I C E

A term used to describe water or a number of gases such as methane or ammonia when in a solid-state.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

THE WALLS OF Doctor Rinn's office are a navy-blue resembling the walls of my bedroom that my father and I had painted together when I was too young to barely be able to remember. Her office belongs to one of many rooms in this tall, old building. It has a very industrial feel to it, with one of the four walls being asphalt and the way that the light fixtures hung from long black cords.

Her chair was this obnoxious turquoise colour that held a mustard yellow cushion, the feet of the chair gold. Something about the amounts of colour just beneath her ass alone made me feel overwhelmed and that was the last emotion I wanted to experience along with multiple others. Anger, depression, betrayal, fear, embarrassment. I felt all of those things and none of them at the exact same time.

I sat on one side of the black leather couch, toying with one of the silver rings on my fingers, avoiding eye-contact at all costs. I have seen a therapist before, which is much like a psychologist—like Doctor Rinn, but it never helped. I don't want to be here.

"Breathe, Atlas." she tells me and I resist the urge to snap at her as I tense my jaw, gazing over at the open window which gives a perfect view of the back of another building. Beautiful. "This is just your first session. I don't expect anything huge of you, just for you to answer a few questions and maybe speak a little about yourself. But only if you are comfortable, of course."

I shake my head. "I don't like speaking about myself." are my first words to her.

I feel her emerald green eyes burning into me as I distract myself by looking over at the large aquarium near the door which I will most likely be exiting with an obnoxious slam by the time that hideous clock above it strikes two. 

A range of tropical fish swim the length of the transparent tank. It almost looks unreal because of how clean it is. Clownfish and angelfish swim in and out of the holes of the large piece of driftwood. A faint hum vibrates throughout the room as the filter attached to the glass projects water into the tank. A cool-toned light illuminates the ecosystem beneath it, enhancing the natural green that the plants already withhold.

I used to have fish once. His name was Comet and he was just a plain little goldfish but he was my first pet after my dog Grey passed. He lived a long life in that tank which sat on the wooden surface of my desk, but then I lost myself and with that, I lost my ability to exist, therefore as my old self slipped through my fingertips, my fish did too. I found myself unable to walk out of the hall and into the toilet, so how on earth could I do something as simple as remember to feed my fish when I can barely feed myself?

"Me either." she admits. "Well, can you tell me what you are feeling right now at least?"

Forcing a faux laugh, I peer up at her momentarily. "You're asking someone with bipolar how they feel?" 

Doctor Rinn sighs. "What I mean is," she pauses, taking a brief moment to gather her words properly, unlike she had before. "I would like you to tell me what you are thinking about right now. What thoughts resurface in your brain?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"Every word that you speak is confidential. Not a single thing you tell me will leave this room." she assures me, but I know that. If she so much as uttered my name to a colleague, my mother would sue her to the point of bankruptcy.

Trust is a slim factor but not the largest one. The main factor as to why my lips are glued shut is merely because I have a hard time wording the thoughts that race through my head, not because I am stupendous, but because my thoughts are rather moving at one hundred kilometres per hour, or there are none at all.

"Okay," she sighs, crossing her legs beneath her pencil skirt, her raven black hair clipped back into a loose bun. "just tell me something. Anything."

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I watch as she tries her hardest to remain confident in front of me, but beneath my scrutinizing gaze, she shifts slightly. "I don't want to be here." I tell her. "That's what I'm thinking. About how I would rather be anywhere but fucking here, and especially with that stupid filter vibrating the glass." I growl.

Warily, she stands up. "Oh, sorry. Is it bothering you?" she asks, though I don't answer because it is pretty obvious, the sound is driving me nuts.

I ball my fists as she follows the cord down to the outlet and unplugs it, though the plants offer some form of oxygen to the fish, so a mere hour without the filter will not kill them.

"Okay, so you don't want to be here. That's good, let's start with that." is this woman insane? "Why do you not want to be here?"

I glance at the multiple frames hanging on the wall behind her, holding all of her qualifications, awards, and proudest moments. My mother said that she is the best one in the city. Even if she is, I do not want to speak to her. 

"Because," I mutter. "I don't like talking about me or my life. I don't want to reminisce all of the shitty things that I did in some poorly decorated room with someone whom I have never met."

