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Pain	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1128 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Max Payne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Pain
- 1
Pain

Pain.

That's
an interesting word.

I've
had a lot of time to reflect on it, and its various meanings, during
these last few... I'm not sure what. Weeks, months, years? It doesn't
matter, really. Time is one of the first thing you lose when pain
becomes the core of your existence.

Pain
makes you look at life from a different perspective. It makes you
realize that who you are, were or pretended to be, what you've
accomplished or failed to accomplish, how much power you've gained or
lost, it all makes very little difference on the big scale. In the
end, you're nothing but a piece of meat, with far too many free nerve
endings.

Still,
whoever said pain has a purifying effect should have been hanged by
their intestines, then see how purified they felt.

I
didn't die. That was my first, and only mistake. That's where it all
went wrong.

They
found me, and so my new life began. If you can call it that.

I
can't.

At
first I grinned and I laughed in their faces, made my usual snide
remarks. Pretended nothing was getting to me. It was my specialty,
after all. But it was like talking to a wall. A spiked wall being
driven into you bit by bit.

Later
I promised retribution, shouted out all the things I'd do to them,
once I got free. How I'd burn down their houses, their families,
their pets. Huff and puff and all that crap. I think I even declared
I'd rain fire down from the sky on one occasion. It was about as
effective as the first method.

Then
they reached my breaking point. I had one, it turned out. Why hadn't
anyone told me that?

I
started to beg, and hated myself for it, because I could never stand
begging. It was completely pointless, obviously. They weren't too
keen on listening.

Then
it was just screaming, and thrashing, and more screaming. Wishing to
be dead so much I couldn't stand it anymore. But I had no choice but
to stand it, because they wouldn't let me die. It was an easy way
out.

I
knew this wasn't Hell, because Hell was supposed to be all about
fire, and here there was only cold. Besides, I'd never believed in
Hell, except as a figure of speech. It was a fairy tale for adults,
meant to scare you off being a bad boy. It'd been more effective if
they told you about these sort of places, instead.

It
was a lot of other things, though. Anything from needles to probes to
electric shock to devices that were practically medieval. Vintage
torture, now that's class for you. They were on a constant creative
flow, never seeming to run out of ideas.

After
numerous failed attempts, I gave up on trying to kill myself. I also
gave up on dying due to miscalculation on their parts. They never
miscalculated.

And
finally, I went silent.

These
days, everything is routine.

They
don't even bother tying me down. It's like they don't even care
anymore. I almost feel offended by that. Almost.

It
doesn't matter, of course. I can't fight. I can't run. I can barely
move.

Instead,
I lie on the floor, curled into a ball, and I think.

Sometimes,
the mood for philosophy strikes. I muse on the meaning of life then,
go through endless loops of circular logic, struggle with riddles and
paradoxes. But I always come up with one single answer for
everything. Pain.

Sometimes
a song gets stuck in my head, repeating for hours at a time. We had
joy and we had fun, we had seasons in the sun, that sort of thing.
Sometimes a memorable scene from one of my favorite movies plays out
in front of my eyes. Or maybe these are things that actually happened
once upon a time. From my old life. I'm not sure I can tell the
difference anymore.

Sometimes
I see a man chained to a rock, a bird nibbling on his liver, or
another man with a snake dripping acid over his face. Kids' stuff. I
would happily switch places with either of them.

Sometimes
people visit me. People from my childhood, people I once worked for,
people I've killed. I can't remember most of their names, and their
faces often blend together. We talk, lighthearted conversation about
any topic – art, music, politics. I can never remember what the
conversation was about after it's finished, though. It fades away,
along with the people.

Sometimes
Max drops by. Dearest of all my friends. He is the only one that
never changes. I know he isn't real because he understands, and the
real Max never would. Too uncompromising. I should hate him for not
killing me off properly, but I don't. He did his best, after all.

Love
means never having to say you're sorry. I laughed when that thought
first flickered across my mind, but then I began coughing up blood,
so I stopped. It was still pretty funny, though.

I
don't remember when, but at some point, we started to kiss. Now we
kiss all the time. It never goes beyond that, because the only thing
I can connect sex with is more pain. But kissing is alright.

It
always ends the same way, too. He kills me. Properly. And I'm free.

For
a few moments. Then the pain comes back.

It's
remarkable that I'm still capable of some coherent thought, in
between hallucinations. Or maybe I just think it's coherent, lacking
in ground for proper comparison.

For
some reason I can't seem to go completely insane. Something is
holding me back. It must be the pain. It brings moments of lucidity.
Moments like this.

I
hate these moments.

