Drifters: The First Generation

4

August 15, 2019
Kastoria, Greece
2:58 p.m.

A shrill ringing sound wakes Atlas Papatonis from his drunken slumber. Partially inebriated, he rolls over on the twin air mattress he inhabits, knocking over the empty wine canters beside the bed as he fumbles for his cell phone. He answers without thinking, immediately regretting the decision when he hears the voice on the other end.

“Atlas, where have you been?! The funeral ended over two hours ago.” The voice belonged to Atlas’s father’s close friend, Thomas, who had been very helpful in getting the arrangements set up for Atlas and whom Atlas had known since he was little. 

Thomas couldn’t have known that those words were the last thing Atlas wanted to hear. A spark of anger ignited in Atlas’s chest. In his state, Atlas felt impulsive and hateful. Thomas wasn’t prepared for Atlas’s remark. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be, Tom. You would know that if you weren’t digging graves.”

“Digging graves?! Atlas, your father is dead. You should have some damn respect. Your father raised you better than this!” 

“Well, good, I’ll be joining him shortly. Tell Kassia I say hi.” Bringing up Thomas’s dead niece was a low blow, but Atlas knew it was the only way to get Thomas to hate him forever and to end the call shortly.

Thomas sighed. “Way to go, Atlas. You’ve just lost the last piece of your father that you had.”

A beep signaled the end of the call. Atlas let the phone drop to the ground, but not before he switched the ringer to silent. He dropped his head into his hands, an overwhelming sense of despair curling around his ribcage and squeezing. Everything that had happened in the past week after Atlass’ father’s passing included a whole lot of social distancing for Atlas. 

He hadn’t left his father’s house in a week. Before, he would allow Thomas in, but only because they had to discuss the funeral arrangements. Now, no one had to come to the house and disturb him. He had shoved everyone away. The whole place was a pig-sty; empty liquor bottles combined with fuller bottles of more stuff. The bed smelt like piss and sick. Atlas was too ashamed of himself to let anyone in right now. He knew how low he’d gotten, up to the point that he told Thomas off. 

He couldn't bear to look anyone in the face anymore. It wasn’t just about the way the house looked and Atlas’s horrific depression. It was his father’s still, cold face and dead eyes. He had slowly turned to stone, sitting in this living room in his favorite recliner, while Atlas watched. He promised his father he would never leave him, no matter what. In the end, his father left him. There wasn’t a damn thing Atlas could do. 

He felt powerless and hopeless. The worst part was he had wished for his father to die, just so he wouldn't have to look at him anymore. Atlas had thought the worst of the depression was when his father sat calcifying in front of him, but he was wrong. The most important person in Atlas’s world was gone, along with all the others Atlas himself ran off. He had nothing else to live for. 

Settling further into the cloud of depression, he reached for a half-drank canter. Greedily, he gulped down the contents as quickly as he could. In the end, it left him feeling kind of nauseous but he was used to it at this point. His empty stomach growled in hunger. Groaning, Atlas pulled himself off the floor and went to the kitchen. He checked the fridge first. All the items inside would have to go before they went bad. Plus, Atlas had no intention of paying the bills ever again and the utilities would eventually be shut off. 

He selected bread and some kind of deli meat to make a sandwich. Of course, he had to add pepperoncinis and ranch. For Atlas, ranch was the best condiment. He added a heaping portion and dug in. He allowed himself twenty minutes of happiness a day, which was when he ate food. Atlas was a fat kid at heart, he just preferred to be healthy most of the time. He had started eating only one meal a day since his dad died. Most of his appetite was gone and had been fading before his father passed. He had dropped twenty pounds in the last two weeks.