Atlas Amspoker’s father recounts the day of his birth with unease. December 23rd; Tracy Amspoker bore a pair of twins. While his sibling fussed and wailed like any newborn would have, Atlas did not cry. He was lethargic and, at times, unresponsive. He’d had to stay an extra month in the ICU before he was allowed to return home with his family. Adam Amspoker was terrified of losing his son before his life had begun.
“But,” Adam would tell Atlas with a smile, “you pulled through. Our family’s miracle.”
Atlas, however, did not feel like a miracle. He had, for a short time; maybe until he was around six years old. In those earlier years of his life, his coughing fits and cold flashes were a little more manageable. His father did not have to work so much, because his mother had held a job as a manager for a nearby diner. Money wasn’t tight. Atlas and his twin would play barefoot in the garden, and when the sun would set, their mother would call the two inside for dinner and a bath. They had everything they could have ever wanted. Loving parents, family dinners, and each other.
Atlas, up until his seventh birthday, would have believed he was a miracle.
That day, he had seemed a little more lethargic than usual. His twin had tried to liven him up with games and movies on their VCR, and even persuaded their mother to order a pizza for lunch. Anything to make the day more exciting before the birthday dinner their parents had planned for the two.
The evening had come eventually. Atlas sat at the dinner table, detached. He could hardly hear what anybody was saying to him. He felt a presence looming over him; out of the corners of his eyes, he swore he saw a man. Tall, featureless. He could hear a buzzing, staticky sound in his brain. As his mother had cut the birthday cake, and as his father had sung to the two, Atlas stared down listlessly at the homemade chicken and gnocchi soup his mother had prepared. It was his favorite meal, paired nicely with a slice of fresh sourdough.
Atlas did not have the appetite for it.
He poked and prodded at the cake. He hadn’t even touched his dinner. The man was standing over his shoulder, watching him and his family. It was terrifying, but at the same time, it had felt like he was supposed to be there. It lingered especially close to his mother. Dizzy and disoriented, Atlas finally spoke up. He’d looked up to his mother, his vision beginning to blur a little.
“When is he going to leave?” Atlas had asked.
His mother, Tracy, raised a brow.
“Who, honey?”
“The tall man. He’s watching us. I don’t like it.”
His mother froze. Her smile dropped from her face for a moment,a look of shock in her eyes; familiarity, maybe. She tried to keep her composure.
“The tall man, honey?”
“Mhm. Without a face.”
That was enough to wipe any bit of composure away from his mother’s demeanor. Standing upright, she takes a small step back, gripping the knife a little tighter. The sudden switch in her attitude frightens Atlas. He shifts uneasily in his chair. Within seconds, his mother had gone from looking down at him lovingly, to eyeing him as though he were some sort of monster.
Atlas watches as his father finally notices the commotion. He goes to comfort his wife. The static grows louder. Atlas can barely catch glimpses of the conversation. His head hurts.
“Tracey, what’s wrong?”
“Where did he hear that from? Where did he hear that from?!”
Feeling something warm and wet down his face, Atlas rubs beneath his nose. He pulls his hand back. His nose is bleeding.
The static is getting louder.
When did his nose start bleeding?
The static is getting louder. His head hurts so terribly. It’s so, so loud, now.
His eyes flutter. Atlas barely remembers what happened next– he knows he collapsed to the ground, fell from his chair. He remembers his father holding him in his arms as Atlas’s little body spasmed and shook. He remembers his twin crying.
Most of all, though, he remembers his mother. The way she looked down at him, not just with dread, but with anger, too. He’d never seen her look at him in such a way.
She’d never stop looking at him in such a way.
Atlas’s mother had completely changed; as though the things he’d said had triggered a complete break in her psyche. She had quit her job. She had mostly stopped coming out of her room. Whenever she would step out, she wouldn’t even speak to Atlas. Just look at him coldly, full of malice. For some reason, his very presence drew from her a silent anger that Atlas didn’t understand.
Money was tight without his mother working. Atlas’s father had buried himself into his own job. He was almost never home, and when he was, he was too tired to do anything besides cook dinner and make sure the kids were bathed. Atlas was all alone, except for his twin, who had started to go by Apollo. Apollo was his rock, for the most part; too touch averse to offer the affection Atlas was missing, but his words were always kind and comforting. They would play and watch movies together. Instead of giving Atlas hugs, Apollo would let him hold one hand of a stuffed animal while Apollo held the other. It wasn’t quite what Atlas wanted, but it was all he’d had.
As Atlas grew older, all he could think about was what would have happened had he not opened his mouth. He hadn’t had another seizure since his birthday. The coughing fits had become much more rare. He’d have flare ups every now and then, but he’d at some point gained enough strength to play outside with Apollo. There was no fanfare for Atlas’s progress, but Apollo made it special by taking Atlas to his favorite spot in the woods; a little creek nearby a circle of mushrooms. There, they’d sit under the trees, draw pictures, and tell stories. It was the spot where Apollo, around eleven years of age, told Atlas, ‘I want to be a boy.’ A very special occasion, a moment that symbolized the trust that the twins had held for one another.
All the while, though, Atlas had found company in another presence. At night, out the window, he’d see it. The tall man. The one without a face.
Atlas did not like him. Whenever he was around, Atlas felt jittery and paranoid. He’d cough to no avail, he’d grow restless and irritable. That resentment Atlas had felt towards his family’s dynamic would be dug up each and every time, bathed in fuzzy static ringing loudly in his mind. As though the tall man was trying to tell him, this isn’t right. You can change this.
Atlas tried not to acknowledge him.
When he’s eleven, it’s evident that his development is a little behind compared to other children his age. He stutters when he speaks. He can’t keep eye contact. It made his school life a living hell; these things were reason enough for his classmates to pick on him.
Apollo and him don’t have the same classes or lunch period, so he spends his time alone. He doodles the tall man on his worksheets. He stares out the window into the trees during lessons. At recess, he sits alone and watches other kids run around the playground. Sometimes he’ll be teased. The bullying isn’t really enough to faze him, so he pays little mind to it.
It’s when he’s eleven, though, that he catches the attention of the first and only friend he’d make throughout his childhood.
Sixth grade children are mean, and on a chilly August afternoon, Atlas is reminded of this fact. It’s when a group of kids spot him drawing in his notebook during recess. One of them had tugged the notebook from Atlas’s hand, and showed off the drawing of the tall man he’d done to the rest of the group.
“See? I told you,” chastises the supposed ringleader of the group– Atlas thinks his name was Rowan, but he can’t say for sure. “He draws weird stuff like this during class, too!”
“Ew,” sneers a girl with pigtails. She looks at Atlas. “What even is this?”
Atlas opens his mouth to speak, but quickly shuts it. He can’t find his words; he feels like they’re stuck in his throat, like his mouth is heavy and glued shut. Not a sound escapes him.
“He can’t even answer,” says Rowan, ripping the page from the notebook. He drops the notebook on the ground, and Atlas winces.
“Aren’t you too old for imaginary friends?” Rowan asks.
“It’s ‘cause he doesn’t have any real ones,” says the third and final member of the group– a boy with messy ginger hair. “My mama used to work with his mama at the cafe downtown. She said his mama became a hermit.”
“What’s a hermit?”
“I think they’re dirty old people who don’t go outside.”
