Atlas
3
THE WATER SMACKS AGAINSTthe sharp rocks below, and I watch in fascination. The white crest of each wave promises a pain I am wholly unfamiliar with, and the smell of salt in the cold air is harsh and unrelenting.
But thesound:it calms me. My fingertips have long since numbed, and my teeth shatter in the early November air. It’s better out here.
Out here, nothing can touch me. And not only can nothing touch me, but I cannot enjoy the wrongness of being touched.
“Atlas,” my brother calls, walking through the small, dead garden that separates the estate from this cliffside. “You know Mother will panic if she sees you standing so close to the ledge again.”
“Then they should really install a gate,” I counter, turning around to face him.
Atticus is dressed impeccably, just as he always is. A carbon copy of our father, forever readying himself to take over Chastain Castle and all of its riches.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Atticus stops as he reaches my side, looking me up and down. “You’d be warmer if you stopped wearing all of these sheer garments.”
Where Atticus took after our father, I quite enjoy taking after our mother. I like soft, delicate things and looking pretty. I do not crave exerting masculinity or dominating a room the way the other men in this estate do.
I want to be cherished, caressed, and adored.
“But I look so pretty this way,” I say.
Atticus’s normally stern, grumpy expression fades into one of soft admiration.
“Yes, darling Atlas, there is a reason Mother favors you.” His cold hand raises to gently touch my cheek.
No warmth seeps into me, not in this cold morning air, but his brotherly affection does. And it’s nice.
“What are you doing out here? Have you been sent to fetch me?” I ask him as I lean into his touch just slightly.
“No, not to fetch you,” he responds, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone affectionately. “To check on you. Are things… are you overwhelmed?”
I know what he’s referring to. He’s the only one to whom I tell in such great detail when I become overwhelmed with my… condition.
Atticus appears unconcerned and uninterested to most people, but he is ever the doting brother. Whether it’s in relation to our little sister or to me, he is nothing if not protective and involved.
“No,” I tell him honestly, even as I wish I were. “I’m waiting.”
He nods, turning his hazel eyes in the direction of the Pacific Ocean as it turns violently below us.
“If I could fix this for you, if it could be me, I would do it,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves and the wind.
I know this; he tells me all the time. He can’t help himself, as if I must be reminded in fear of the small chance that I forget that he loves me.
“Atticus,” I start, and his eyes leave the ocean to meet mine. “Everything will be fine. I can handle it.”
“Oh, Atty,” he murmurs, sliding the hand on my cheek back and into my hair, where the curls wind around his long fingers.
“None of that,” I interrupt, hating the pity in his eyes. “Let’s go play with Abigail, hm?”
At this, Atticus’s hand falls away, and his face hardens.
“She’s with that attendee.”
My brother is not fond of new faces or outsiders who try to get too close to our family. I assume it’s mostly because of my condition, as he wasn’t like this prior to my eighteenth birthday, but I also think his increasing protective streak plays a role.
I, on the other hand, am very interested in this new attendee. In his jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s incredibly handsome with his thick muscles, sharp jawline, and his Greek-like nose.
