When Atlas Fell // 1.1

-i-

Knock-knock. Who’s there?

Not your neighbour.

-

It would perhaps be considered dramatic, in this day and age, for a young lady of sixteen to proclaim to the world at large that she has been born into the wrong century. A mundane century. A century that the idealist could not devour with their eyes and failed to devour even with words—but which, I was adamant, could thoroughly devour them.

Hence, the story of how my life was devoured, not by the great jaws of some fantastic moral reckoning or apocalyptic event, but by an idiot of a man who weaseled his way into, and completely wrecked, my life.

I freaking swear I’m not even kidding.

It had been a sweltering day when Mum announced her engagement to the man-next-door-whom-I’d-never-met-before. Sweltering—partly because of the infernal weather, and partly because aunties of all shapes and sizes, and with hats of all shapes and sizes, and children of all shapes and sizes, had infiltrated our house. The man himself, whom Mum was supposed to marry, was thin and reedy. I swear to all the Mr Darcys I’ve never had the fortune to meet, I’ve never seen anyone that thin and reedy before. He looked positively skeletal. Skeletal!

When he stood up to stand by Mum, I observed, from my vantage point behind the large bust of Julius Caesar in the hall, that he moved like a sloth. Sloths were my least favourite animal.

I decided I did not like Mr Sloth. Even when Mum came outside to ‘break the wonderful, wonderful news—oh, darling!’, and had him shake my hand, I did not like him. I did not like him as I was steered into the living room and made to look at all the aunties who had been invited to the mini-celebration. I did not like him as we were made to stand before the fireplace and have pictures snapped of our soon-to-be-perfect-‘family’. I did not like him. I refused to smile in any of the pictures. Sloth, of course, seemed delighted to meet me.

I, unfortunately, could not say the same. I scowled when he smiled, and scowled harder when he laughed. His arm was heavy around my shoulders as we stood like statues for the innumerable Facebook-status-worthy photographs my mother insisted her friends take for her. Mr Sloth smelled of mothballs. When he spoke, his thin voice reminded me, irresistibly, of pulling up weeds in the garden, and I fancied how similar the action would be to ripping the vocal cords out of his throat. How dare this man attempt to replace my father and wheedle his way into my house! I was perfectly sure there was money involved. There had to be, at least on his side. And on my mother’s side…?

Bah. She looked perfectly happy, but she had to have some ulterior motive as well. I decided, then and there, that I hated her as well. Yes, hated her. In fact, I had never hated her more, never even when she threw out my Hardy Boys collection during Year Five and didn’t even have the decency to apologise for it. I dug my nails into the fabric of my summer dress, knowing that if I drew blood, its bright-red colour wouldn’t let it show. An apt colour, red, I thought. Very rage-fitting. Also indicative of possible gore-shedding to take place? By my hands? Possibly. Foreshadowing real life events? Life’s latest literary device? I’d bet my grandmother’s knickers on the latter.

My thoughts took on a variety of tangents, most of them not so nice, as Mum pinched my sides and hissed at me to stand up straight.

Oh, how dearly I wanted to hiss back.

‘Judith, doll, fetch the lemonade, wouldn’t you?’ Mum said once the photograph parade was over. I glared at her, and hoisted an exaggerated smile on my face when I caught the aunties looking.

‘Certainly, dearest of mothers,’ I cooed. ‘You do know what they say. When the world gives you lemonade, make company.’ I laughed a shrill laugh, and several aunties echoed in my wake.

‘Oh, isn’t she funny!’ one of them giggled, her brown pouf wobbling on her head.

‘Funny, funny!’ an orange-haired mother of two joined in, bouncing both her twins expertly on her lap.

Mum smiled a strained smile at me, and gestured toward the door. ‘Eight-fifty,’ she said quietly as I passed by her, ‘eight glasses at a time. Two minutes per round. By nine o’clock, done.’

I nodded. And I wasn’t a second off doing it, either.

Nine o’clock found me standing at the sink, languidly staring into the garden. Or, perhaps, squinting would be the more appropriate term, considering the infernal weather that had decided to grace London that day. No rain at all! It was disappointing, as breaks in routine tended to be.

‘And in two weeks, ladies, marriage!’ my mother squealed in the living room. Several more squeals followed, each auntie striving, it seemed, to reach a higher pitch than the last. I groaned, and slumped against the sink, dragging a wet hand across my face. No doubt my mascara was all over my cheeks now, but I couldn’t really be bothered to care. Dad was two weeks dead and Mum was already getting married. Wonderful, wonderful life, I thought sardonically, taking up the dishcloth again.

‘Oh, yes, a fantastic wedding!’ Mr Sloth could be heard braying. ‘A wonderful wedding! Make your jaws pop and your eyes—or, wait, no, your eyes pop and your jaws, er…’

‘Drop open, darling?’