Today,
I discover I can still scream. They must be in a bad mood over
something, because they put more effort into their work than usual.
Between sessions, they have conversations in hushed, urgent tones.

When
it ends, I try to turn my head sideways for some silly reason, and
lose consciousness.

I
awaken, back in my cell, to the sound of explosions in the distance.
Gunfire, too. And screaming. Maybe they're having a torture party.
Though most likely it's only my mind getting warped in delusion
again.

I
listen to the mayhem for a while, and find it soothing, like a
lullaby. I'm close to falling back asleep when there's a loud slam
against the cell door. Then another. Then the door gives in and
bursts open.

I
raise my head from the floor as much as I can, which is barely enough
to see the shadowy presence entering the room, accompanied by a
faithful Beretta and the smell of gun powder, smoke and blood. I
recognize him on the spot. My own personal Angel of Death. Max Payne.

He
stops in his tracks and looks at me. Stares, actually. I offer the
smirk I always reserve for him. I doubt it looks anything like a
smirk now, really, but old habits die hard.

There's
blatant shock on his face. I wonder why. I'm aware that my appearance
isn't lacking in shock value, but it's not as if it's the first time
he's seeing me like this.

“Jesus,”
he utters.

Jesus.
Huh. Now there's another guy I wouldn't mind trading places with.
Nailed to a cross. Please. Big fucking deal. I can do that and still
make my afternoon torture appointment. Son of God, too. Probably just
a criminal pretending to be one. I can relate. Maybe they should
start a religion after me.

Max
approaches me in slow, measured steps, producing an dull echo against
the cold steel floor. He gradually lowers the gun, then places it in
his belt. He drops to one knee by my side, takes some time to study
me with his gaze. Then, wrapping his arms around me, he drags me up.

I
use the opportunity to kiss him, because he never makes the first
move. He's stupid like that. The kiss feels so painfully real. It
burns against my cracked lips. Hurts, but in a good way. There's an
actual substance behind this pain, for a change.

Then
it begins hurting too much, especially for an imaginary kiss.
Reluctantly, I end it.

Time
to die.

But
he's just watching me with that detective-face of his. Trying to
stare into my soul? A hollow laughter rings through my mind.

What
soul?

This
is getting unnerving. What is he waiting for?

“Kill
me?” I remind him, surprised I can still produce actual words,
albeit croaked.

Sullen
confusion covers his features, “No.”

What
do you mean, 'no', you son of a bitch? What the fuck are you good
for, then?

I
try to reach for his gun, so I can do it myself, though the
likeliness of me being able to even grasp at it for more than a
second, let alone put it to any sort of use, is nearing a perfectly
round zero. He stops me easily, without needing to exercise the least
bit of force, and pulls me a little closer to him. Our eyes lock.

Oh.

He's
real.

Well,
this is awkward.

I
think I'm supposed to say something sarcastic now. That's the way it
should go, isn't it?

“Max,
if I had known you were coming, I'd have at least called room
service,” not nearly one of my best lines, and it comes out as
a hoarse, garbled mess rather than the intended sentence, but I think
the point manages to get across, because he smirks. Sort of. It looks
a bit like his old, constipated expression.

I
grin, then begin to cough violently, paying the price for my extended
speech.

“Try
not to talk,” he inserts some gruffness into his voice, “I
know it's hard for you, but still.”

I
laugh. Even I can tell it isn't the most pleasant of sounds. In my
throat, it becomes mingled with a strangled, shredded sob.

I
know this is where I'm supposed to insert self hate or loathing, but
there's hardly enough self left for that.

He
does a good job of not appearing disgusted, which I appreciate.
Unable to remain upright, I place my head on his shoulder, burying it
there. He continues to hold on to me, awkwardly moving his hand over
my back. It's a weird mixture of friendly patting and gentle
stroking. Picking up pieces isn't something he's used to. Especially
pieces of me.

The
whole thing is so grotesquely ridiculous, a great deal more surreal
than my phantom waking dreams. Max Payne playing nurse. I begin to
shake against him, tears mixing with low, manic laughter.

Finally,
exertion gets the better of me and I settle into rapid, ragged
breathing.

I
begin to black out somewhat, hearing his voice through a screen of
scars. He's saying things that are meant to be reassuring, I gather,
though I can't really make out most of the words anymore. I
concentrate on the voice.

He
sets me down, carefully, like a favorite toy he's afraid to break.
It's a bit too late to worry about that now. His lips touch mine, and
I it doesn't feel like I'm back in hallucination land, but I
have to make sure.

“So
– no killing me, then?”

“I'm
all out of bullets, Vlad. Maybe later.”

I
smirk.

The
pain is fading away now, and all what's left is Max.
- 1
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Pain