E V O L V E D S T A R
A star that is near the end of its life cycle where most of its fuel has been used up. At this point, the star begins to lose mass in the form of stellar wind.
T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K
IN THE TIME between sending that text and now, I don't know what happened. I'm sitting on the couch. I've thrown every stupid cushion off. There's another broken vase and another hole in the wall. I throw my phone across the room and now I sit with my head in my hands. I take the last two of Margaret Kingsley's life-saving pills, before discarding the container entirely.
They don't work much—barely at all, in fact. It's like there is a tough wall between my humanity and the drugs. The humanity tries to keep the wall strong, but the drugs are stronger, and slowly, they slip through the cracks of the bricks and eat away at that last little bit of human in me. Kills his veins, bruises his arms, makes him pale and skinny.
Everything comes with a price, though. Doesn't it? We cannot endure the addictive—and fucking amazing—effects of drugs and that be it. No. There needs to be a consequence if the comedown afterwards isn't already fucking terrible enough. The consequence is how the substances slowly peel away at our exterior until we eventually look just as shitty as we feel on the inside.
I can barely stand my own reflection. All I see when I stare back at myself is an evolved star running out of life as it fizzles away into nothingness.
I tap my foot relentlessly, pulling on my hair with my fingers as I try to focus on anything except for my fucking breathing, or the sound of my heart pulsing, or the fucking clock I didn't even know I had ticking away on the wall.
Just stop.
I just need everything to stop.
I hear a soft knock at my door and I don't bother moving to answer until they knock again and then again. Eventually, they take the hint that no one's going to enter and so they open the door, I hear it creak open. I don't turn to see who it is because whether it's my mother or sister or a fucking murderer, I absolutely couldn't care less.
"Atlas?" her soft voice calls. It echoes and bounces off each and every wall and for the first time ever, I'm happy that my apartment is practically empty.
I slowly lift my head and turn to face her. Fortunately, she's not staring at me, but rather analyzing my apartment instead. She takes in the art pieces on the wall, the television that still has the screen protector on it, she takes in the broken vase and the hole in the wall and then her brown eyes finally settle on me.
I turn away from her, staring straight forward at the tall blank wall. She sighs, walking over where I am. She kneels down in front of me and her pretty little face enters my line of sight. She's put make-up on since I last saw her and changed too.
She places her hands on my knees to stabilize her as she gives me a look I can't quite decipher. "I'm here." she says and I nod. I know she's here. "Not like physically—I mean, that too. But what I mean is—I'm here for you. Talk or don't talk but I'm here either way."
She stands up and repositions herself on the opposite end of my L-shaped couch and makes herself at home as she rests her head on the arm of the couch and grabs one of the cushions off the floor, using it to hug it to her body, concealing her torso from me.
A few minutes pass and I remain still. I feel stupid for even inviting her to come over because I don't know what to say. I don't know how to talk. I don't know what it means to express yourself. This is a complete waste of time, especially for her having to come all the way here when she lives outside of the city.
"My little sister is pregnant," I start off with the most recent issue in my life and her eyes widen. "She goes to college in Canada. She wrote me a letter because I don't answer her texts. We haven't spoken since she left. She thinks I'm mad at her for leaving. . ." I trail off, feeling the buried anger clawing its way back out from beneath the dirt.
She nods, cocking an eyebrow. "And are you?" when I don't answer, she adds, "Mad, I mean. Are you mad at her? For leaving?"
I think about it for a little while. "I don't think so." I answer her truthfully. "I think I'm jealous. She got out of London. She got independence. She has a future."
"You can have all those things too." Rory says with an immense amount of sincerity.
I shake my head, moving my gaze to her fingers which dangle over her legs, traced in deep, black ink. "No, I can't." There are intricate little stars, words I cannot read from here, and effortless shapes on each and every finger, not a single one left untouched. "That's the thing. I don't really want any of those things. I'm jealous because she does. She wants a future; she wants a life. I think that's why I'm mad at her for messing it up with a child. She's capable of living, so why destroy it by making a stupid mistake?"
Maybe that's why I dislike Mercy so much. She and I have never gotten along very well. She has always been the most independent out of myself and my siblings and she worked hard from a young age to get where she wanted to be and as soon as she graduated secondary school, she left. I don't think I ever got to say goodbye.
I don't want to hate Everly. I'm trying not to but it's hard not to hate someone so perfect.
"You feel protective over her." she states and I nod. Yeah, I guess I do. "She came to you because she wants you to listen, just like I am now with you. Don't judge her. Trust that whatever decision she makes is best for her."