“Ew!”
The kids laugh. Atlas shuffles uncomfortably, looking down.
“I heard his mom went crazy,” says the pigtailed girl, “that’s what my dad said.”
“He’s probably just like her,” says Rowan, crumpling up the drawing in his hands. “He’s crazy too.”
He throws the drawing at Atlas. Atlas gives a small whimper, hugging himself and taking a small step back.
“Is that true?” The unnamed ginger asks. “You’re crazy just like your mama, huh?”
The ginger steps on the notebook on the ground, rubbing it into the dirt with his foot. Atlas averts his gaze.
“...S…Stop…”
The three bullies fall silent. Each surprised that Atlas had actually spoken; something he didn’t do much of to the other kids. Suddenly, Rowan grins.
“Why? You gonna cry ‘cause we ruined your dumb pictures?” He asks. “Aren’t you too old to cry over drawings?”
“No,” says pigtails, “he still has imaginary friends, remember?”
The three children begin to laugh amongst one another. Atlas’s eyes water, and he sniffles. Looking down, his hands ball into fists. He can hear that faint, buzzing static again. The itch in his throat, signaling it was near. Atlas’s eyes squeeze shut as he begins to cough into his elbow.
“Ew,” the ginger chirps. “He’s gonna get us sick with crazy!”
“You can’t catch crazy, stupid,” huffs pigtails.
“Yeah? Look, he has it like it’s the flu,” says Rowan.
The children keep laughing. Atlas keeps coughing. Suddenly, pigtails stops laughing and shrieks. Another child had joined the scene, this one having dumped a bottle of juice he’d been drinking all over the girl’s dress and hair.
“Cygnus,” the pigtailed girl wails, “this was a new dress!”
She begins to cry. The boy guilty of spilling juice on her, Cygnus, moves to step in front of Atlas. Atlas looks up at Cygnus, still sniffling and crying. Cygnus was a little tall for his age with a bowl cut. Scraped up knees and elbows. He wears a calm smile, but the look in his eyes is intense.
“Aren’t you too old to cry over a dress?” Cygnus asks. “Scram.”
Rowan looks at his friends, and then scowls at Cygnus.
“Fine,” he says. “Freaks stick up for freaks, huh?”
The three leave. Cygnus watches them go before looking down at the notebook. He ducks down to pick it up, brushing the dirt off of it before holding it out to Atlas. Atlas eyes it cautiously before looking up at Cygnus, making sure that he isn’t planning on pulling it away at the last second. Gingerly, Atlas reaches out, taking the book from Cygnus.
“...Th…than…nn…”
Atlas tries to thank Cygnus, but the words don’t come. He’s too anxious to force them from his lips. Cygnus waves his hand dismissively.
“Don’t need to thank me,” he says. “Atlas, right?”
Atlas nods.
“We’re neighbors,” says Cygnus. “I wanted to talk to you before, but you kinda looked like a scaredy cat.”
Atlas’s cheeks puff out in a defiant pout. Cygnus snickers. His gaze shifts down to the crumpled drawing on the ground; the one Rowan had ripped from Atlas’s notebook. Cygnus reaches down to pick it up. Before Atlas can protest it, Cygnus uncrumples the drawing to look at it.
His eyes narrow slightly. He stares at the drawing for a few moments as his smile widens. Atlas isn’t sure what to make of it, but he does find himself tensing as Cygnus looks back down at him.
“We have a lot in common,” he says, “don’t we?”
Cygnus is just like Atlas. They don’t have any friends at school. Their parents don’t interact with them at home. They’re both fond of cats, and books, and the texture of wooly sweaters. Cygnus is just like Atlas.
The real kicker, though, was that Cygnus could see the faceless man.
He tells Atlas about it when they walk home from school together. Part of the reason Cygnus had stepped in and saved Atlas was because he saw Rowan crumpling up that drawing. Apollo had stayed home that day. Atlas had nobody to walk with, so Cygnus would join him and talk his ear off.
Cygnus tells him all sorts of things, though, that greatly differ from Atlas’s view of the faceless man. He listens to Cygnus talk. He doesn’t judge Cygnus for the weird things he does, like scaring his sisters with dead cats he finds in the neighborhood, or setting little fires in the backyard. Atlas finds himself uncomfortable, but he can’t find it in himself to tell Cygnus to leave him alone. Cygnus is just like Atlas; misunderstood, and lonely. Surely that’s the reason he acts out the way he does.
Cygnus admits something else to Atlas; he’s had his eyes on him for a very long time. Watched him play in the front yard with Apollo, and dreamed of being his friend, too. That made Atlas’s heart flutter.
“I’ve nn....never had, um…a friend,” he’d told Cygnus.
“Me neither– not one that’s a person, like you,” Cygnus would respond.
Cygnus is just like Atlas.
Atlas finds himself going to Cygnus’s house after school for most of sixth grade. Seventh, and eighth, and onward. He meets Cygnus’s family. His mother, Oriko Blythe, is a tired woman who often seems worried whenever Atlas is over. She’s a little like how Atlas’s mom used to be, albeit tense around Cygnus. She puts bandages on Atlas’s scraped knees when the boys come home from playing in the forest. They eat dinner as a family; Cygnus, his mom, and his two little sisters, Raven and Wren. Wren’s the youngest, and seems to admire her older brother.
It’s tense. The air is always thick and heavy in Cygnus’s presence, but the homemade spaghetti is so much better than the takeout his mom or dad will settle on when neither can find it in themselves to cook.
Whenever they play together, Atlas finds his answers to Cygnus’s questions are all the same.
‘I don’t mind what we play.’ ‘Whatever you want.’ ‘You decide.’
It was the same way with Apollo, too; Atlas didn’t like choosing the movies they watched, or the games they played. He’s had a bit of trouble voicing his wants and needs since his seventh birthday; he doesn’t want to make Cygnus upset. Cygnus does not mind this. He’ll smile and take Atlas’s arms, gently tugging them and speaking in a sing-songy voice.
“You’ll just do whatever I want, won’t you? Puppet boy,” he’ll coo, “that’s okay. I’ll decide for you.”
It’s strangely reassuring. Atlas doesn’t have to choose with Cygnus, which means he’s less likely to mess up. Cygnus must care about him a lot.
Cygnus’s views are different from Atlas’s. He doesn’t like most people, and he makes it known early into their friendship. The faceless man agrees with him, he claims. Staticky whispers tell him that he’s not like others; he’s destined for something more, something greater. Atlas isn’t sure if he fears or admires Cygnus’s sense of self worth.
Atlas hears the faceless man more than ever. Sees him more than ever. His sickness flares up often, and he begins to hear the things Cygnus hears. Destined for something greater. Atlas, unlike Cygnus, does not think that highly of himself. The words don’t excite him. They scare him. It’s hard to tell himself it isn’t real when Cygnus can see it too, but Apollo used to say that Atlas’s fears can only hurt him if he gives them power. So he chooses to believe it’s a shared hallucination; like mass hysteria, but confined to the two of them.
Despite this, Cygnus and the tall man are really all Atlas has. Cygnus gives Atlas hugs and holds his hands when he needs it, which is something Apollo doesn’t really like to do. Not that Atlas faults Apollo for it. Actually, he finds himself drifting further and further from his twin as time ticks on. Apollo doesn’t know Cygnus well, but he knows Atlas likes to hang around him, so he doesn’t really try to insert himself into their activities. The two spend less and less time with one another. Atlas’s main focus becomes Cygnus.
