Atlas

Twenty One

Grace

That night was the most difficult night Atlas had gone through. In a fit of frustration, he told me it almost made up for all the times he was locked in the cold, dark basement, where his only friend was the always half-empty food bowl and a small piece of rope.

He didn't sleep. Neither did I, or Adrian.

It was 5 am when I finally went down to the kitchen, only to find Adrian sitting on the sofa sipping a mug of tea.

I sat down next to him, and we both heard footsteps coming downstairs. It was Atlas, who joined me on the couch and wrapped both his arms around me. He placed his cheek on my shoulder. He smelled like warm coffee and cigarettes.

"I hate this." He finally said.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Please don't do anything you'll regret." He sighed. "I don't want to spend another six years worrying about you. Stay here as long as you want, but when you go back, I want you to be okay."

"It's not that easy, Adrian."

"Yeah, I know. I know you'll have breakdowns; you won't sleep, you're going to drink until you blackout." Adrian sounded so sad. "But I need to lay the facts to you straight, Atlas. Deal with it however you want to, but then get over it. Please. Our family's fucked up. Doesn't mean we have to be."

Whatever Adrian was saying was right. But Atlas wasn't really registering anything at that point. One sentence was swirling in his head. It was his own family that had him locked up, his own blood that had tortured him every day.

"I'm going to go get some sleep." Adrian said. He looked at me. "Would you keep an eye on him?"

"Yeah, definitely."

Once Adrian stood up, I curled up next to Atlas on the sofa. "You haven't slept since Ida sent you that letter."

But he wasn't thinking about that at all. "Adrian?" he called. "Do you know anyone that worked for our parents?"

"What?" Adrian's eyebrows drew together. "Why?"

"I want to know why our father killed our mother."

"WHAT?! ATLAS!"

Atlas shrugged. "Don't you want to know?"

"He probably killed her because he was sick in the head. Just like his brother."

Atlas was hesitant, so Adrian sat down next to him. "Listen, Atlas. I get it. You want closure. Or maybe digging into the past is going to help take your mind off of how you actually feel about it. But—"

"Adrian." Atlas looked at him with glassy eyes. "Please."

Adrian looked like he was caving in, but I wasn't quite so sure. Finally, he said, "Okay. One of the servants at the orphanage worked for the governor. I remember her saying that all the time."

"Which one?"

"I don't remember her name. Pointy nose, a little chubby... Eva...Evie?"

"Eve?"

"Maybe." Adrian shrugged. "She would probably know. She was close with the governor's wife... our mother, whatever."

"Alright." Atlas stood up and got his jacket. "Let's hope she still works at the orphanage."

Adrian refused to go, which left me and Atlas. Another forty-five minutes in the car? My back was screaming no.

But I wanted to go, for Atlas's sake. So Adrian packed us breakfast, then without another word, went back upstairs to Luna.

Atlas was quiet throughout the car ride, and this time he let me drive. His mind was somewhere far away, and I'm not sure I liked it.

We arrived at the orphanage around seven. It was a very old building which seemed half broken down, covered by moss and ivy and a sign that said St. Bernard's Children Orphanage.

Atlas didn't seem more shaken up than he already was. "This place has some good memories." He explained.

He rang the doorbell, and an old woman wrapped in a shawl answered.

"Hi," Atlas said awkwardly. "We're looking for someone who used to work here about twenty years ago. Eve..."

"Yeah, that's me." The old woman frowned. "Who are you?" She peered at him, but slight recognition was dawning already.

"My name's Atlas. I used to live here..."

The old woman's entire face changed to shock and surprise. "Atlas...." She reached up and touched his cheek with a bony finger. "What are you doing here? We thought you would never come back to Abingham after you left."

"I have some questions." He said.

She let out a breath. "Ofcourse."She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and grabbed a cigarette and a lighter from her pocket. "Come."

She led us to a bench and a table underneath a giant willow tree near the back. I sat across from them.

"I wanted to know about my mother, Clara Rogers." Atlas explained. "My brother said you used to work for her."

"So Dilia told you?"

"Dilia...?"

"Ida." She corrected herself. "I did work for your mother." She smiled a little. "She was a sweetheart, although an oddball, especially after her accident." She laughed a little.

"What?"

"After your brother was born, she fell down a flight of stairs and hit her head." Said the old woman. "After that, her memories would come and go, and she acted like she was a child, not a grown woman. Mr. James – that's your father – would get really upset at her when she couldn't remember your names."

Atlas grew quiet. "Why did he kill her?"

She bit her lip. "That's the thing. I can't believe he did. Out of everyone, James did love your mother very much. And Mr. Joseph—" she stopped herself.

"Mr. Joseph what?"

"Nothing, love. It's just... the servants and I always thought it was Mr. Joseph. He knew where Mr. James kept his gun... he had every reason to kill your mother."

Atlas waited for her to continue.

"Joseph always wanted to be governor. And then your father was sent away to London on the suspicion of your mother's death, and Joseph was governor for a while, until the laws changed."

"What happened to my father?"

"He killed himself in prison." She said sadly. "Mr. Joseph sent him a letter stating that you lot had died in the orphanage, and your father lost hope."

Atlas's eyebrows drew together, and he got up. "I can't... I can't take this." He stuttered. "Sorry."

He ran to the car.

I threw the old lady an apologetic look and raced after him.

Atlas was leaning over the car, his hands fisted above the roof. I took a deep breath.

"Get in."

He got into the passenger's seat and looked more frustrated than anything. He looked like he would punch the car's interior any moment.

"Atlas."

I looked at him. I put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn the engine on just yet.

"Atlas," I repeated when he didn't listen. He turned to me, completely lost.

I leaned into him and cupped his face. His cheek was warm under my hand. I didn't say anything for a few seconds. I don't think anything I could have said would have calmed him down.

Then suddenly, he leaned in more and wrapped his arms around me. His face came to rest on my shoulder.

"I'm not okay." He sighed in a raspy voice.

"I know." I replied, wiping his tears.