Atlas
“ATTICUS, PLEASE.” THE WORDS leave me in a whimper, broken and hoarse after having spent most of the night screaming and crying.
He does not respond.
I am fairly certain nobody is actually on the other side of this door because when I look through the minuscule space between the floor and the bottom ledge, I can’t see any movement.
It is just me locked up here: a prisoner in the west tower.
The white silk of my pajamas has faded to a dull black in various spots due to sitting or lying on the ground for an extended period of time.
My eyes feel swollen and sting from how dry they are; my hair is undoubtedly frizzy and sticking up from sleeping on hardwood, rather than my soft sheets.
I could look in the mirror; I could check, but something inside of me is screaming that if I take in my reflection, the first thing I’ll see is the ghost of Julian wrapped around me, giving me that look of pure, unfiltered admiration.
I believe Atticus will keep me locked in here until I am cured of this curse. I believe that, in turn, I will never be set free. I will never see Julian again.
I am doomed to love him in this purgatory for the rest of time, stuck in this forever loneliness.
Maybe this is the consequence of my own actions. Maybe the Lord is punishing me for not finding a need to frequent the chapel. I used to go almost every time the incubus touched me; I used to beg for forgiveness every time I felt pleasure from that demon.
But after Julian, after he assured me that I was making the best out of a bad situation, I… I didn’t feel so horrible anymore, I guess.
I think I was meant to. And now, now I’m being locked away to repent, all under the guise of protecting me.
I push up from the hardwood floor and crawl to my bed, resting my elbows on the soft mattress as I bow my head.
“Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition,” I whisper. “Grant me mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own sick desires. I’m sorry, amen.”
Another sob claws its way up my throat. As if I haven’t cried enough, as if I haven’t realistically spent all of my tears mourning the man I’ve fallen completely in love with, they begin to fall again.
“D-dear Lord,” I choke out, “please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me m-mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own s-sick desires—”
As the door to my quarters opens, I panic, falling backward and onto my backside. I make no move to stand. I am not stronger than any single person in this castle—outside of Abigail— so I know I would not get far if I tried to shove past them and run.
My mother and father close the door behind themselves anyway, looking down at where I sit on the floor next to my bed. They take in my tear-soaked face, my dirty pajamas, and my bloodshot eyes.
“Darling,” Mother coos softly, slowly approaching where I sit with her arms outstretched.
I do not take her hands; I scoot further away and use the mattress as leverage, pulling myself up to sit on the edge of my bed.
Something in her face falls, and she looks at her own hands, as if sensing the poison on them.
“Atty,” Father tries next, moving to stand next to his wife, his voice hesitant. “Are you alright?”
“Alright?” I mimic, my voice sounding even rougher now that someone is around to hear it. “Am I… alright?”
They stare at me. My loving, gentle parents, who have spent my entire life doting on and coddling their children, stare at me with wide, terrified eyes in the tower they allowed my brother to lock me in.
“I love him, Papa,” I confide, my voice just barely above a whisper as I look between the two of them. “I have never loved someone so fiercely, wanted something so badly. And Atticus locked me in here, hid me from him. Took him away from me.”
“Atlas,” Mother pleads, sitting on the bed next to me and angling her body to face me.
She attempts to take my hands in hers, but I pull them away.
“There is nothing wrong with loving Julian. But he can’t be here; it’s not safe for either of you.
And Atticus says you were trying to leave with him.
If that is the case, he made the right call. ”
“The right call,” I mutter sarcastically, staring at the duvet.
“I’m never going to be free, Momma. You understand this, yes?
” I raise my eyes to meet hers. “I will never be cured. Is this the life you’re giving me?
To be locked up here, away from Julian and the world outside, all because you believe there might be a chance this cure appears? ”
“Atlas!” Father shouts. “Don’t say such things! We are actively scouring for information on the cure. We are even considering bringing in another priest.”
Oh. So Atticus didn’t mention the Black Book or the psychic that Julian visited to our parents? How curious.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say dismissively. “It’s been years. If God wanted me to be free, he would have shown us the way.”
“You don’t know that,” Mother insists. “Have faith, baby. We are only trying to protect you, to protect Julian. Don’t you want him to be safe?”
I watch her soft features, coated in sadness, as she waits hopefully for my response.
I do want Julian to be safe. More than anything else, actually. But selfishly, I also want him. I want to feel him next to me; I crave his watchful eyes assessing our surroundings and keeping me in sight, his hands brushing my skin so softly.