The two spend their childhoods together. Playing in the forest, one waiting patiently whenever the other flares up with a coughing fit. An outsider looking in would see Atlas and Cygnus as best friends experiencing boyhood, nothing more.
It would be a lie, though, to claim that Cygnus isn’t downright terrifying at times. He fantasizes about hurting his classmates. His sisters. His mother. He says nobody understands him, nobody except Atlas, and he likes it this way. Sometimes he’ll tell Atlas things that really scare him. He’ll tell Atlas about how only he understands his plight, he knows Atlas’s mind better than the other people in his life. They’ll play together, only the two of them, and the tall man without a face. Over time, Atlas really starts to believe it. Apollo can’t see what he sees. His dad’s always at work, and his mother doesn’t care.
Atlas is just like Cygnus.
Atlas is thirteen, that summer night at Cygnus’s house. It’s hot and muggy. A thunderstorm is rolling in. The two are sitting in the den at the computer, watching videos late at night on YouTube. Oriko is asleep; otherwise, she’d scold the boys for being up so late.
“Why wasn’t Apollo at school today?” Cygnus asks.
Apollo had been down with the flu for the past week. It felt like Cygnus asked about him every day.
“He’s still sick,” responds Atlas.
“I’m sure he is,” says Cygnus. There’s a pause. He smiles, looking at Atlas. “Do you think he’s got it?”
“Huh?” Atlas raises a brow. “Got…what?”
“You know. The sickness.”
Atlas’s heart skips a beat. He’s quick to shake his head, his eyes widening with surprise at the very thought of it. Of Apollo suffering the same illness as him and Cygnus.
“Don’t look so frightened. You know it doesn’t wanna hurt us.”
“Yes,” Atlas answers quickly, not wanting to damper the mood. “I know.”
“Then why is it so bad if Apollo’s like us?”
Atlas looks away from Cygnus. He stares down at the dirty brown carpet beneath his feet. His hands grip at the edge of his shirt, fingers fiddling with loose threads. Apollo can’t be like the two of them. He can’t.
“...He…can’t,” Atlas echoes his thoughts. “...’s not…good…”
“Not good?” Cygnus asks. His smile falls. Atlas usually agrees with him; at least, he says he does, so as not to get on his bad side. “How could that not be good? He could be just like us.”
“No,” Atlas says. “I don’t…I don’t want him to be. He’ll cough, and he’ll have bad dreams, and headaches, and– and–”
“Those aren’t bad things,” says Cygnus. “It means he likes us. That’s how it’s always been. He’s our friend. He wants so much more from us.”
Those words make Atlas feel even more uneasy. He’s never considered the faceless man to be his friend. Sure, he can see it, just like Cygnus; but he doesn’t want to accept it. He hates it. The coughing. The loud static in his mind. The intrusive thoughts and ideas that form when it looms over him. He likes Cygnus; he likes the comfort Cygnus provides, but it doesn’t mean he wants to be a part of whatever this is.
Cygnus’s smile reforms. His eyes narrow slightly, and he strolls behind Atlas. Lifting up his arms by his sleeves and raising them slightly. Like he’s pulling the strings of a marionette.
"Puppet boy,” he hums, “you’re worried over nothing. It’s exciting. He’s our friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” hisses Atlas, barely above a whisper.
The room falls silent. Atlas can feel Cygnus’s glare burning holes into the back of his head. He keeps his own gaze locked on the floor.
“Don’t say that,” Cygnus breaks the silence. “Don’t say that.”
“I don’t– I don’t like him, Cygnus–!”
“Don’t say that, don’t say that, don’t say that!”
Atlas flinches, taking a step back as Cygnus grows aggravated. He looks back up at the other, seeing anger written all across his face. Atlas has never seen Cygnus angry.
“Take it back!” Cygnus yells, hands balled into fists. Stamping his foot on the ground, throwing a fit as though he’s four rather than fourteen. “Take it back, take it back!”
“No!” Atlas cries. “I don’t like him! I don’t like– don’t like the static, or the sickness, or, or– or any of it!”
Cygnus eyes Atlas with shock. Atlas wonders if what he’s doing is right. Usually he goes with whatever Cygnus wants, but this was different. Atlas can tolerate the tall man following him and making him sick if it makes Cygnus happy. Atlas could not bear the thought of these things happening to Apollo.
A silence befalls the two thick with tension. Atlas and Cygnus simply stare at one another like prey cornered by a predator. Atlas’s mouth has clamped shut before he could say anything else. He breaks eye contact. It feels like they stand like this for hours, but Atlas knows it’s only been about a minute.
Cygnus reaches out suddenly, grabbing Atlas by the wrist.
“Hey–!” Atlas cries, following it with a pained whine. Cygnus is holding him with an iron grip. He storms to the den’s sliding glass door, unlocking it and throwing it open with his free hand. Before Atlas can process what’s happening, Cygnus shoves him out into the rain. Atlas stumbles forward, landing on the cement porch, catching himself with his palms. He turns quickly to see Cygnus looming over him, the look in his eyes unreadable.
“You can come back inside when you’re ready to apologize,” Cygnus hisses.
“Wait!”
Atlas tries to protest, but Cygnus slams the door shut. He locks it, and draws the curtains.
“Cygnus!” Atlas cries, standing up quickly. Ignoring the scrapes on his palms and knees as he begins to bang on the door. Balling his little hands into fists, eyes quickly welling with tears. “Let me in! Let me in, please?! Cygnus!”
The sound of thunder grows louder. It makes Atlas flinch, roaring in a seemingly endless wail. As though nature itself scorns him for the things he’s said. He can’t hear himself think. The rain beats down on him, lightning flickering in the sky. He swears the wind is dragging him towards the trees in Cygnus’s backyard.
Still, Atlas bangs his fists on the door. He cries, wails until his throat feels raw and scratchy. It’s only when he begins to cough that he hears something mixed into the wind.
The sound of static.
Atlas’s breath catches in his throat. Quickly turning his head, he can see the tall man’s silhouette. Standing in the trees, staring down at him. His heart beats faster. His actions become more frantic.
“Cygnus!” Atlas shrieks. Dread and fright bleed into his words as he screams for his friend. “Please, Cygnus! Please–!”
He’s cut off by his own coughing. The tall man is standing over him now. He can’t breathe steadily enough; he’s begun to hyperventilate. The thunder grows louder. The static grows louder. And then, something happens that hasn’t happened before–
Atlas feels a hand on his shoulder.
The tall man is making physical contact with him.
It’s real, he realizes, frozen with fear. Only able to cough and retch as the other looms over him. The static is so loud, it’s like his head is being split in half. That’s how terribly it hurts. Atlas falls to his knees and vomits, traces of red in the bile that spills from his throat. His nose bleeds. He gasps, wheezes as he tries to regain control of his breathing.
He can’t.
He can’t breathe. He can’t stand. He can’t do anything. He’s not in control of this situation. The tall man is, and he doesn’t let up on his torment. It’s as though he’s telling Atlas to know his place.
Atlas thinks he does.
