Atlas #2
He sounds so certain, so assured in his words. But to me, he sounds ignorant. For he has no idea who I truly am, or what really happens when the nightmares come.
But then again, I cannot fault him for his ignorance. Who would imagine that a mythical monster would come into Chastain Castle in the dead of night and fuck the middle child whenever it pleases?
“You can’t be sure of that,” I tell him, my voice soft and distant to my own ears. “You can’t promise me that.”
“But—”
“Julian.” I take a step forward, meeting him in the middle of that carefully curated space that once existed between us.
“What good could a terribly sweet little thing like me bring you? You don’t need to know what curse I carry.
Maybe it is best that you avoid me. You’re stronger than I am—do what I cannot. ”
He looks incredibly confused, but I offer no explanation. Instead, I allow myself a moment—grazing my fingers over his sharp jawline—before pulling away. The zap of pleasure that starts in my fingertips and shoots straight to the pit of my stomach is very difficult to swallow.
Julian gasps at the sensation, the burn of my flesh against his, and he shudders heavily. With one last small smile, I turn and make my way back to the west tower.
I do not turn to see if he’s watching me; I can feel the weight of his gaze with a violent intensity. His heavy panting can be heard throughout the foyer, and all the way up until I hit the landing of the second floor.
Then, as if he’s fled for the hundredth time, I can hear him no longer.
The next morning, as I descend the main staircase on my way to breakfast, I encounter Julian again.
He’s leaving his quarters, heading for the bathroom across the foyer in a pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that hugs his biceps and chest obscenely. I wonder how he’s continued to work out, considering we do not have an in-home gym at Chastain Castle.
When he spots me, Julian stops short. He watches me for a moment, as if he’s once again trying to figure me out. I consider the possibility that he does not remember last night at all.
I’ve heard alcohol can do that to you if you drink enough of it.
“Long night?” I ask him in an attempt to find out.
“Yeah,” he says shortly. “Got in late.”
He does not remember; that much is clear. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be informing me of what time he got in.
“Did you have a nice time?”
He nods. “I did.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. A moment where I try to tell him with my eyes that I hate that he went and had such a nice time with that girl of his, and he tries to ask me something deep and personal with his own.
“That’s great,” I finally say, and then I turn and head toward the dining room to escape his domineering eyes.
I fear he’ll see right through me if I stay any longer; I’m afraid I’ll begin to cry if pushed too far. And there’s nothing else I can say to him anyway—not without crossing an unspoken boundary.
My mother sits at the dining room table. Father isn’t here yet, but Abigail and Atticus are with her, waiting patiently for the rest of the family to arrive.
“Darling,” my mother greets. “It’s almost the first of the year.”
Right. It’s the start of the new year in two days.
“Good morning, everyone.” I offer my best smile as I take my seat, nodding in acknowledgement of what she said. But I know that at the very least, Mother and Atticus see right through me.
“How was last night, Atty?” Atticus asks, taking my negative demeanor as a sign that I had a nightmare.
I did not have a nightmare. In fact, beneath the sadness I’m feeling is a sharp heat that won’t settle. I fear I’ll either have to lie in bed and masturbate all day or sit out in the cold to find any semblance of relief.
“Quiet,” I reply. “It’s been mostly quiet since Christmas.”
“And you’re feeling alright?” Mother questions.
“I feel like I’m burning up,” I answer honestly. “I think I’ll sit in the back courtyard after breakfast and watch the waves.”
Atticus frowns deeply, and our mother moves to rest her hand on my thigh, only to pull it away at the last second. They both know what burning up means and how their touch will startle me beyond measure.
“I can accompany you,” Atticus offers.
“Do you have a fever?” Abigail asks.
“Yes, my star, I have a fever,” I tell her gently. “And no, Atticus. I’ll be alright, thank you.”
Father enters the dining room, dressed impeccably and grinning ear to ear.
“Good morning, my loves!” he yells joyously, rounding the table to kiss my mother on her head and giving each of us children a loving look.
When his eyes settle on me, his smile dims, and he tilts his head slightly.
“Good morning, dear,” Mother greets.
“Are you alright, Atty? You look flushed,” Father says, settling in his chair.
“He has a fever,” Abigail offers.
Barfred enters with his cart and begins to serve us our breakfast. Today is smoked salmon with eggs, fresh fruit, and an assortment of juices.
“Thank you, Barfred,” I say, and he nods in my direction with a gentle smile as the table repeats my words like a chorus.
Once he leaves, we eat in relative silence, aside from Abigail and Atticus’s occasional chatter.
As I finish my food, I dismiss myself.
I receive a few concerned glances that I ignore as I leave the room. They can do nothing, and their pity only hurts to acknowledge.
Grabbing my coat from the closet by the back door, I make my way through the cold late-December air and stand on the cliff’s edge.
The waves are violent, just as they always are, and I stare out over the blanket of blue as the wind zips by.
Will the cure come today, or potentially on the first day of the new year? If there was ever a time, I guess it would be then.
I think this every New Year, and it never comes.
My hands tremble where they are tucked away in my coat pockets, and a part of me longs for Julian to come and bring me some tea, to comfort me. But today is a Sunday, and he is not working.
“Atty.” Atticus’s voice rings out. It seems he has followed me out here, anyway.
“What is it?” I ask without turning away from the crashing waves.
“What’s troubling you?”
“I told you, I’m burn—”
“It’s more than that,” he interrupts. “I can see it on your face.”
As I say nothing, ignoring his comment, Atticus sighs. He stands beside me, watching the rolling tide.
“I heard that Julian went out last night to a Christmas party.”
I freeze, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge at his observation. I feel as if I’ve been caught red-handed; I’m just not sure what my crime is.
Jealousy? Lust? Envy? They are all sins, and I’m guilty of every one.
“So?” I finally force out.
“I knew it.” He sighs again. I feel like vomiting. “Atlas, don’t let it get you down. One day you’ll be cured, and you can make friends too.”
Oh. Atticus is under the impression that I’m envious of Julian and not Julian’s friends. Or more specifically, Cassie. Well, that’s better than the alternative.
“Okay. Thank you,” I reply, happy to take this out he’s given me.
Atticus rests a palm over my shoulder, and I hiss loudly, stepping away from him. A very unpleasant feeling courses through my veins, a reaction I can’t control, and it makes me nauseous.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot,” Atticus rushes out.
I know he means it—he never curses.
“It’s alright.” I try to smile.
But it’s really not alright, and I know he can see that. I’m burning up from the inside out. As if all the blood in my body is begging to be let free lest it incinerate me completely.
Atticus looks back out over the Pacific, his gaze sad and reflective. I believe that in this moment, he is now waiting for that prolific cure.
We stand just like this for a long while—me, drowning beneath a fire so hot it consumes me from the inside out, and him, suffocating under the weight of his brothers’ suffering.
A suffering he has made his own.