The Melody of Lost Souls

Boston Cream Donuts

IT BECOMES SORT of a routine, with me visiting Atlas in the hospital almost every day. I want to say it's a welcoming distraction, but the truth is, every time I walk into the hospital, that same numb, hollow feeling washes over me. It's as if I'm about to walk in and see my brother lying on the cold table in the morgue all over again. 

When I first enter the room, that numbness is replaced by an overwhelming amount of guilt. Dan took my car and somehow managed to convince Atlas into the passenger seat, and now Atlas is facing a lot of recoveries and physical therapy, and there's still no guarantee he'll walk. 

As soon as Atlas meets my gaze with his honey-coloured eyes, however, all those feelings melt away. His smile is dazzling and warm, and even in a hospital gown, he's still capable of charming the hell out of all the nurses. Sure, he has an attitude and a sharp tongue, but it only adds to his charm. It's impossible to resist being pulled into his orbit.

Maybe I'm punishing myself by going to the hospital every day, punishing myself by forcing myself to feel those crushing emotions. Or, maybe, it's because Atlas is there, ready to lift my spirits. 

"I brought some donuts," I say, plopping a bag in front of Atlas. His already wide eyes widen further as he grabs the bag eagerly. "And an Iced Capp." 

"Fuck, yes," he groans in contentment. "You are the best, you know that? How did you know Boston Cream was my favourite?" 

I shrug and sit in the chair that's kept next to his bed. When June isn't here, I occupy it. "I didn't, it's just my favourite, so I took a chance. Never quite sure how to take the donut out without taking the chocolate off, though." 

Atlas's lopsided grin is like a ray of sunshine. He brushes a chunk of floppy, dark hair out of his eyes and slides the bag closer to him. It's been a few weeks, but he's looking better every day. The colour has returned to his dark skin, and his eyes have that healthy shine to them. 

As he tears the bag open, his attention is laser-focused. "The trick to getting the bag open without taking all the chocolate with it is to peel the top off nice and slow."

I watch him with amusement and curiosity. Has he really figured out the mystery of salvaging the Boston cream donut? He gets partway through when he encounters the sticky part. His lips purse and I sit there amazed at the amount of effort he's putting into taking a donut out of a bag. It's endearing, really. 

"Shit," he sighs as the bag wins, and he's left with half the chocolate topping on the donut. I can't help it. A laugh escapes loudly, earning me an annoyed glare. "I swear it normally works." 

"Uh-huh, sure," I laugh, pulling my own donut out of the bag. I lose some of the chocolate, but not nearly as much as Atlas, earning me yet another glare. "I think the best chance is to get it when the chocolate is dry. Then it won't stick." 

"Yeah, but then it doesn't taste as good," Atlas grumbles, scraping the chocolate off the bag with his finger. Then he cheers up and glances mischievously at me. "So, the doctor said I'm finally clear to get out of this bed and use the wheelchair."