Poor Atlas

It’s raining outside and every drop can be seen in the pumpkin-orange streetlights. He’s on the bed with the girl. He has his arms around her, but he isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at one of the walls. He can’t stop staring at the wall. He stares at it like he is trying to see through to the next side. But he isn’t. All he sees are blurred walls of nothing.

Her head is in his shoulder and she’s weeping. She won’t look up at him and when she moves away she hides her eyes with her hair.

There’s nothing you can do, he says. Your parents can handle it. They’re there with him; Sam will be okay.

She doesn’t say anything. She pulls her knees up and hugs them.

It’ll be ok, he says, they found him before he did it. It, he thinks, what kind of word is it to describe something. It could mean anything, but all it means is this. It could have meant that he stopped calling his mom a bitch. Or he finally got all the way through a college course without giving up. It could have meant that instead of doing all those drugs, all that oxy, all those pills, all that shit, it could actually mean that those voices stopped talking to him and he stopped seeing all those faces and people and that he finally became himself again

It’ll be okay, he says and looks at her, but she doesn’t look up. Please, he says but she doesn’t move.

They have him now, he says. It’s going to be alright; they stopped him and that’s all that matters.

They’ve had him before, she says, her voice shaky and weak from underneath her hair. They’ve had him before. They’ve stopped him before and then they put him back out and he just tried it again. He’ll just try to do it again.

He looks at her like he wants to try to say something. To say anything. But he can’t because he hasn’t the faintest idea what to say.

With her eyes and mouth still hidden by her hair, she says, The doctors are going to just give him the same drugs so he can’t even think right and after a week, let him out. My parents are going to go home and cry and fight. My dad doesn’t want to be a part of it anymore. He wants to leave. He’s wanted to leave for a long time even though he loves my mom, but she won’t give up trying to help Sam.

She pauses and catches her breath and looks up into his eyes. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, but she looks at him with a face still and emotionless.

She says, he came home one Christmas, you know. He came home and tried to burn down the tree. He broke in through the window of what used to be the room we slept in when we were kids. My mom had to call the police when he threatened my dad with a knife.

He’s not himself anymore, she says, he’s been gone for so long; I haven’t seen him for so long.

He’ll be okay, he says and moves closer to her. He’ll get better, he says.

She leans against him and he puts his arm around her. He puts his head up against hers, closes his eyes, and leans against her, breathing against her.

Why couldn’t he have just done it? she says and her calm face breaks. Why couldn’t he just finish it? Just do it so that we don’t have to worry about him anymore?

He’ll get better one day, he says and he thinks about how worthless words are. He’ll get better. He’ll be ok.

He’s not himself anymore. It doesn’t even matter-

-He’ll get better-

-I don’t know him anymore. He doesn’t know me. He’s not my brother-

-They’ve got him, he’s going to be-

-It doesn’t even matter anymore.

She stops crying and becomes silent and lays down with her eyes closed. His throat feels dry so he walks to the bathroom and fills up a glass cup. He looks into the mirror as he fills it and then looks back into the bedroom. She’s still in the same position. He looks back to his reflection and takes a drink.

What does he think when he looks in the mirror, he thinks, does he see himself? Does he see someone else? Maybe he lies to himself, telling himself he can still see Sam. Maybe that’s when he tries to do it, when he can’t see his words anymore, when his words roll down in front of him into the gutter and leave him by himself.

Is it still raining, she asks from the other room.

He looks out the window.

Yeah, it’s still raining. It’s light.

She doesn’t say anything and he returns to the bed.

I hate this, he says.

You hate what? she says.

That all of this has happened to you and your family. It’s not fair. Your family doesn’t deserve something like this.

It’s not fair.

I’m really sorry, I’m really sorry that this has happened to Sam.

You get used to it, she says. You learn to get past it, though and forget about it. He used to be all that I thought about it when I lived back home, but now he only comes to me every once in a while.

I don’t know what I’d do if my sister was going through the same stuff as Sam, he says. I’m sorry I’m not much help. I don’t know what to say about any of this.

You are helpful, Trev, you have no idea.