If I am never to be saved, then I’d like to battle this curse with Julian, even if it’s dangerous for us both. Does that diminish my love for him? Does it make me a terrible person? I do not know. I know nothing.
I’m just a horrible, sweet little thing after all.
So I say nothing. I give her no response.
Eventually, Father sighs. “We are going to keep looking, Atty. We are going to save you.”
With that, they leave my room, and I can hear the chain slide into place on the other side, and their footsteps retreating.
I wait until I can hear no sound, until after the door at the bottom of the stairs is closed and silence settles thickly in the air around me.
Then, I try the door again. It opens just a sliver, then gets caught on the chain. It’s too tight a space to shove anything through and manually move the links, but I can see it—haunting me.
It’s cruel and vicious to do this, to abandon me like this. Even as I can see the intention in the action, I resent my family for it.
Returning to my bed, I let my eyes close, and I return to praying. Crying and praying are all I do for the remainder of the day.
I’m dreaming. I know it, even as I’m in the dream, which is odd as I haven't had a genuine dream in forever.
But I know that is what this is because Julian is here.
The sun is out, and it’s warming our skin as we lie in my bed, his naked body wrapped around mine as he watches me with a gentle type of affection in his dark eyes.
He’s brushing my curls from my forehead the way he always does; his legs are rubbing against mine.
Every time I try to speak, to tell him how much I miss him or how deeply my love runs, he makes a soft shushing noise and kisses the corner of my mouth.
In my dream, Julian is not covered in gauze. He is not bruised and beaten.
The longer we lie here in this peaceful falseness, the hotter I get. Not flare-up hot—I am not dying with need—but literal heat. I’m sweating, borderline coughing, with how thick the air is.
I try to ask him what’s happening, if the sun has fallen from the sky and landed on the hardwood of the west tower, but Julian does not let me speak.
He shushes me and kisses the corner of my mouth. Rubs his legs over mine.
But eventually the heat becomes too much, too suffocating, and the dream begins to fade away.
I try with everything in me to hold onto the illusion, to keep any version of Julian I can within reach, but soon I am surrounded by the darkness of my quarters.
I gasp for breath, startled to realize that I am still experiencing that stifling heat.
As my eyes adjust to the dim moonlight spilling in from the skylight, I see a figure.
Panic courses through me. Has the incubus decided to start coming while I’m fully awake and not in some kind of sleep paralysis like before? Am I meant to be terrified for the rest of my life?
But the panic begins to fade slightly as familiar brown hair and hazel eyes come into focus, revealing Atticus to me as he stands next to my bed.
Or, it does until I notice the Black Book in his hands.
Atticus stands still as a statue, his back rigid and his face completely expressionless as he stares straight ahead.
I look over my shoulder, but nothing is there.
He’s wearing his sleep clothes, but his hair is perfectly placed, which means he’s yet to sleep tonight. By the placement of the moon outside, I’d say it’s at least midnight.
“Atticus?” I whisper, sitting up on my side. “What are you doing?”
My eyes flicker to the door behind him, left wide open.
My brother is unresponsive, so clearly out of it that I could probably sprint past him without worrying about his strength holding me back. I could escape.
But there is only one thing I know to associate this kind of heat with—only one thing has ever appeared when the room has become this hot.
I can’t just leave Atticus here if the incubus is to show up soon.
“Atticus,” I try again, louder this time. “Can you hear me?”
He does not flinch, does not do any more than breathe lightly through his nose. He doesn’t even blink.
I’m considering screaming. I’m considering reaching over and grabbing the chain that hangs from my ceiling, calling to Oscar.
Before I can reach for it, Atticus releases a soft breath, and his eyes dart to me. Finally.
“Hey,” I call out. “What’s happening?”
The air around us begins to cool almost immediately, and Atticus closes the Black Book, which was open to some random page where it rested on his palms.
Atticus watches me for a long moment, his face passive and expressionless even still.
He blinks.
Then, without a smile or a hint of affection, he says, “It’s done. You’ll be okay now.”
Atticus turns on his heel and leaves, sliding the metal chain back into place as he goes.
I sit on my bed, mouth agape, as I listen to his retreating footsteps. As silence engulfs me again, and the air around me chills, I try to make heads or tails of that expression.
And just as I’m giving up, as I’m lying back on my soft pillows and praying to return to my dream of Julian holding me so sweetly, the loudest, most gut-wrenching scream I have ever heard sounds from beneath me.
And it sounds just like Atticus.