F I R E B A L L
An extremely bright meteor. Also known as bolides, fireballs can be several times brighter than the full Moon. Some can even be accompanied by a sonic boom.
T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K
I CLOSE THE garage up, locking the door before heading toward my car, pressing the unlock button and getting into the driver's seat. I place my keys into the ignition and wind my window down, then open the glove-box and shuffle around the unnecessary crap until I find the joint I rolled during my break and shoved in there.
I place the end between my lips, flicking the lighter as the orange flame lights the twisted tip. I inhale deeply, the smoke rushing into my lungs, and I sigh in content.
It's been the busiest day that I have had in a while and I'm not sure whether that's because I simply haven't been working enough lately to properly understand what the term busy entails, or if it's because it was just me most of the day. Raven was upstairs doing paperwork all day and Onyx left early.
It was good being distracted. It was good having somewhere to put all of this energy to use. But now I feel burnt out. My hands hurt, I'm abnormally tired, and I have a migraine from having to speak to people all day. I haven't spoken this much since I was a child and actually enjoyed the concept of talking.
Now it's a chore.
My eyes feel like they are moving in slow motion as I gaze over to the space next to my car and toss the butt of the smoked joint onto the concrete, then lie back, my head resting against the chair as I tap the pads of my fingers against the steering wheel.
My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket and I pull it out, raising the screen to meet my glassy eyes when I see Rory's name on the screen. I slide my finger across, answering before holding the speaker up to my ear.
"Atlas?"
Her voice sends a shiver down my spine. "Hey, baby." I reply, a faint smile on my lips. "How was school?" I ask, my gaze flicking to the time being portrayed on my radio. Four-O-two PM.
"Shit, like always." she answers and I snort. "Principal fuckwit gave me one-hour detention for wearing the wrong shoes even though I've been wearing them all year and no one noticed. And do you know what's even worst?" she rambles, but I continue to listen. What's even worse, Rory? Tell me. "Orion had the wrong shoes on, too and he didn't get in trouble. Bloody sexist if you ask me."
I laugh ignoring the sickening feeling that subdues my stomach at the mentioning of Rion's name. "The entire school is sexist."
"You just get me, Atlas." she says sarcastically and I roll my eyes. "Have you finished work?"
I nod, then realize she can't fucking see me. "Yeah. Finished two minutes ago."
"Could you pick me up?"
I smile at her question, only because she went from fearing cars, to asking me to take her anywhere and everywhere. I don't mind, it just means that I can see her more often. I feel proud knowing that she can ask me to get her from school without being afraid. She's getting better.
Besides, our schedules aren't too far off, so it's convenient. She starts school around the same time that I begin work, so I can easily drop her off, then continue to work, and on nights where I finish work late, she catches the train and meets me here, or sometimes she has a shift at Delilah's, so it works out.
It's only been three days but it already feels like we have been doing this set routine forever. My mother always insisted on me having a specific routine to follow each day because she said it would help me knowing I have a purpose and schedule to follow when I awake in the mornings. But I never bothered because my days only consist of sleeping, work, and school when I feel like it—which is rarely—and I'll eat and shower if I remember.
I don't think when she meant I should follow a routine, that it should be entirely based around another human, but whatever.
"Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen." I say, noticing that there isn't much traffic on the streets. "Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?"
I hear her whisper of a response, "Yes, please."
I wouldn't hang up even if she asked me to.
I reverse out of my park, then turn, pulling out onto the street as I begin the drive to my old secondary school.
We both don't speak as I drive—her not wanting to distract me, and me having nothing to say. My social battery has completely died and even speaking to her feels like it's killing me, though despite being overly tired, driving helps. Something about driving always calms me down.
Exactly fourteen minutes later, I pull up alongside the front of the school, and I see Rory sitting cross-legged at the bus stop out the front, her short dark hair secured to the back of her head with a claw clip, a few short pieces framing the sides of her face.
When she hears the rumble of my engine, she stands up, swinging her back over her shoulder and I eye her as she walks toward my car, her skirt short, sheer black stockings tightening with each step as her knees bend.
She tosses her bag into the back as she slides onto the seat, pulling the door closed. She looks over at me but I stare straight forward, driving off.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her eyes narrowed as they bore into the side of my face.
I don't answer her. Only because I don't want to lie but I also don't feel like being truthful and explaining why I feel the way I do because there is no good reason.