Everything up to this point, he’s written it off as a shared hallucination…but this is no hallucination. This can’t be written off as his mind playing tricks on him. It’s real, and he starts to wonder if maybe this entire situation is his fault. Cygnus was right to be angry with him for voicing his disdain. Especially if it could have led to this.
“I,” Atlas tries to speak. “I-I’m…sorr…”
He can’t make the words come out. The tall man must get the message, though, because the air feels a little lighter. The static slowly fades out. The storm dies down, and Atlas is left alone. Trembling, wheezing in the rain as tears fall down his cheeks.
The door slowly opens. Cygnus’s expression seems much gentler now. He embraces Atlas, gently ushers the other inside. Wrapping a towel around him, using another to gently dab at his face. He doesn’t say a word. Atlas allows the other to clean his face, staring listlessly at the ground. In place of the static, there’s a strange emptiness.
Cygnus finally pulls his hand from Atlas’s face. The two lock eyes and stare. Moments of silence pass, Atlas unsure of what to say. He opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it. Opens it. Shuts it again.
“Yes?” Cygnus beckons him to speak.
“I…you…” Atlas stumbles over his words. Trying to force out an apology, but all that comes is a whine. Tears begin to spill faster as he starts to sob.
“Oh, puppet boy,” Cygnus says. Wrapping the other in a hug, rubbing circles into his back. “I know you’re sorry. You’re sorry, aren’t you?”
Atlas nods his head as he cries,
“You understand now, right?” Cygnus asks. “That I’m the only one who sees him like you do. You’re just like me. Only we understand each other, puppet boy.”
He pulls back, gazing into Atlas’s eyes.
“So we can’t fight anymore. Okay?”
Atlas meets Cygnus’s gaze. He’s so tired. He still feels like he can’t breathe, but Cygnus’s words echo in his mind. He’s right. Apollo wouldn’t understand. His father wouldn’t understand. His mother would be angry with him for experiencing these things. All Atlas has to rely on is Cygnus, and if he steps out of line again, he knows what to expect.
Cygnus truly is his best friend. Atlas is just like Cygnus.
Cygnus loans Atlas dry pajamas, and holds his hand until he dozes off on the sofa in the den. Not once did Oriko wake up to hear the boys yelling at one another, or Atlas crying.
Senior year of high school arrives sooner than Atlas had anticipated. Atlas grows more withdrawn from his family. He had a little sister now, too. She’d been born two years prior. That’s when Tracy had begun going out more.
Some time after one of her outings, she had begun to show Atlas’s father the sort of love and care she had expressed years prior. It was probably to make up for the fact that Persephone, Atlas’s baby sister, was definitely not his father’s child. She had curly brown hair and green eyes, traits which neither side of Atlas’s family had possessed. Still, his father never questioned it. He didn’t have it in him. He was just happy to see his wife coming out of her shell once again.
Things were almost normal. Adam had gotten a higher paying position, and was finally able to spend less time at the hospital he worked at. Tracy doted on Persephone, and even on Apollo at times. Things were starting to feel okay for everybody else.
Tracy still hated Atlas.
She’d find any excuse for him not to interact with Persephone. She wouldn’t ask him about school, or his grades, or his friends. She was a stranger to Atlas, and Atlas was a burden to her.
His father tries to make up for it. He takes the extra time to sit with Atlas during meals and chat with him, and checks in on him at night. Atlas knows his father loves him, and he knows he wasn’t trying to be absent; it was hard keeping the family financially stable when he was the only one working. Still, Atlas didn’t quite like the fact that his dad was suddenly so interested in him. The extra attention was uncomfortable. If his dad actually cared, why was he still married to the woman who neglected his son?
Perhaps he was scared of her, of the sort of person she’d become had he left her. Maybe he was scared of her hurting herself. Atlas knows his father tries to speak to Tracy about him. She always changes the subject.
His father can put in a good word all he wants. Atlas still resents him for staying with her, trying to appease all sides of the conflict. It’s difficult, loving somebody so dearly, but still resenting them. Knowing they never meant to hurt you, but knowing they’re not making the right decisions, either.
The only one who doesn’t make him feel isolated is Apollo, but even then, Atlas has spent less and less time with his twin. Apollo doesn’t pry as much anymore, but Atlas feels he’s watching him closely. Perhaps Apollo has picked up on his anxiety, or his sickness flare ups. Atlas is sure he has. Even if he says nothing, his twin is an observant person.
Atlas couldn’t tell them, though. He couldn’t tell anybody in his household about this. They can play happy family all they want; dote on Persephone and Apollo, eat dinner together. His mother can scorn him. His father can try to be there for him. Apollo can try and reach out every now and then. Atlas doesn’t think he can trust any of them with his problems. It’s sickening, watching everything go back to ‘normal’ when Atlas’s experience is anything but.
There is one person, though, that Atlas can trust. Cygnus has been the one who keeps him grounded through all of this. Atlas can vent to Cygnus all he wants. Atlas doesn’t need to believe in or trust anybody else, not when they can’t possibly understand his mind the way Cygnus does.
On Atlas’s eighteenth birthday, he’d snuck out of the house late at night to go see Cygnus. The two had walked through a Christmas light display set up in the town, and Atlas had bought himself a cup of hot chocolate. Cygnus had talked about how he didn’t really enjoy Christmas, but he’d still given Atlas a leather jacket he didn’t want anymore as a gift. Much too big for Atlas, but cozy. Atlas loved it. In turn, Atlas had given him a necklace with a swan charm.
“Because, um,” Atlas would say, “Cygnus is the, uh, swan constellation…”
Cygnus said he hadn’t cared for Christmas gifts, but this one had his eyes lit up like the stars in the sky. He had not taken it off since that day.
Their relationship had developed into a strange one. Atlas wouldn’t say they were dating, but he wouldn’t say they were just friends. They’d cuddle, hold hands, or lean on one another’s shoulders when sitting next to each other. They were very close; something that didn’t do well for Atlas’s reputation at school, but he’d stopped caring about the perspective of outsiders.
He’d tried to ask Cygnus, once, if they were anything more. Cygnus had thought for a moment, seeming unsure of what to respond with.
“I think,” he’d told Atlas, “what we have…is something that transcends labels like ‘friends,’ or ‘boyfriends.’ We’re destined for each other, and that’s that.”
Atlas thinks he can accept that answer.
It’s nice. He still feels the tall man looming over him most of the time– still gets those intrusive thoughts in his head. He ignores them. Cygnus makes it feel so normal. The static buzzing in his mind is faint background noise. It’s a part of Atlas’s life now.
The year passes. Winter becomes spring, and spring becomes summer. The end of the school year approaches. Cygnus has been working part time at a grocery store, and he’s been making good money doing so. He knows how to act like he enjoys talking for people, for somebody who– simply put– doesn’t. Atlas does not think about what college he’ll attend, because Cygnus proposes the idea of finding an apartment together.
“I don’t have a job, though,” Atlas says. Cygnus shrugs it off.
“You don’t need one, puppet,” he says. “I can take care of you, remember?”
The words put Atlas at ease. He doesn’t need anyone else.
Atlas’s father asks him about college. Atlas says he’s thinking about it. Apollo asks if they should attend one together. Atlas says maybe. He doesn’t want to be around them. He’s afraid of them; or maybe, afraid of getting too close to them. The only one that he somewhat trusts is Apollo, and even then, he’d rather not go to another school full of people he doesn’t know.
