Atlas
AS MY EYES OPEN, I find that my body does not feel sticky and I appear well-rested. I am certain that it came to me last night, so I should feel depleted and disgusting, but I do not.
My confusion heightens as I feel something soft wrapped around my body. Tearing my eyes from the ceiling, I look down the length of my torso, finding a bath towel swaddling me.
What is happening? I never wake up directly after it leaves, and certainly not with the energy to wash myself.
Could it be…
A singular spark of hope rushes through me. This is the first time the routine has been different; could that mean something? While my eyes were directed somewhere else, did the cure float in from the Pacific and do my bidding?
I always assumed the cure would be a vial of some sort, some kind of potion or thick liquid. But instead, could it have been an unseen force or a guardian angel that came in with the morning tide?
My heart begins to thump wildly, and I take in the appearance of my room. My duvet is missing, and my clothes have obviously been removed, but other than that, the state of my bedroom at the top of the west tower is just as it always has been.
Only, something is not quite right.
The lack of blinding lust in my stomach makes me believe I came last night, but the lack of my depleted energy makes me think that it did not. That’s the end goal after all—for an incubus to take your energy, both parties must orgasm.
I remember in the beginning, when it first started coming to me, and I couldn’t get hard under the weight of my fear, it would get so angry that it would pound into me until the sun came up, only to return again when the daylight faded away.
But now, because I’m a terrible little thing, I give it exactly what it wants even when I don’t want to.
So why didn’t it finish the ritual?
Did the cure come and prevent it from taking my energy?
I force myself to recall my nightmare, to relive every moment. The darkness, the feel of its cold, clammy skin and sharp nails. The growls and the force of each harsh thrust, the sudden hiss of pain that sounded so raw.
And then… and then… silence.
It retracted its hands and pulled out from inside of me, leaving me shivering against the mattress.
Then suddenly: the scream. Or, it was more like a shriek. I could hear nothing else—not even the sound of my own breathing. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything as terrifying.
Moments later, the darkness swallowed me up again, fully this time, and I lost consciousness.
That must have been it. That must have been the moment that whatever this cure was supposed to be came and rid me of the incubus who had claimed me.
I’m free. I think I’m finally free.
Leaping from my bed, I scurry to my closet, dressing myself quickly. Upon returning to my bedroom, I spot my duvet on the floor on the opposite side of my bed.
In the center of the fabric are several white streaks, showing proof of my own release from the night before. I wince, pathetically embarrassed that whatever holy being came into my room last night saw me in such a state.
But I have no time to dwell on semantics. Instead, I run down the stairs of the west tower, making my way to Hall E2.
I need to tell someone, but by the off chance that I’m not completely free, I don’t want to give my family false hope. So instead, I knock harshly on Oscar’s bedroom door.
It doesn’t take him long to answer. He’s already dressed impeccably for the day, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back neatly.
His eyes widen at the sight of me, taking in my elated expression and giddy movements.
“Young Master Atlas,” he begins, but I push past him and head straight into his quarters. He stutters, as if to objects.
Of all the years he’s worked for us, I’ve never stepped inside his personal chambers.
“Oscar, my love,” I greet him. “I have wonderful news.”
“Could you not tell me in the hall?” he asks, his tone slightly irritated.
“I could not,” I assure him. “It is top secret; do you understand? You can’t tell a single person, not even my father. And definitely not Atticus.”
“Oh, Lord,” Oscar mumbles, shutting the door softly. “What is it?”
I sit at the foot of his bed, grinning widely. “I think the cure has come.”
There is a brief pause. And then—
“What?!” he screeches.
“Shh! Oscar, please. Keep it quiet.”
“Sorry, Young Master. But… what? How do you know?” He comes closer, peering down at me with desperate, hopeful eyes.
“Last night, I had a nightmare. And in that nightmare, the demon… it stopped. Right there in the middle. Then it screamed so loudly, and I went unconscious.”
“How does that tell you you’re cured?” Oscar asks, his tone turning from hopeful to doubtful in a second.
“Because when I woke up, I was bathed. And the demon never… it didn’t finish the ritual. It didn’t take my energy. I think the cure came and stopped it and fixed me up.”
“Young Master Atlas,” Oscar says, sighing. “It is quite a leap to assume this means you’re cured.”
