I take a deep breath. The fingers dig in further, the sharp nails nicking me. I could keep my eyes closed, but what would it do then? It can touch me—itwantsto touch me.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
Above me, leaning over my body, is thethingI saw in Atlas’s room. Its black hair hangs loosely around its face, black voids for eyes, its large mouth forever dropped open to show its razor-sharp teeth.
I cannot move beneath its hold; I cannot breathe under the weight of this reality. Instead, I stare back at it as it cocks its head, watching me.
I have truly never known this type of terror. It is that simple; there is nothing else inside of me. I am so terrified that I am simply calm.
And then, its jaw unhinges even further, and the sound of low, howling wind and gurgling spit resonates throughout the room. I believe it might have just taken a breath.
It begins to shriek.
I know now that I am going to die.
Atlas
13
IT IS THE STARTof the new year. Just hours ago, I believed I’d be heading into my twenty-first year cured and without shame. I was wrong. So devastatingly and terribly wrong.
I lay under my duvet, dressed in one of the various silk sleep sets I always wear—waiting. Once I sleep, will it come?
There was never a rhyme or reason before, but now that I have had this false freedom, I am anxious to feel the cool, clammy touch again.
A small part of me is shamefully relieved. A tiny, hidden ball of anxiety is slowly unraveling at the realization that I won’t lose this form of release. But the rest of me, the most prominent parts, are crushed under the reality of my condition.
I am stuck. Forever condemned. Eternally filthy.
Seconds tick by, and I wait for sleep to take me.
The clock tower in the main foyer has long since rung 1 a.m.; it can be heard from every corner of Chastain Castle. The moon shines down from the skylight, and I fiddle with the shorts that sit softly over my thighs.
Sleep now, Atlas. You want release, don’t you?
I am mocking myself. I’m taking my own secrets and using them as weapons, harming myself one thought at a time. A vicious and bloody cycle that ends only in my own descent into madness.
Sleep now, Atlas. You disgusting, sweet little thing.
The west tower settles around me, quiet little creaks and groans that raise the hair on my arms.
I really should sleep now; my eyelids are growing heavier, and my breath is calming slowly. But my mind is reeling, and a part of me is still stuck on the conversation I had earlier, the one in which I told Oscar I was wrong.
It was a few hours before the countdown. I found him just before he left for the night; he was leaving the estate to spend the holiday with his family in town.
When he saw me, his time-worn face lit up in joy, a bright smile overtaking his features. That is, until he saw the sorrow on my face, and he quickly ushered me into the empty theatre room.
“Young Master Atlas,” he said. “What has happened?”
“I… I was wrong,” I confided softly, a few tears slipping free from my eyes.
I then told him what Julian had said. I kept a few things to myself; I didn’t give him the exact play-by-play, but I made sure he knew that it was Julian who cleaned me and how I managed to convince him it was my boyfriend and not amonsterin the room with me.
At first, Oscar was livid. He demanded we involve my father and Atticus. But after some pleading and convincing on my part,where I demanded that I had it under control and that they would only act rashly, he finally relented.
“Fine, Young Master Atlas. But if he mentions this to you again, we will go straight to your father. And—” He then placed a hand on my shoulder, his dark eyes full of fear and concern. “If things become…difficult, please come to me. No matter the time or day,come get me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