The end of the school year brings with it the annual end of year dance. They do a theme every year; this one would be “Thanks for the Memories”. Like the Fall Out Boy song. It’s stupid and cheesy, like every high school dance. There would be photo booths, and the walls would be adorned with different pictures taken by the Yearbook Club over the past four years. Atlas and Cygnus would be in none of them.
Still, as Atlas is sitting with Cygnus on the couch in the Blythe family’s den, the latter blurts out something unexpected.
“We’re going to the dance,” Cygnus says.
Atlas looks up at Cygnus with disbelief, still using his teeth to open the blue raspberry popsicle he’d snagged from the freezer.
“You don’t seem like, um…much of a dance person,” Atlas says, as he finally pulls the sweet open. “I don’t think I’m much of a dance person.”
“Well,” says Cygnus, “it’s a good excuse to get out of the house, right? Plus, the theme’s all about making memories. Why not make it a night to remember? You know, before we run off together.”
Cygnus leans closer to Atlas’s face.
“You’re going to be my date.”
Atlas feels his cheeks heating up as he looks away from the other.
“F…fine. Don’t be– don’t be weird about it…”
Cygnus leans forward, stealing a bite from Atlas’s popsicle. He cringes– his teeth are particularly sensitive to the cold, so he isn’t quite sure why he did that. Atlas giggles softly at the sight, watching as Cygnus sits back in his spot on the couch.
“A night to remember,” he repeats softly.
That was a week ago. One week later, on the last day of school, Atlas stays home because of a migraine. His dad brings him soup and Tylenol, and ruffles his hair. He stops when Atlas winces away from the touch.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Do you need anything else?”
“No,” says Atlas. “It’s just a headache.”
His dad nods his head. He makes his way to the door, though he seems to hesitate for a moment. He looks back at Atlas.
“I love you, kiddo,” he says, giving a solemn smile. “We should go out sometime, yeah? Go see a movie. Get you outta the house.”
Atlas hesitates for a moment. He’ll be moving out soon, but it hasn’t stopped his dad from trying to make an effort. It’s been nothing but uncomfortable for Atlas.
“That sounds nice, dad,” he says, forcing a smile. “I love you too.”
His dad seems to light up at that. He walks out the room, leaving Atlas to his own devices. Atlas’s phone buzzes at that moment. He flips it open, reading a text Cygnus sent.
‘You should wear what I gave you :)’
Of course, he means the jacket he gave Atlas for Christmas. It’s a tad hot to be dressed in a dark leather coat, but Atlas would wear whatever Cygnus wanted him to, really.
The dance is that night. He had hoped his headache would absolve quickly, but throughout the day, it’s on and off. The static is faint in the back of his head. It always is these days. Atlas buttons the leather jacket that’s too big for him. The sleeves cover his hands, so he rolls them up. It’s when he’s zipping up his boots that he hears a faint knock on his door frame. He looks up to see Apollo standing in the doorway, seeming slightly surprised.
“Where are you going?” Apollo asks.
“To the school,” says Atlas as he ties his laces. “There’s a dance tonight.”
“You’re going to the dance?”
“Mhm. Cygnus is taking me.”
Apollo’s frown deepens at that. Rubbing his arm, he casts his gaze off to the side.
“Can we talk?”
Atlas looks back to his brother. He nods his head. Apollo steps into his room, sitting on the bed beside him.
“You, uh…you hang out with Cygnus a lot,” says Apollo.
“I do,” says Atlas. “We’re friends.”
“I’m worried about you, Atlas.”
For some reason, the words put Atlas on edge.
“Why?”
“It– it’s just,” Apollo stammers. “I…don’t know. You’re just…the way you’ve been acting, it’s…”
“There’s nothing wrong with how I’m acting,” says Atlas, a little too quick to answer. He can feel that anxiety building up, the faint buzz in his mind growing a little louder. He can’t help himself. There can’t be any problems between him and Cygnus. The last time they had a dispute was years ago, during that storm.
“Atlas,” says Apollo, “you don’t talk to any of us anymore. You don’t leave your room unless Cygnus comes to get you. You’re always so anxious, and I’m just worried about–”
“Well don’t be,” Atlas says, arms wrapping around himself. His gaze darts around, looking at anything but Apollo. “What am I supposed to do, anyways? You– you know this is weird, right? These past couple of years have been– have been weird, and…and…”
“I know,” Apollo says. “I– I get that. Dad’s home more now. Mom comes out of her room. I know it’s…weird to adjust to that…”
“It’s wrong,” Atlas mutters. “Dad keeps trying to– I don’t know. It’s wrong. It feels wrong.”
“It’s because he loves you, Atlas. He’s trying to make up for his absence.”
“Then why can’t I forgive him?”
The two fall silent as Atlas’s voice breaks. He realizes his eyes are watering, that he’s trembling. Apollo reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitance, Atlas decides not to pull away from him.
“I know he’s trying,” says Atlas. “I– I know he loves me, he– he says so every day…but he’s still with– with mom, and mom hates me…and he…he keeps trying to…I just…”
“It’s okay,” says Apollo. “I understand. You’re right. You shouldn’t have to just forgive him, even if his intentions are good.”
Another silence befalls the two, save for Atlas’s sniffling.
“I know what you mean about mom,” Apollo admits.
Atlas looks up at him, somewhat surprised.
“She’s always so nice to Persephone and I,” says Apollo. “Not to you. I can’t love her. Not when I know how she treats you. I don’t understand why dad’s still with her.”
Atlas nods in agreement. He wipes his eyes.
“Still,” says Apollo, “I’m still here. I never left. I know that’s a selfish thing to say, but…we don’t…talk like we used to. I don’t see you anymore. I’m…scared that Cygnus is isolating you…”
Apollo looks up at the ceiling.
“You seem so afraid of the world,” says Apollo, “unless Cygnus is there. For some reason, it feels off. It feels wrong. You don’t want to be anywhere unless it’s by his side, and it…worries me.”
Atlas falls silent. He takes Apollo’s words into consideration for a brief second– but before he can think too hard on it, the static grows a little louder in his mind. His eyes widen. He can almost feel the rain pelting down on him.
“Atlas?” Apollo asks. His voice is grating on Atlas’s ears. Something in his mind screams to make Apollo go away, before he ruins Atlas’s mind. Before he pulls him away from the spider web Cygnus has nested him so comfortably in. He’s wrong, wrong, wrong, about everything. Nobody understands Atlas like Cygnus does. Nobody sees the things Atlas sees except for Cygnus. Nobody will ever believe Atlas the way Cygnus does.
Atlas stands quickly. Not daring to look at his twin as he heads for the door.
“Late,” he mutters, “I’m late, I–”
He stumbles towards the door. The static grows louder in his mind, as though reprimanding him for the conversation he’s had today.
“Atlas,” stammers Apollo, “please–”
“Just stop,” Atlas hisses. He turns towards his twin, glaring at him. Apollo shrinks back, startled by his expression.
“You don’t get it,” Atlas says, “and I hope you don’t ever have to. Nobody will ever know my mind like Cygnus does.”
Atlas leaves quickly. He tries to ignore the stabbing guilt he feels for speaking to Apollo that way.