Maybe I should.
Now I feel guilty for getting so mad at her, even though she has no idea. If she experienced the outburst I just had, she would never write me letters ever again.
"Could you help me write back to her?" I feel pathetic for asking but when she nods and smiles proudly, I feel less pathetic.
After that, I go quiet again. I have nothing else to say. That was enough talking for an entire week.
We lie in silence for a while, her shoes pressed to mine. Her fingers toying with her other fingers. My eyes locked on hers. For a while, we don't talk at all. We just stare and breathe the same air and I feel like even sitting adorned by her silence, I was comfortable. Silence makes me go insane sometimes.
"Do you have Bluetooth?" she asks and I notice she's doing something on her phone. Before I can tell her yes, she laughs as the smart system—another pointless item my mother insisted on me having—built into the entire apartment says in a robotic voice, Bluetooth device connected. "Of course. Rich people things."
I snort, shaking my head before she puts on a song. Just by the opening notes of the piano, I instantly know it to be the song she played weeks ago when I walked with her that night after the party.
"Music makes me feel better sometimes." she says. "Even sad music. It's comforting."
I turn to see her head tilted back as she holds her finger up in the air, one eye closed as she squints, trying to touch every dot on the ceiling.
I mirror her movements and lay on the opposite end of the couch, my head resting on the arm whilst my shoe-clad feet meet hers. She drops her hand and looks down at us. She smiles, matches her soles to mine, so our feet are pressed against each other.
I can't help but notice the way she smiles when she sees her name on the side of my worn-out shoe.
"I hate being alone in my own body." are the first words I speak.
She looks caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
I shrug, crossing folding my arms behind my head. "I mean," I pause. "I hate being alone in this fucked up, piece of a shit body. I hate that I—a singular person—have to deal with all this pain. The amount of pain I endure is enough for at least a hundred people."
Rory sighs, chipping away at the nail polish on her fingers, black and shiny. "I'm not really in the position to hold any more pain, but I'd take some of yours if I could, Atlas."
I nod, moving my gaze down to my lap where my hands lie haphazardly. I wish I could rid of this pain. I wish I could be someone different—someone, where anxiety hasn't built a home on their shoulders. Someone where depression hasn't left its footprints behind on their arms. Someone where bipolar hadn't switched all the wires around in their brain.
Just someone who isn't me.
"Are you in pain?" I ask her in a whisper.
I don't know if I should have asked that.
Rory's eyes move to mine and for a split second, it almost appears as though a pair of curtains had been torn apart. The whites of her eyes turn red, the brown of her irises deepen immensely. I see bones cracking and hearts shattering and tears falling. I see her pain. And then she hides it again.
"Why is it I have such a difficult time lying to you?" she asks, though I feel as though she's talking more to herself than she is me. "Of all people, it's you. When we talked last night, I unloaded more than I ever have with anyone. And I don't regret it. You just listened. . .I didn't know how long I had been ceased to silence until I used my voice, Atlas." she sits up, her voice fragile and delicate. "So, why is it? Why you and me?"
She has a point. Why me and why her. Why not Alula or my parents. Why not Mercy or Everly. And for her, why not Ophelia. Why not her parents.
I try to find my words as she empties hers. Her hair is tied half up today, I think that's because it won't all fit into a proper ponytail, but it looks pretty—the way you can see that vibrant red strand without any of her black hair hiding it. She has nothing to hide behind with her hair this way.
"I don't know. . ." I say, my forehead creased as I think. "I helped you find your voice. Now you want to use your voice to help find mine too."
Faintly, she smiles just as thunder ripples outside and she jolts in surprise. Shortly after, the rain begins to splatter against my floor-length windows, drowning out the soft music in the background. I love the sound of rain.
Rory turns to look behind her and she gasps. "Oh, my fucking God. You have those windows." she says, standing up as she admired the long wall, which ironically, doesn't consist of a wall at all, only glass.
She walks over to it and sits down, right there on the floor. What on earth is she doing?
Her legs are pulled to her chest, her arms encaging them as she stares at the crying sky like it's a double rainbow, rather than just bland and grey.
She twists her head to look over at me. "Do you have any alcohol?" I furrow my eyebrows but nod. I think I do, anyway. I don't purposely keep it here, but Alula left some tequila here when she lived with me and it's disguised in a bleach bottle, so that my mother doesn't throw it away. I don't drink often, but I keep a little bit here hidden in case I ever want to. "Wanna get drunk and make out?"