She exhales, resting her head against the window, plugging the AUX cord into her phone, before turning on her playlist which is titled Rory's playlist for Atlas. I listen to it more often than I care to admit, especially now that I have the playlist on my phone.
I never listened to music before.
The drive is short and clear of any traffic. We cross the bridge and she doesn't dwell this time. She doesn't hold the necklace around her neck or ask me to stop. She doesn't tense up as she always does. She's okay.
Out of pure habit, I park three houses down. We exit my car simultaneously and she walks ahead. Her father usually doesn't arrive home from work until five-thirty, so no sneaking is necessary, but Rory still likes to be cautious. Her mother isn't a problem either, considering she's abandoned her daughter to have some space from her cunt of a husband and stay with her sister in Bristol.
When she turns around and gestures for me to come, I walk over, then enter her house, closing the door behind me.
I must admit, though, that without her mother lingering around, the house has appeared to be significantly tidier. Rory cleaned up her mother's mess when she left weeks ago and since, there has been no beer bottles littered around nor smoked cigarettes. The house doesn't smell like tobacco and the television doesn't stay on until two AM.
She doesn't speak to her father at all since she left, though. I don't think she cares to salvage what little relationship there is left, and based on the things she has told me about him, I wouldn't want to, either.
Rory opens her bedroom door, tossing her bag on the ground, before leaving to let Archie in, I presume, meanwhile I walk over to her bed and lie down, my stomach colliding with the soft blankets, and as soon as the side of my face meets the pillow, I feel my bones beginning to ache, my eyes droopy as sleep threatens to take over.
I hear the rattle of Archie's collar before he sprints into the room and up onto the bed, waiting for me to greet him, but I don't move.
Rory enters shortly after, closing the door. Her eyes find mine and she pouts, giving me a look that says please don't be sad, but all I offer in return is a blank stare.
I roll onto my back and she grabs one of my hands, using the pad of her finger to trace the lines engraved into my palms, then her finger lowers to my wrist, where multiple scars stain my skin. I always compared them to fireballs because the way they pierce through the sky, a fiery red reminds me of the fiery pain I felt when I pierced my skin. For the most part, they are faded, but an ugly shade of purple-y red still lingers.
"You used to self-harm?" she asks warily, speaking in a way that sounds like this isn't surprising to her, but not common knowledge either, as her eyes scan my arm and it makes me feel insecure.
I look away, ashamed. "No," I answer. "Those are from my first attempt."
Silence lingers between us for a long time, then she says, "I'm so glad you failed."
I wish I could say the same, love. I really do. . .well, actually, that's a lie.
I hum in response, sounding detached from the conversation and uninterested. "Do you have any scars?"
I turn my attention back to her and, already, her deep brown eyes find mine. "Yeah," she answers followed by a laugh. "Hundreds."
My eyebrows pull together. "Where?"
I don't know her body all that well yet. I saw it for the first time at once a little over a week ago and I don't think I saw a single scar, but I couldn't be sure.
She smiles painfully, pressing a delicate kiss to my wrist. "There's a reason I have so many tattoos, Atlas." her tone is much like mine was before: uninterested, and I realize the each of us absolutely despises speaking about ourselves. "I used to be really bad. It was like an addiction and I couldn't stop. Then one day I gave myself a stick-and-poke for fun and it fucking hurt, like really bad, but it was beautiful. So now whenever I feel the need to self-harm, I make it into art instead."
"Smart girl." I say, taking in the beauty that is her. I watch as she presses another kiss to my skin, but this time to my palm instead, whilst her thumb caresses the raised skin scar tissue on my arm.
She looks up at me, smiling. "Can I ask you something?" he tone wavers with hesitancy and she looks away. When I don't answer, she continues. "Is that why you do drugs? As a form of self-harm? Like, does it help you?"
My forehead creases and for some reason, I feel uncomfortable about the subject. Everyone who knows me or knows of me, knows that I am an addict. I don't wish to waste effort attempting to hide it. But the subject of my addiction has never come up between us and that is what makes me uncomfortable. I don't know if she cares or if it bothers her. I don't know if she's against it. I don't know what she expects from me.
I have had countless people in my life express their need for me to give up my survival to appease them and never once have I done so. Not for my mother, not for my sister, not for my father, and not for anyone else either.
I hope that she doesn't expect me to quit because I can't do it. Not even for her.
"In a way." I respond after some thought. "It was more of an escape from the way that I was feeling." it was an escape from myself.