The dance is just as cheesy as Atlas expects it to be.
It’s a little too hot for a jacket, but he keeps wearing the one Cygnus gave to him. The two spend most of the night alone, standing in the corners and avoiding speaking to most. Cygnus pulls Atlas to dance to a song or two, but confined to their little space, away from the crowd. It’s sort of nice– when Atlas ignores the fact that other people are there, it’s a fun little party.
It’s whenever Atlas is in Cygnus’s arms that the rest of the world truly disappears. Looking up into the other’s eyes, but for no more than a few seconds before Atlas gets overwhelmed. He stares at Cygnus’s shoulder instead.
“So clumsy, puppet,” Cygnus teases as Atlas once again stumbles over his own footing. Atlas chuckles sheepishly. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks.
“You still insist on calling me that, huh?”
“Mm?”
“The nickname you gave me.”
Cygnus gives a thoughtful hum, seeming to ponder the answer a little before he gives it.
“You’re very dear to me,” Cygnus answers. “My doll. You do what I want and make me happy.”
He leans down, pressing his forehead against Atlas’s.
“You’re very good at making me happy.”
Atlas’s cheeks flush a deep shade of red. His mouth clamps shut, unable to find a response to it. Is that what the name meant? A prized possession? Something dear? Atlas wasn’t sure, but either way, he thinks he can accept the answer.
As the night goes on, Cygnus seems to keep checking the clocks on the walls. Atlas doesn’t question it much. He’s in the middle of sipping a glass of punch when Cygnus turns to him.
“I’m going to step out,” he says with a smile.
“Oh,” Atlas frowns. “Do…do you want me to wait here?”
Cygnus nods his head.
“Just for a few minutes. Say, ten? Meet me out front in ten.”
“O– Okay,” Atlas says. Cygnus departs, and Atlas is left standing by himself at the punch table. His fingers drum nervously against his plastic cup, eyes darting around the cafeteria. Anxiety begins to rise when he realizes he’s been left by himself. It’s not a big deal, sure, but it’s definitely enough to eat away at him. A sea of people, none of which really like him, and Atlas is wading through it by himself.
Suddenly, the flashing strobe lights and loud music feel like too much. Atlas’s chest tightens, wide eyes burning holes into the ground. He swears he can feel eyes on him– people talking about him. He’s not sure where it’s coming from. Perhaps all around him. He feels his body begin to tremble at the idea.
He looks up, seeing a group of his classmates nearby. A couple of them sparing him glances, one moving to whisper something to another. He dreads what they’re saying. Until now, he’d forgotten there were other people in the world besides him and Cygnus. He swears he can see one of them smile. He hears laughter, but he’s not sure if he’s making it up or not.
Feeling bile rising in his throat, Atlas drops his cup, quickly rushing out of the cafeteria. Making his way into a bathroom, locking himself into a stall. For the next few minutes, he dry heaves and wretches into the toilet, trembling hands gripping the porcelain for dear life. He doesn’t actually vomit– there’s nothing in his stomach– but he feels like he’s going to. He coughs and wheezes, eyes squeezing shut as he slowly catches his breath.
Atlas sniffles– it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. He sits on the floor, hugging his legs and letting his chin rest on his knees.
Maybe Apollo was right. Atlas could hardly function, not unless Cygnus was holding his hand. Cygnus always said it was fine– he liked how clingy Atlas was. Atlas didn’t need to talk to other people when Cygnus was there.
Had he forgotten how to be independent?
Atlas pulls himself to his feet, his legs shaking as he stumbles out of the stall. He looks up at a clock on the wall, and finds that it’s been fourteen minutes rather than ten. He hopes Cygnus won’t be angry with him. Forcing his other thoughts out of his mind, Atlas quickly steps outside to the courtyard.
Making his way down the steps, Atlas takes off his jacket and ties it around his waist. Cygnus isn’t there. Where could he be? Atlas’s brows furrow as he walks around the side of the building. Stopping to sniff the air, he picks up the faint scent of gasoline.
Gasoline?
Atlas walks a little faster. Rounding a corner, he spots Cygnus, who seems to be emptying a can of gasoline onto the ground.
“What are you doing?”
Cygnus looks up at Atlas, giving a sweet smile.
“There you are, darling,” he hums. “You’re a little late, but that’s okay. I figured it’s better if I take care of the dirty work.”
“Dirty work?” Atlas asks. “Cygnus, what– what are you–?”
“We’re going to give our little friends in there a night to remember,” says Cygnus proudly.
“Night to…remember?” Atlas asks, eyes widening as he realizes what Cygnus means. A sinking, dreadful feeling hits Atlas in waves as he takes a small step back. “Cygnus, this isn’t funny…”
“It’s not supposed to be,” says Cygnus. “I know you don’t like to talk about him…but before we can run off together, we need to make a little offering to our faceless friend.”
“O-Offering?”
“A sacrifice. A feast. Whatever you want to call it.”
Cygnus steps towards Atlas, still gripping the can of gasoline. His eyes are wide with a sick sense of glee.
“Remember?” He asks, “We’re destined for something greater. The rest of the world is just livestock for him to devour.”
“No,” Atlas quickly shakes his head. “No, Cygnus! That’s– that’s fucking crazy! Y-You, you can’t just– just kill a bunch of teenagers to fulfill your sick– s-sick fantasies!”
Cygnus’s smile drops. He scowls.
“You’re arguing again, puppet boy,” he breathes.
Atlas’s heart races. The anxiety, the dread– it all builds back up. The sound of thunder. The feeling of rain on his skin. Even still, he’s never believed in the ideals that Cygnus so greatly praised from the tall man. The idea of hurting others. Sure, Atlas is scared of people, and sure, Cygnus is the only one who could relate to his struggles– but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He never thought Cygnus would, either– he’d speak about it, and Atlas would shrug it off, because he didn’t think it was anything more than a fantasy he’d keep to himself.
If the tall man is real, though, then who’s to say that Cygnus’s desires can’t come to fruition as well? Was he hoping that Atlas would just agree one day? That people deserved to die?
It occurs to Atlas that maybe Cygnus Blythe wasn’t troubled and misunderstood. He always spoke about how only he could understand Atlas, but maybe Cygnus didn’t understand Atlas as well as he had thought.
Atlas was not like Cygnus. Cygnus was not like Atlas.
Still scowling, Cygnus steps back towards the building.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he says. “You can scream about your moral compass all you’d like. I’m doing this for us. You’ll be lucky if you still get to leave this place with me.”
Cygnus begins to dump the rest of the gasoline on the ground. Atlas’s stomach sinks. He can’t let this happen, he can’t! Not everybody in that building bullied him– and even the ones who did, he’d never wish death upon them. Being hurt is no excuse to hurt others, not for any reason. Atlas watches Cygnus, and he no longer sees somebody he can rely on. He sees a monster who wants to take lives for his own sick amusement.
Without thinking, Atlas lunges forward. Trying to yank the can of gasoline from Cygnus’s hands, yanking it towards himself.
“Puppet boy–!”
Ignoring Cygnus’s reprimands, Atlas yanks the can of gasoline from Cygnus’s grasp. Tossing it aside, careful not to spill any on himself. Breathing quickly with panic, turning to face Cygnus. The steel toe of Cygnus’s boot slams into Atlas’s gut.