One side of my lip's uplifts into a smile and I shake my head, nodding as I pull myself off the couch and head into the kitchen. I step over the fragments of what once was a vase and remember that not even fifteen minutes ago, I had thrown that angrily at the floor. Now I feel nothing.
I open the cabinet beneath the sink and grab the tall white bottle of 'bleach' and then a bottle of water from the fridge before heading over to her.
I sit down next to her, but with my back pressed against the glass, so that I can see her face. When I pass her the bottle of bleach, she looks at me with wide eyes. "Okay, I do want to die. . .but I don't need you to help me." she says.
I audibly laugh, twisting the red cap off. "It's tequila."
"Bullshit." she screws her face up. "If you want to poison me, you should've just said so and I would have done it myself."
I roll my eyes, an amused smile playing on my lips. "No, it's actually tequila. I just had to put it in a different bottle, so my mother doesn't take it."
Her mouth forms an O shape as she comes to an understanding. "Oh," she says slowly. "Okay. Well, then. May I please have some bleach?"
I snort. "That you may." I say in the same proper tone she just had.
She twists the cap off, dismissing it onto the cold floor before she sniffs it, then cringes. "I fucking hate tequila." she says with such hatred, I almost think she's going to ditch the concept of drinking entirely. "Wait. Do you have any shot glasses?"
I shake my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. I don't have a shot glass but it's unnecessary. Clearly, she isn't pleased by the idea of drinking it straight from the bottle, but there is another way. She stares at me with a confused expression; brows tugged together, forehead creased, eyes worried and then I take the bottle from her hands and place it down beside me.
"Come here," I pat my lap and she looks conflicted for a moment. Reluctantly, she obliges and shifts onto my lap, straddling me, gripping my shoulders. "Good girl." I whisper, and I don't miss the pained expression on her face when I say that. She looks like I just hurt her, physically.
I grab the disguised tequila and raise it to my mouth, taking a full mouthful before dropped the bottle moving my hand to the back of her head, tugging down as I use my other hand to grab her jaw. I can't speak but I stare down at her deeply and she looks as though she is in a trance. Without hesitating, she parts her lips and her mouth falls open.
I bring my lips to hers, before expectorating the liquid into her mouth. It burns the back of my throat but I don't care. I can't take my eyes off her.
She closes her mouth and swallows before she begins coughing and spluttering. I drop my hands, watching her amused as she tries to pull herself together, but struggles. Eventually, she calms down enough to stop coughing.
"I need to tell you something," her voice is barely audible as she speaks. "Ophelia and I talked. She said she's sorry and—I don't know. I don't forgive her. But she asked me to be her girlfriend. . .and I said yes."
I feel an indescribable feeling in my hands. I think it's anger but I'm not sure. Maybe it's jealousy. But whatever it is, it's strong. It feels real and big and untamable. It feels like I can physically grab it with my own hands and hold it, weave it around my fingertips. Snap it.
Ophelia. The same girl that not even twenty-four hours ago had shoved Rory off me. But I can't blame her for saying yes because she had told me that she likes Ophelia. I won't judge her because she doesn't seem like the type of girl to do something she doesn't want to.
"Oh." is all I manage to say.
Is it bad that I don't really give a shit? Does it make me a shitty human to say that despite her being taken, I would still kiss her right now and make her forget that she ever belonged to someone else? I am a shitty human, after all, so I don't really care how that makes me look.
But not all people are bad. She isn't. Which is why she's telling me.
But I don't understand why she's still sitting on me then. I don't understand why her eyes keep moving down to my lips. I don't understand why I can feel her thighs tensing around my legs. I don't understand why she's here.
"But," she says, averting her gaze down to her fingers covered in ink, which has moved to her lap as she toys with her nails. "I'm here. . .and maybe I shouldn't have come if I couldn't help myself, but I really want to touch you, Atlas. That sounds so bad and maybe I should have just—"
I cut her rambling short. "I won't tell." I say, not feeling the slightest bit guilty because, as aforementioned, I don't give a fuck. Especially not when the person she's dating is fucking Ophelia. "What happens in this apartment, stays in this apartment. This can be our own little planet."
The cheekiest smile I would ever see pulls at the corners of her mouth. She doesn't care either. Fucking hell this girl is killing me. Her hands move to my face.
"I would love that."
And then she kisses me and everything around us
d i s a p p e a r s
A U T H O R ' S N O T E
hi everyone!
we're over halfway through this story already. i hope you all are enjoying it so far. i hope it makes you feel something.
anyways please remember to vote, comment, and follow
me. let's get this story to 100k!! we're so close. also read 'always atlas' by Gemma_Grace_ for rorys pov.
i love you all <3