Chapter 58
Atlas
Panic courses through me. My feet are glued to the floor like quicksand sucking me in the longer I remain dormant.
When I blink, Ambrosia zooms into focus at the end of the hall where Ezra left her, staring intensely at the floor, as if the ground leads to all life’s answers.
Our shared immobility prompts me to wake the hell up and get moving before Ezra does something rash.
“Bring him back to us!” I yell.
She blinks, looking up in confusion. But one glance at me and I know she understands.
“Find Ezra,” she replies, nodding.
My feet carry me out of the infirmary and into the night.
Proctus is alive with people going about their business, socializing, meeting for a drink, or mingling among the cluster of canopies at the Shop.
I dart my gaze around Sacremento Avenue, my eyes stumbling upon the first group of Angelics near me.
Sprinting their direction, a few are startled out of their animated conversation.
“Atlas?” says one of them.
A distant lamp illuminates the speaker—it takes me a bit to realize who it is in the granularity of the dark. It’s Percy—Ezra and I work with him in the fields.
“Are you . . . okay?” he asks.
“Have you seen Ezra? He darted out of the infirmary only minutes ago,” I say, but the panic makes the question incomprehensible.
“Yeah,” Percy mumbles, “we saw him run up that way.”
He indicates the road that leads to Main Street.
I think I know where Ezra’s headed. I frantically nod, rushing a “thank you” before teleporting to the top.
There’s no trace of him at the three-way intersection, so I vanish again and rematerialize in the living room of their apartment.
At first glance, Ezra isn’t here, but the door to their bedroom has been left ajar.
I amble carefully in that direction, hoping he’ll be behind those walls.
My fist wraps firmly around the handle. The door creaks open.
He sits on the bed, elbows on his knees, chin carried by the palms of his hands.
“Ezra?” I whisper.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at me, stays suspended where he sits, completely oblivious to the world around him.
“Ezra,” I repeat. “Sweetheart?”
Ezra gradually lifts his head. His hair is frantic and unkempt, bangs spilling over his eyes, so I can’t see his reaction, or what lies underneath.
“Are you okay?” Stupid question. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters hoarsely.
He sounds far from fine . . .
“Ezra—”
“I’m going to sleep,” he says and falls underneath the sheets, burying himself deep inside.
I watch warily from my post near the door. My gait is gentle and quiet over to the opposite side of the bed. For a second, maybe two, I withdraw and step back before hopping in with him. Would Ezra want me here when he’s grieving and torturing himself over Conin? What would Conin think if he knew?
Ezra needs me. If he tries anything, I must be there to stop it.
My heart beats frantically, but my body decides for me, turning to face him.
A subtle rise and fall of his chest are a telltale sign he’s alive, so I match my breaths with him and keep pace.
We fall in a shared, eurythmic cadence as the night wears on.
My eyes shoot wide open. The moment I slipped into unconsciousness is unclear, but the panic is back, and it’s blaring louder than before.
I toss quickly to my side. Ezra is no longer there—a mound under the sheets.
The covers have caved in—the imprint of his body the only trace.
I jump to my feet in a blur. Light-headedness crashes into me, forcing me to hold an arm out to steady my balance.
When the worst of it subsides, I bolt out of the bedroom, searching for him in the expanse of the living room and kitchen.
“Ezra?” I say, panicked.
No reply. Instead, noise from the bathroom reaches my ears. Then, suddenly, a crash echoes from inside. I stumble for the door.
“Ezra!” I cry.
The handle won’t budge after several jerks. I keep shaking for it to relent, but it remains locked.
“Ezra! Open the door, please!”
I press against the door, leaning all my weight into it, when I remember I can teleport inside.
My brain doesn’t want to process what it sees.
The sickly, egregious sight of spilling crimson over the side of the tub, the tiled flooring, intermingled with vomit that missed the basin of the toilet.
Ezra is in the center of it all. He’s slumped against the wall, arm draped over the lip of the tub and eyes staring blankly ahead as if he no longer has the sight to see.
There’s blood. So much fucking blood, it’s all I can see.
Ezra’s drowning in it.
After the initial shock has worn off, I rush to him and kneel down.
A knife is planted in his outstretched palm, which lies lazily at his side.
A plethora of lacerations climbs up the length of each arm, exuding blood.
It sloshes down the forearms, pouring onto the floor. Everywhere. It drapes down everywhere.
Something morbid climbs up my throat and escapes through my mouth. It echoes in the bathroom, ringing deep in my ears, vibrating fiercely, and tearing away at my organs. I scream. I scream his name, I scream for help, and I continue even as my throat cries for mercy in response.
“HELP! HELP US!”
I wedge my arms underneath his armpits and try to lift Ezra from the floor, but he’s too slick with blood, and now it’s coated all over me.
He’s too tall for me to carry and I don’t have enough strength to get him to the infirmary.
I could teleport there, cry for help until someone comes running, but Ezra’s bleeding out. There’s no time.
I call out for help again. And again. I try to staunch the blood with towels and whatever else is nearby, but it’s useless. What was once white is now stained in a deep crimson.
“You’ll b-be okay, love. It’ll be o-okay,” I stutter.
I scream until my voice grows hoarse.