Atlas doubles over, retching as he falls to his knees. Arms over his gut as he wheezes. Cygnus’s boot slams into Atlas’s chest. Atlas coughs as he falls back, feeling Cygnus step on his chest. Cygnus looks down at him with utter disgust.
“You can’t be fixed, can you?” He asks.
“Fixed?” Atlas asks, “Cygnus, I– I never agreed with any of the stuff you’d say, about hurting people! You– you know that! You know I didn’t– you– you already– ack–!”
Atlas coughs as Cygnus presses down harder onto his chest. Cygnus pulls from his pocket a pack of matches. He pulls one out, and lights it.
“I’ll let you see up close,” he hisses, “what happens to meager, useless human beings. If you’re still alive…I’ll find you, my love.”
A sickly grin crosses his face.
“That’s a promise.”
Cygnus steps off of him, backs away, and tosses the match. Atlas watches with utter horror; the flames pick up so quickly, it doesn’t feel real. The beams supporting the entrance area, and the sides of the building, are doused in gas. Atlas watches the flames crawl upward. For what feels like an eternity, he’s totally frozen. In shock and unable to move his body, nauseous and mortified.
He forces himself to look back. Over by the entrance door, there’s a switch for the fire alarm. Atlas would have to run back towards the building rather than away from the flames.
He can’t hesitate. He let this happen. He needs to fix it.
Atlas pulls himself up. Willing his legs to move, to run to the front door of the school. Pulling up his shirt to cover his mouth and nose, his eyes search desperately for the fire alarm. Once he spots it, Atlas pulls. The alarm rings, but Atlas is still surrounded by smoke and flame. Shouldn’t the sprinklers have gone off by now? Atlas hears a creak, and looks up.
The entrance area of the school has a wooden roof over the doors and walkway, to shield students from rain or snow when they enter. It’s not very high up; definitely low enough for the flames to spread a little quicker. Atlas watches as the beams over his head creak and break; he’s not sure which direction is safe to run in. He coughs, smoke filling his lungs, static ringing faintly in his mind. Atlas finds himself unable to look away as one of the beams snaps; pieces of wood falling down towards him.
He does not remember the rest.
It takes a couple of days for Atlas to wake up. When he does, he can’t process anything that’s happening. The painkillers he’s on keep him heavily sedated.
The doctors tell him he’s lucky. He was hit in the face, a few other parts of his body with some debris; but the sprinklers had gone off. A tad late, but they worked. His face, neck, and shoulder had been caught. Some of his arms and legs, too. His left eye had lost vision. He’d lost some of his hair. He’d recover with scarring, and his hair would grow back.
Apollo and his dad come to visit while he’s in and out of sleep. He catches glimpses of the things Apollo tries to tell him. Cygnus’s house had been burned down. Only little Wren Blythe had survived. There weren’t any casualties in the school fire. Atlas had been seen on the surveillance footage trying to stop Cygnus.
It takes about a week for Atlas to gain a little more consciousness. The nurses are kind when they treat his burns. Persephone sits on his hospital bed and shows him pictures she’s colored. He receives a couple of cards from his classmates– one is an apology for spilling his lunch on him in sixth grade. The other is from a classmate who never spoke to him, but still appreciated his efforts in trying to prevent the fire.
He comes to a realization while he’s in the hospital; he does not know how to function without Cygnus. The anxiety and dread he’d felt, the panic in simple social situations. Those feelings were all taken advantage of by Cygnus. Atlas’s happiness, his fear, his sadness– his love. Is that what it was? How was he to continue when everything he’s known has turned on him and hurt him so greatly?
Atlas comes to the conclusion that it’s his own fault– his own emotions. His resentment towards his father, his fear of his family and peers, his desperation to be near Cygnus. Those feelings that had kept him tethered to Cygnus’s side. He doesn’t want to be taken advantage of like that ever again. He doesn’t want to have to rely on anybody, not in the way he’d relied on Cygnus.
Atlas does not want to feel those things anymore. He doesn’t want anybody to see him at his weakest ever again.
For the next few months, it’s as though Atlas has shut down. Like all of his emotions have iced themselves out. He doesn’t want to feel those terrible things anymore. He doesn’t want to remember them. He doesn’t want anybody else to use them.
He decides to work on regaining his independence.
Two months after the incident and some basic counseling, Atlas lands a job at a nearby thrift shop. He makes his own money. He spends more time with his dad, but their conversations don’t often go anywhere. The same goes for Apollo, who has stopped trying to force reactions out of him. Atlas finds it easier to go about his days like this. There’s no fear to eat away at him. Not if he forces it down.
He’s heard from his therapist that this is not what he’s supposed to be doing. He’ll never move forward if he doesn’t confront his feelings. He still feels guilty, betrayed, and traumatized, and if he just shoves it to the back of his mind, it’s going to stay that way forever. Maybe his therapist is right. He still gets antsy during thunderstorms. He can’t sit by the fireplace. It’s easier, though, to stifle it than confront it. His chest hurts if he thinks too hard about it, so he doesn’t.
He misses Cygnus.
He’s gotten the hang of talking to customers and earning his own paychecks, and he knows how to take care of himself. He misses Cygnus, though, and on the worst of days, it’s almost disgusting. Atlas will daydream every now and then of being his. Not having to make his own choices and having somebody else take care of him. These fantasies come and go in waves; sometimes they make him feel hot and dizzy and nauseous. His skin crawls with the desire to run away and find his swan again.
He says none of this to his therapist.
The week before his nineteenth birthday, his burns are considered fully healed. The left side of his face is scarred. He can’t see out of his left eye anymore. His hair has grown back a bit, though; it wasn’t too damaged, which he’s grateful for. He discusses moving out with his family. He makes his own money now, and he’s gotten better at speaking to people. He could rent his own apartment now. His father and brother are worried, but they support his decision wholeheartedly. Atlas wants to reclaim his independence, so they’ll be there every step of the way.
It brings a warm, fuzzy feeling to his chest. He’s not sure what to call it.
Time has passed. Atlas’s nineteenth birthday comes and goes. He and Apollo eat banana pudding instead of cake, and Persephone finally says Atlas’s name. Tracy isn’t thrilled, but Atlas doesn’t care what she thinks. He tells Persephone good job, and ruffles her hair.
That night, he’s packing his very last suitcase. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, but tomorrow’s also the day he’s going to leave this household. His first Christmas in a place by himself. Maybe Atlas will treat himself to a new sweater, or something sweet. He zips the suitcase shut, just in time to hear a voice coming from his doorway.
“You can’t leave.”
Atlas looks up to see Tracy standing in his doorway. She looks angry– a little sad, too. Atlas turns his attention back to his suitcase.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” He asks. “Since I ruined your life, apparently.”
“You did,” she hisses. “You should know that. You brought it back.”
Atlas pauses. He looks back at Tracy. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard the static in a few months.
“I had a hunch,” he murmurs, “that you knew something about it.”
“I lived it,” Tracy says, arms crossed behind her back, “that horror. Played in the woods when I shouldn’t have. Caught its sickness.”
She steps into the room.
“You haven’t heard it in a while,” she says. “That’s what it does. You think it’s gone, and then it comes back when you’re least expecting it.”
She averts her gaze.
“You didn’t ruin my life,” she says. “Maybe I ruined yours, by giving birth to you.”
