Max Cross was a young stunning young man. He was a very successful Detective at the local police precinct. Everybody thought that he was the next Sherlock Holmes and that he could solve any case you handed him. And he indeed was an amazing detective. He was very serious about his work and never said “fuck this I’m out of here” when his shift ended. It wasn’t about the money to him, he cared about getting the criminals of the street and saving innocent lives. Some people might say he was a hero but Max didn’t consider himself a hero. A hero to him was someone out of a fictional comic book, someone who didn’t exist outside the readers imagination. His job was what made him who he was. He spent very little time with his family for the longest time until June fourth 2005. That was the day when he realized that his live could end at any seldom minute of the day. He hadn’t stopped in the five years that he had worked for the police force to stop and take a break and spend time with his family which had become his old lifestyle.
Before Max had even thought of the idea of joining the police force he had his heart set on being an author. Much like the famous authors who lock themselves away in the far room of there houses and write for hours threw the day. Loosing track of time as they create fictional characters that seem almost real. Like the characters that you grow to know threw out the story and almost feel as if you have known that character for ages and then the book ends. And when you finish that book you have this bittersweet feeling within inside yourself. A part of you didn’t want the story to end but you knew it would in some point in time. But Alex’s dreams had came crushing down from the sky and plummeted into the pits of hell when his brother Marty had been brutally murdered. He became filled with anger and the need for revenge that the sensation had taken over him and it changed him all the way around. It was an awaking to him that life wasn’t all about the fucking fun that books had made it seem to be. It made him realize that there wasn’t always a happy ending and nothing was like the fairytales his mother use to read to him. He realized that shit happens in this world and that it could happen to him and those around him.
Max would sit himself in front of his computer at his parents house as a kid. There computer which wasn’t the best of its kind, merely just an old computer that they could say was there’s and they were proud to own it. He would sometimes sit and type out the best story’s that he could think of. His brother enjoyed reading his writing and so did some of his close friends. Max’s parents never became involved with him and his writing. They told him all the time that it was a childish dream and he wouldn’t make it anywhere in life writing shit. But they didn’t know what they were talking about because they never read anything written by him. Half the time Max’s parents didn’t notice him or his brother. The only time they cared was if they had gotten themselves into real trouble. Real trouble meant anything that had to do with the police. And that hadn’t happened yet. Other than that Max’s parents didn’t care what the hell he did as long as he wasn’t breaking any laws. But he rarely left the computers side. He would stay up to midnight or even past four in the morning typing out his story’s.
It was his brother who went out and got into trouble. Not to a severe extent that the police would be called though. His brother would do illegal things but he was always positive that the local law enforcement wasn’t anywhere around. Billy, that was Max’s older brothers name. Billy would go out with his friends and they would smoke cigarettes. None of there parents knew of this. And if they did they would never be aloud to leave there homes again. But they were never caught because they were careful, almost afraid they were going to be caught. The weren’t the toughest people but they weren’t the weakest people. Billy himself wasn’t afraid of pissing anyone off. In fact he enjoyed doing it. He would insult people or there mothers. It was always funny when someone ripped on someone else’s mother. Except when it was your very own mother that was being insulted.
Max hadn’t really discovered his interest in writing until his freshman year of high school. He was sitting in Spanish class. He happened to look over at the person sitting next to him and saw that they were writing. Jane, the girl that sat next to him had written at least ten pages and was still writing more. To him it looked fun. But he didn’t really try it until he had to write a paper for English. It was a short simple narrative only four pages long but six pages after he doubled spaced it. The teacher must have liked it because he had gotten a good grade. Not a perfect but it was a high B. He was very satisfied with his grade on this short story and figured out he enjoyed writing. It wasn’t soon after that when he started writing more frequently. When he did finish a piece he didn’t show it off to the world. He shared it with some of his closest friends and that was about it. For someone like Max who had only recently started writing but he produced six pieces within the four months after he had written his first story. Before that first story he had never enjoyed writing at all. When he had been in elementary school, fifth or sixth grade he sometimes had to write short stories. He wasn’t that good at it back then and he never really tried. Instead he had an aunt who would usually do all the writing for him. The teachers easily discovered that there very own Max Cross hadn’t written a word in the whole story at all. The words were to complex for a child of his age. And it seemed to complicated for a ten or eleven year old. The teacher asked him to step out in the hall and asked him “Max did you write this story? He lied and said yes. The teacher said okay then.” He was a good liar as a child and still was as an adult. And the teacher knew he was lying but couldn’t really prove it though. Although he had thought about being a writer as a kid he hadn’t really thought of it sincerely until he was a teenager.
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