Disappointment courses through me. Before I can stop myself, I’m frowning at him heavily, tears building behind my clenched-shut eyelids.
“But… but this has never happened before. And the demon was stopped, and I was cleansed by an unknown force. How else do we explain this? I… what else am I to believe, Oscar?”
“Okay,” he rushes out, tone placating as he gets onto his knees in front of me. “Okay. Let’s give it time then, hm? We will give it a few days, and if your symptoms go away and you have no more interactions with it, then we will assume you’re cured. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree, opening my eyes to peer down at him.
Oscar is giving me the look he gives me when he wishes to lock me away and hide me from the pain of the world. He’s giving me the look he gives when he’s trying not to act like my father.
“Do you have them? Symptoms, I mean,” he asks.
I take a moment to just feel. And for the first time in years, I do not feel as if I’m overheating. I was so excited by my discovery this morning that I didn’t notice it.
I have no burning fire beneath my skin, no constant nagging in the pit of my stomach.
“No,” I whisper, extending a hand for him to touch me.
His fingertips graze my hand, and though the symptom of being affected by the touch of someone else’s skin isn’t constant, it is frequent. And this time? Nothing.
Oscar’s eyes meet mine, and I grin.
“Nothing?” he confirms.
“Nothing.”
Oscar pulls me into a tight hug, the first hug he’s given me since my eighteenth birthday. I shudder against him, suppressing cries as I accept his warmth, the familiar affection he’s shown me since I was ten years old.
“Oh, Young Master Atlas,” Oscar coos. “How I hope this is forever. I really hope this is true.”
I nod into his shoulder, my fingertips digging into his back.
I believe I’d give anything to keep this reality, to keep this truth. If I wake up tomorrow and this has all been a dream or a temporary lapse in my condition, I fear I wouldn’t be able to handle it.
It’s New Year’s Eve today. Maybe that has some symbolic meaning.
I’m trying not to show too much joy to my family. Atticus has already given me a curious look, but I think he was just happy to see me acting so freely.
I have spent most of my day in the drawing room with him and our mother and father. Atticus reads from a copy of Romeo and Juliet as he lies on the chaise in the center of the room, and I sit at his feet with his loafers resting in my lap with my copy of Where the Wild Things Are in my hands.
Mother and Father are still browsing the floor-to-ceiling shelves, talking quietly to themselves as they giggle.
After some time, one of the large oak doors opens, and Abigail runs in, her white dress smacking against her calves as she slides to a stop in front of me.
For a moment, she just stares, as if assessing me. As if checking for damage. What a curious thing to do.
“Are you okay, my star?” I ask her, reaching out to take her small hand in mine.
Her eyes widen, then a large smile breaks out over her face as she peers back at me. “Yes!”
Her long blonde hair is neatly braided, so I’m assuming that Julian has finally perfected his craft.
Julian!
Now that I’m cured, I won’t taint him if I lay hands upon him. He won’t run in disgust or terror due to my having a condition, a curse. I could actually have him…
Only, I cannot. Because he is employed by my father, and I doubt he’d be willing to risk his job just to fool around with me.
And even if he was, or if my father agreed to the relationship, once he learned of what I used to do, and with what I did it with, he’d most definitely hate me.
I am suddenly dejected. I am suddenly not living so freely, so happily.
Even if I am cured, that demon will follow me for the rest of my life. It has embedded itself into my skin. I have been condemned and will remain this way until death.
“Where have you been, little one?” my mother asks Abigail who still stands in front of me with wide, green eyes.
“I was with Julie. He braided my hair as an apology.” She grins, whipping her braid around to emphasize his handiwork.
“Apology?” Atticus pries, sitting up quickly and throwing his book to the side, which, of course, just means it lands right on my lap, over his feet.
“Yes, for leaving me. He’s going to a New Year’s Eve party tonight with his friends.”
“And that’s something he should apologize for?” Mother asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Of course!” Abigail yells, her lips falling into a pout. “He should be here for the holidays. He even stayed for Christmas, but now he is leaving me for New Year’s Eve.”
“Julian is a grown man, little one. He is allowed to make his own choices. Has he not done everything for you? Does he not deserve to have this freedom?” Father asks, turning from the bookcase to give Abigail a stern but loving look.
Her hands fall loosely to her sides, her face falling. “He does,” she concedes.