“I don’t think you could have known,” Atlas says, looking back at his suitcase. “I don’t think it’s coming back. It left with Cygnus.”
“You spread it to him.”
“No. He had it already. I think it’s why he was drawn to me.”
“It will spread, though,” Tracy hisses. “You have it. I have it. Maybe we’ve already gotten them sick. Adam. Apollo. Persephone.”
Atlas does not respond to her rambling. He’d rather pretend it was all a bad dream. When Cygnus left, so did the monster.
“I won’t let you spread it,” Tracy says, barely above a whisper. “I won’t let any of us spread it. I’ll end it here, with us.”
Atlas’s brows raise. He turns just in time to see Tracy lunging towards him, a knife in her hands. Slamming him to the ground, Tracy covers Atlas’s mouth with one hand as he gives a grunt of pain. Tracy raises the knife, tears spilling from her eyes.
“My baby,” she breathes, “I’m so sorry, my baby–”
She brings the knife down– but Atlas catches her hand. Gripping her hand with both wrists, thrashing beneath her. He raises a knee, slamming it into her stomach. Tracy grunts as Atlas overpowers her, pushing her back onto the ground. Now looming over her, he tries to wrestle the knife from her hands.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he hisses, “if you think you can waltz back in here and pretend that you trying to kill me is some noble act!”
“Atlas,” she sobs, “my baby, let me fix this! Let me fix this!”
“No!” Atlas cries. “All my life, you’ve never, never cared about what I was going through! Now you think you can act like some kind of savior and murder your family?! Your husband, your kids, your baby?!”
Atlas tries to yank the knife back.
“I deserve to live a normal life, and I won’t let you become another Cygnus!”
Tracy yanks the knife back towards her– and then shrieks. Atlas’s movements still, staring with shock down at his mother, She’d accidentally plunged the knife into her stomach. Atlas pulls back quickly, bringing the knife with him as he scoots backwards, away from her. Hyperventilating, Tracy looks down at her wound before looking back up at Atlas.
“Look at…what you’ve done to me…!”
No. No, Atlas didn’t mean to. She had done that to herself, hadn’t she? The sound of static slowly creeps back into his mind, his head growing fuzzy with a sense of fear he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months. Something about being just like Cygnus.
Hearing footsteps in the living room, Atlas looks towards the door. His family wouldn’t believe them. Tracy would twist the story. Tell them he’d hurt her for no reason. Would they believe her over him? Atlas looks back towards his window.
The footsteps are growing closer.
He needs to leave.
Atlas darts towards the window, fumbling to pull it open. Pulling the glass up before scrambling out, and running. Making his way towards the trees in his backyard, towards the woods. He does not dare look back. He does not think to grab his things.
Atlas keeps running. He runs until the sickness catches up to him, the itch in his throat, the ache in his chest. Deep within the woods, he stops running when his legs finally give out. He collapses, coughing and heaving, desperate to catch his breath.
What the fuck had just happened?
He hadn’t meant to hurt Tracy. He was just like Cygnus, wasn’t he? He can even hear the static in his mind. It doesn’t sound like simple buzzing, really. It almost sounds like words– beckoning him further into the trees. Atlas stares off into the distance, feeling the static ebbing its way further into his brain. On shaky legs, without thinking about it, he walks deeper into the woods.
As he walks, he swears he feels a presence looming behind him.
“You really are just like me.”
That familiar voice. Atlas writes it off as a hallucination. He balls his hands into fists, staring forward as he walks. He does not dare look back.
“I’m not,” he says. “It was an accident.”
“You took her life. You know you wanted to. She was so mean to you.”
Atlas sinks to his knees. He hadn’t wanted this, had he? Perhaps it was his own fault; he responded with such strong emotion, and it’s gotten him into trouble once again. He didn’t want this to happen. He was going to move on. He was going to live freely.
A hand lands on his shoulder. Quickly turning around, Atlas sees him; it’s no hallucination. There stands Cygnus Blythe. His hair has grown out. He still wears the necklace Atlas gave him.
“You,” Atlas hisses. Feeling a mix of fear, and anger. “You!”
Atlas can’t think rationally anymore– suppose he stopped when his mother had accidentally stabbed herself. Stumbling to his feet, racing forward, he sends his fist crashing into Cygnus’s nose. Cygnus grunts as he stumbles back, feeling warm blood begin to trickle down his face. He grins, beginning to laugh.
“I told you!” He cackles, “I’d come back and find you if you lived! I told you, my love!”
He reaches forward, caressing Atlas’s cheek.
“Such a pretty scar I left. You’re like a canvas for my art!”
Atlas slaps his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” he hisses. His heart is racing, but he’s determined to hold his ground. Seven months was not nearly enough time to prepare to see Cygnus again, but he refuses to be weak. Not like how he used to be. He won’t let Cygnus have any power over him.
“You’ve grown a pair, haven’t you?” Cygnus comments. “He said you’d be here. His static led me right to you, my sweet.”
Atlas takes another step back. Eyeing Cygnus up and down, his gaze settles on the mask resting atop Cygnus’s head. When did he start wearing a mask?
Hearing the static grow louder, Atlas feels another presence looming over him. He turns to see the tall man– in person, now. Not just a vague hallucination, or a figure in the distance. He’s face to face with the beast. Atlas begins to cough, taking steps back until his back hits Cygnus’s chest. Cygnus places his hands on Atlas’s shoulders, holding him in place.
“All you need to do now is submit,” he says.
Atlas shakes his head.
“I can’t. I won’t!”
Cygnus chuckles. The static grows louder. Atlas groans with pain, feeling a wave of dizziness hit him. His eyes squeeze shut.
“Where will you go?” Cygnus asks. “Who will believe you accidentally stabbed your mother? You threw your old life away. This is where you’re meant to be, puppet boy.”
Atlas’s struggles die down. Puppet boy. The words make his chest ache with something he can’t describe. It’s always been so easy to let other people decide for him. Even when Atlas had tried to break away from it, his story’s ending had already been written for him.
Puppet boy. A slave to the whims of others. Puppet boy.
“Just submit,” says Cygnus. “That's all there is left to do.”
Atlas’s heart hammers in his chest. It’s a horrible, dreadful feeling– being face to face with his two tormentors. Cygnus was right, though, wasn’t he? Atlas didn’t have anywhere left to go.
Feeling his eyes water, Atlas realizes he’s begun to cry for the first time in half a year.
Quickly wiping his eyes, Atlas pulls from Cygnus’s grasp. Looking up at the tall man, before looking back to Cygnus. This was really happening. This was his fate. He’d never see Apollo, or Persephone, or his father again.
Atlas takes in a deep breath, forcing his feelings down. He’s not much more than an extension of the tall man, he’s come to realize, but maybe he can be a wind-up doll on his own terms. No more letting Cygnus see him cry.
“What are we supposed to do from here?” Atlas asks. “What’s the point of– all of this?”
Cygnus grins ear to ear.
“I’ll show you, puppet. You’ll catch on quick.”
The tall man seems to disappear into thin air, but the faint, buzzing static is still there. Cygnus begins to walk. Atlas hesitates, staring back in the direction of the town one last time.
Perhaps he was a fool to think he could live a normal life.
With nowhere left to go, Atlas follows Cygnus into the woods.