Shallow Imitations

chapter twenty-five

This is the first time I step foot in Atlas's house.

His mother, Imogen, is an alcoholic and drug addict so he prefers to keep a distance between me and her. Maybe it's because we don't know each other well enough and he's too embarrassed with his own lifestyle, or maybe it's because his mother wouldn't be sober enough to remember meeting me. Either way, I don't dwell on it as we walk through the double doors. It's nice house. Small and cozy, except for the mess.

He mutters an apology under his breath before going to fluff the pillows and cleaning away the empty bottles. "I'm gonna be right back," he says, as he stuffs a few beers in a black trash bag. He motions for me to take a seat.

There's a beer stain on the couch. It must've looked so much nicer before. While he's gone, I tidy up the rest of the living room just so that he's not so stressed out anymore. I hide the stain under a pillow and spray the room with a fall-scented perfume I have in my bag just to get the smell of alcohol out of the way.

The light above me flickers twice.

I settle on the floor with my back to the couch and wipe away the water rings on the coffee table. He's so paranoid, shaking even as he went upstairs. It's so subtle. I'm getting used to it. It happens sometimes. The anxiety gets to him. He's probably just sitting in his room right now, trying to calm himself now. It's best for me to stay here and avoid trouble.

Atlas told me this morning that his mom has been gone for a while. She sometimes leaves for a couple of days and doesn't come back for a week or two. She never tells him where he's gone and he stopped trying to find out.

There's a VHS player on the TV stand with a few videocassette tapes lined up on the corner. Of course they would still have one. I used to watch cartoons in one until I turned eight when my parents decided to get us a new DVD player. It felt so strange like we'd leaped a hundred years. We were always behind on technology.

I turn on the TV and play whatever's already on. The picture is blurry on the sides. It takes a few seconds for the image to clear up. Even then, it's hard to see the whole picture. His mom must've been watching this. The tapes play a home video. Atlas is a toddler, barely walking. Imogen seats him on a green high-chair. The kitchen is the same one in this house. The little boy doesn't look like Atlas. He has full cheeks that are so red and he's quiet, staring at her. Imogen is beaming as she touches her finger to his cheeks.

"My little boy," she whispers, kissing his nose.

He's sitting very still, looking around and kicking his legs, not making a sound.

I hear footsteps descending the stairs. Grabbing the remote, I try to turn it off before he gets a glimpse, but it's too late. The footsteps halt before coming to a complete stop. Turning around, I look at his face. His gaze is fixated on the screen just as Imogen begins feeding him.

He slowly walks forward and sits next to me on the floor, leaving a bit more space than usual. "She used to tell me that I was the quietest baby, that I seemed to understand everything she said. She'd tell me to wait and I'd just sit there patiently waiting for her to come back."

I stretch out my hand to get a hold of his, caressing his fingers. Atlas gives me a weak smile, moving closer. I let him rest his head on my shoulder despite the awkward height difference between us.

"You're still quiet," I whisper in his ear.

"But I don't wait for her anymore."