The past isn’t something that Maxwell Lloyd often speaks about. However, this does not mean that he doesn’t dwell on it – silently and alone. He was always too proud to express any weakness, and his disorder was certainly something he considered to be weak. He didn’t feel embarrassed by the reason for his post-traumatic stress – no, that was something that, despite keeping to himself, he refused to feel any shame for, but it was something that he felt was personal, too close to heart to share with anybody else – even those who knew already.
Before being admitted to Backlist asylum, Max was a royal marine – something he’d worked hard for throughout the entirety of his life - had never lost passion for, even to this day. There was never a mission he’d shy away from or think twice about going out to accomplish. He let nothing hold him back, no nerves or fears, gut feelings or discomforts. That was, up until he was twenty-three years old. He’d only been a marine for just over six months, but after training, everything tended to move quickly, groups were kitted up and send out, brought back in again, recalled when they were needed and repeat, repeat, repeat. However, one thing that he failed to consider, was personal bonds.
He met a young man, Jude, who was close to his own age, plus just a year or two. He was good company, in more ways that perhaps Max would admit aloud anymore – mostly with the risk of making moving on harder, rather than shame, although that is what he felt at the time, when the two were no longer alone to fool around recklessly, but were out in the field, training, fighting, hiding, patrolling, whatever it may have been. Only after June had been killed, caught in a mine field, had Max realized how he’d taken him for granted. He sometimes wondered if, had he not been there, just a mere few feet behind to see his apparent love take the impact of the blow, land painfully on his back with large metal shards piecing his chest, neck and face, he’d still struggle to remember how he looked.
He was forced to continue his work, mainly patrolling, but when noises that weren’t actually there would cause him to sign for backup, or blooded faces that were, to anyone else, nowhere the be seen would take over his vision, pull screams from his chest and draw enemies to their location, he was given leave, deemed unfit to serve as a marine any longer. However, things only got worse at home, he’d see June’s face more –never clear and well, always bloody and torn- he’s hear the chillingly short bang of the explosion, would sit up in the night, shaking and wheezing. He was an only child and found himself living with his parents after a few days of attempting to continue his life alone. But after merely a week, his mother and father suggested that he went to Blacklist asylum for help, which he accepted without argument. All of his fight was gone.