Her mouth forms an O shape as she nods. "Tell me more about it."
I watch as she sits up and I watch her with a puzzled expression as she darts over to her desk. "About what?" I query as she rummages through a messy, unorganized drawer.
She takes a moment to respond as she searches for something, then she closes the drawer and walks over to me with a small bottle of black liquid in hand. "About your addiction." she answers like it's not this heavy topic that makes me feel like dying. "I want to understand it—you. I want to understand you."
As she sits back down on the bed, the vibrant red light accentuating the red in her hair, I watch her tug her jumper over her head and toss it onto the floor, leaving her in the white button-up shirt with the London Prep logo on the front.
She sits cross-legged next to my stomach, then she takes one of my two hands which rest on either side of me and places it on her knee. She screws the top off the bottle, then a pungent alcohol smell fills the air and I screw my face up. It's fucking nail polish.
"What do you want to know?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
Her eyes remain on my fingers as she presses the brush to my short nail and swipes the black velvety liquid upward. "When did you start?"
"When I first started secondary school. It was just weed, though. No heavy stuff." I explain and she doesn't seem too surprised. It's not abnormal for teenagers to smoke weed around here. "Then in my last year, I tried other things, and then I just couldn't stop."
By this, she seems more surprised. "So, you've been an addict since you were, like, twelve?" I shrug. I don't know, roughly, I guess? It wasn't often until I turned fourteen. "So, that's ten years."
This is why I didn't want to have this conversation.
This nauseating feeling settles in the pit of my stomach and I gradually feel it climbing and clawing at the walls of my throat.
Ten fucking years. I never even thought about it that way. Almost half of my life.
"Can we not talk about this?" I snap, turning my face to the side. Away from her.
Rory exhales, painting another finger. "I won't judge you."
I don't answer.
"Atlas," she uses her spare hand to reach over and grab my face, but I resist. "Please." she begs.
I inhale deeply, closing my eyes tightly. "Yes, Rory. Ten years." I seethe.
Ten fucking years.
"What's the longest that you've ever been sober for?"
I keep my eyes closed hoping that maybe the tiredness will become too much and I can fall asleep and escape these questions. "Almost a year. I was in rehab for a while."
I don't elaborate because being in rehab was the worst, most agonizing period of time for me. There were treatments after treatments. Detoxing. I was shaking constantly. I couldn't sleep because I was so cold. Everything hurt. It literally felt like I attempted suicide by jumping off a building, but failed miserably.
Mum paid a lot for me to be there and considering when I finished secondary school, I was just under eighteen, I had no say in whether or not I went. There were chandeliers and gold accents in the restrooms and well-made sandwiches for lunch, but none of it meant anything when you could barely breathe without it hurting, let alone take the time to appreciate a fucking ham and cheese sandwich.
Coming out was the worst.
I remember Alula running out of the car and tackling me to the ground. I remember mum complimenting me on how healthy and youthful I appeared. I remember dad looking at me like I was no longer made of transparency and glass.
But the worst part—knowing that as soon as they all went to sleep tonight, I would be taking my first hit in a year. It sounds fucked—it is fucked. But something people fail to understand is that no matter how intensely others want you to be better and fixed won't do anything for someone who doesn't want it themself.
I never intended on getting better.
"That must have been hard." Rory speaks finally.
I hum in agreement. "It was." I confirm.
"Have you ever wanted to get better?" she asks yet another question and I'm convinced that she won't ever run out of things to ask me.
I shake my head and I'm grateful my eyes are closed because I don't want to know what her reaction is right now. "No." I say truthfully.
Only ever for other people. I've always wanted to get better for my family, but I have never actually wanted it myself.
"And. . .if we were to continue down this road—you and me, us—this," she says, and I turn to face her, watching as she gestures between us. "Would you expect me to just stand by and watch?"
I know what she's trying to say.
I look at her, and her face is stricken pale, and worried. She doesn't want to know the answer. "I don't expect anything from you, Rory." I say firmly, searching her eyes. She doesn't want to meet mine. "I don't expect you to stay or to watch or to carry any of this. I'd try my best to keep my addiction and our relationship separate."
She looks at me for a very long time—just staring at me. And I can't read her. I don't know what she's thinking.
"I hope, for both of our sake, that can be true."
A U T H O R ' S N O T E
hi everyone!
long time no see. sorry i've been so busy w assignments and i unfortunately had to put them first even though i really didn't want to. i hope u enjoyed this chapter <3
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