band’s lead singer) had been wiped out by bleach. She likewise scrounged socks and a faded denim jacket, finally completing her dress code for the day.
“Fuck, it’s too early,” Max groaned, plodding her way to the blinds on her windows. Tugging them up, her eyes reactively squinted as they were blasted by the midday sun. Posters, dirty cloths, the remnants of takeout, and empty beer cans were all illuminated as light made its way into the apartment. “Need a pick-me-up,” Max shuffled to her fridge, pulling it open. “Hmm…” she browsed the racks inside, each totally empty except for a few inedible items. Expired milk, due for disposal this past month; shoe, a complete mystery Max couldn’t stand to do away with until she could use it as a conversation starter at least once, ignoring that no one ever came to her apartment; and finally The Grunge. The last time Max had tried to get rid of it, she had attempted to chisel that black mass of crust off of the bottom shelf with a screwdriver. Instead, the tool slid askew and sliced her arm something fierce. And so The Grunge remained.
Max’s stomach growled as she looked over the frozen wasteland. “Well, shit.” Now she remembered realizing she was running low on food a week ago. And she remembered also realizing that again, the day after. Now that she was finally, actually out of food, Max had to do something about it. She begrudgingly admitted to herself that she could probably get a job again. But on the other hand, Max had gotten pretty good at mooching from her dear, generous friend, Josie. All she had to do was ignore the exasperation, teasing, and sometimes straight up insults, and she could get a free meal, which sounded like a good deal to her.
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