All Things That Fall

22: icarus (atlas)

It was funny how melodies worked. And how they'd play over and over in my mind, like a record player.

I'd like to think of Ophelia's voice as a melody of some sort. Maybe that was why it wouldn't seem to get out of my head and maybe that was why some of those words continued to play in there- over and over again.

Especially with the way things had been said between us.

Weird. Creepy, even.

You're the one who said I was fucking dumb.

I don't think we need to talk about anything else.

I scrub a hand over my eyes tiredly.

Is this what it had come down to? Is this what I had always been like? This pathetic?

Feelings were sometimes like melodies too. In the sense that you can remember the exact way you felt in a moment and every time you replay it in your head, you feel the power of each of those emotions hit you in the chest- each with the same intensity.

And what had it felt like then?

It felt like someone had stuck a knife into my chest, and twisted it. Sharp enough to make me stop breathing for a long moment, enough to make me re-evaluate everything I've ever thought.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair again.

Weird. Creepy, even.

You're the one who said I was fucking dumb.

I don't think we need to talk about anything else.

A quiet knock reverberates through the room, and I have half the mind to ignore it and pretend that I was asleep.

"Yeah?" I say quietly instead.

The room door creaks open, and I can hear whoever it is- step into the room.

I have my back to the door, so it takes me a second to place who it could be. The footsteps were too light to be my dad's. Meeker than my sisters would ever be.

"Mom," I look at her over my shoulder, "Need something?"

"Hi, honey," she steps into the room, with the same warm, patient smile as always. She glances around, almost as if to make sure there might be something that indicates that things are out of place.

I eye her cautiously as she shuts the door behind her, and walks to my bed- settling herself down on the edge of it as if she was gearing for a long conversation ahead.

"Want to tell me what's wrong?"

I turn back around sharply.

"What do you mean?" I try not to make my voice sound tight, but as my eyes find the two pieces of jewelry on my desk- I realize that it isn't as easy as I hoped it would be.

I hear her sigh.

"You won't look at me for one," she says softly, "And you've been keeping to yourself more than usual."

I look over my shoulder at her once more, as if to disprove her point- but it feels like she can see right through me. Her smile widens like she knows that she's right.

"You look miserable, Atlas," she says, with a little shrug, "All you Jackson men mope the same way. By avoiding others."

I feel my jaw tighten, but I don't look away from her.

"What's wrong?" she prods gently again, when I just stare at her, "Talk to me, baby."

I turn back around and fix my gaze on the desk. There's a big lump in my throat, that seems to come and go- and right now, it seems to have made a reappearance, making it hard for me to speak.