‘Yes, that—blighter of a phrase, drop open, yeah, that’s what it is!’ And the aunties all giggled.

I rolled my eyes. ‘I think, Dishcloth,’ I said, gravely, to the item in question, ‘that I have never understood fully the implications of the term “breaking the news” until today. Have you?’ I made Dishcloth waggle his head in answer. ‘Yes, Mr Dishcloth, never have I ever wanted more to break something—in this case, the preferable ‘something’ would be Mr Sloth’s thin, weedy, irritating countenance. Thin and weedy! No—no Mr Darcys and Knightleys in this world! No Mr Seldens or less-auspicious Rosedales! No sirree!’ I viciously scrubbed my hands with soap. ‘She couldn’t have waited for a more decent time to get hitched, now, could she?’ I asked the dishcloth. It didn’t reply, but I imagined it nodding in response. Huffing, I rinsed my hands, trying to block out the tirade of voices issuing from the living room.

‘I didn’t have many expectations for this summer, Dishcloth,’ I continued, nostrils flaring. I closed my eyes. ‘No, no expectations at all, especially not when you count the fact that I had to come home from school a week before the end of term … and to attend a funeral! All—I—wanted’—I grunted as I wiped down the now-sparkling sink—‘was a strict adherence to schedule. You know the drill: waking up at seven, shower at eight, breakfast at eight-thirty, dusting at nine … ten swishes! Precisely ten swishes across the bookshelf in the family lounge! And going out for a romp with Chris at nine-thirty. Now, is that so very much to ask for?’

The shrill sound of laughter rang through the house. I winced, resisting the urge to stuff a fork into one of my ears. I grumbled until the laughter died down, then continued my tirade once more.

‘Atlas,’ I declared, depositing the various cleaning cloths on the sideboard, ‘could not have had it worse. For the burden I bear…’ I paused, reaching back for the dishcloth. Sticking my head out of the window, I looked over the hedges with all the expression tragedy required. ‘For the burden I bear, in a house filled with aunties of all shapes and sizes, and a Sloth, and a mother who is most tactfully reassuring—oh, the burden I bear’—I dropped the dishcloth into the bushes with dramatic flair—‘is not a burden fit by humankind to be borne.’

This deliciously-poetic statement was followed by a stark silence, such as is expected from an empty garden; but it was quickly broken as Chris’s head peered from around the corner. He was hooting with laughter.

‘Well done, Nick Bottom, well done!’ he nearly hollered, walking up the path until he stood directly opposite me, his eyes mere creases in his pale face. ‘Bravo! Par excellence!’ He started clapping, but wave after wave of laughter shook him until he was too indisposed to even do that.

‘Oi.’ I scowled at him. ‘Don’t laugh. It isn’t funny.’

He only laughed harder. And continued laughing, until I’d clambered over the sink and clumsily climbed out of the window. I fell with a thump into the bushes. Right on top of the still-wet dishcloth. The uncomfortable wetness seeped through the bottom of my frock and I groaned.

Even the dishcloth’s forsaken me, I thought, extricating the offending item from underneath me. I tossed it back through the window. Turning my glare on Chris instead, I grumbled, ‘Least help me up, you dolt.’

His laughter having mellowed considerably, Chris obliged. ‘A burden not fit to be borne—I swear, Jude, you’ll kill me one day, you and those theatrics of yours.’

‘Stop outlining my aims in life, Chris,’ I said, whacking him upside the head. ‘But I will murder you one of these days, and you can turn that into a comedy if you want, too.’

He shook his head, his dark, long-ish hair swinging around his face. ‘Anything with you in it is a tragi-comedy,’ he said, grinning.

‘Right now,’ I growled, ‘it’s a tragedy. Oh, I’ll tell you,’ I said, returning his curious look with a dark one, ‘as soon as you take me bloody well away from this cesspit.’

‘That bad today?’

I nodded. He frowned and patted my elbow. ‘Well, then—library?’ he asked cheerfully, gesturing towards the book tucked under his arm. ‘I’ve got one to return this week, can’t borrow another ‘til I come back from the fam’s trip to China. You didn’t borrow anything last week, right?’ He swung open the gate and stepped gingerly over Mum’s alders. They brushed his heels and shook their star-shaped, purple-kissed heads at him.

I shrugged at him, and followed. The flowers’ heads bobbed as I shut the gate, almost disapprovingly. Should have asked mummy for permission, they seemed to say. Their leaves quivered at me in the light breeze and even the swing Dad had built on Old Oak Marybeth seemed to creak at me in protest. Or maybe it was creaking because it was a hot day. Or maybe it was mourning. I hauled in a deep breath, before turning and following Chris down the street. As soon as I fell into step with him, I started, ‘So this morning, I found out that…’

~*~