If she takes offence to my words, she doesn't show it. Ignoring my entire statement, she says: "Do you think maybe a fear of reality is why you don't want to be here?" she asks, though I don't follow. "You fear that talking upon your past and your problems, may cause you to face them."

"Did my mother put that thought into your head?" I ask with a sharp tone, sitting up from my previous slouched position.

Doctor Rinn shakes her head quickly. "No, Atlas. Your mother told me nothing more than that she wanted an appointment with me for her son." she responds, though I am sure that is complete bullocks. "It was nothing but a mere question that I am asking you."

I send her a pointed look. "It felt more like an accusation."

We don't get along, that much I can tell already, and I think she can tell too.

"Tell me about your hobbies. What do you like to do in your spare time?" is her next attempt at trying to get me to open up, but I don't want to.

I shrug. "I work at a mechanic, I guess. That's my only hobby." other than drugs and breaking things, but I don't feel like telling her that. "Do you really want to help me? I mean, how do I know that you aren't laughing at me in your head, thinking about how pathetic I am, when you have all of these awards on display and a big office. I'm probably just some stupid kid to you."

She shakes her head, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, placing the notepad down on her lap. "I do." she admits, her tone is sincere, but still, I am unsure. "And I do not think that you are pathetic, Atlas. In fact, I see multiple patients per day, and I can assure you, that of all of them, you are actually very normal."

It's rather odd, but I take her words as a compliment. I have never been one to be considered normal. 

I hum in agreement, narrowing my eyes at her. "Holding a knife to the same stomach that once held me is considered normal?"

"Ah, there we go." she grasps her notepad again, clicking the tip of the black ball-point pen. "Well, what is considered normal to you, may I ask?"

I shrug. "Not thinking about all the ways in which I could kill myself everywhere I go." I answer. "Those scissors on your desk. Easy. The window behind me. Easy. Don't even get me started on the cords."

Her eyes visibly widen and she writes something down, making me shift uncomfortably. Why the fuck did I say that? I don't want to speak to her. Especially not about my thoughts.

"The concept of normality is just a social construct, Atlas. Does it truly exist? Or is it just something that society implanted into your head?" she asks me yet again. It's strange how people like her try to be soft by asking you a question that they already know the answer to, but that don't want to say it unless you don't like that result. "Along with your apparent self-hatred and lack of care for existence, is it something that you agree with? Or is that just something that society has subconsciously forced upon you."

Social constructs. A social construct is something that exists not in objective reality, but as a result of human interaction, therefore it exists because humans agree that it exists. Humans agree that the concept of having a specific sexuality is expected—that loving someone of a different gender or more than one, is deserving of a label. Family too, is one, I suppose. Because what truly is family? Some peoples' family consists of someone that is in no way, shape, or form related to them, but due to what society agreed was right, a family is a group of people who are blood-related to you, that you will—and are expected to—love unconditionally. We are surrounded by social constructs but are not aware of it because it is us who created the entire concept itself.

"You think that I hate myself?" I avert the question.

With the slump of her shoulders, she shakes her head. "I do." she admits and though I hate that she knows that, I am grateful she is giving me an honest answer. "Tell me about your childhood, if you feel comfortable, of course. What was your homelife like? Siblings? Hobbies?"

Multiple questions all revolving around the same concept. Family. 

"Three sisters." I answer her. "One older, one younger, and one is my twin." 

The mention of my younger sister makes me feel distant and momentarily I feel myself drifting away as I imagine her in Canada with her childhood best friend and probably future husband. Everly—much like my mother—has always been so put together. Before she decides on anything, she makes an internal list of the positives and negatives. She's smart, but not just book smart, everything smart. 

I picked on her a lot when we were younger. Alula and I both would. She was—and still is—so sensitive and easy to wind up. 

One older. Mercy. My mother has always said she is just like her father, and to an extent, I see it. She's mean, protective, good at everything she does. She's perfect. And I fucking hate it.

"Three? Wow." she responds with faux enthusiasm.

I know she doesn't care.

I nod, fumbling with my thumbs. "I played soccer for a long time. I was pretty good at it, actually. Got offered a scholarship and everything."

Her dark eyes widen. "And how is that going?"

"Didn't take it." I answer and she almost looks as disappointed as my parents had looked when I told them that I was not going to college at all and that I had already directly declined the scholarship. 

It wasn't just because I didn't want it—because soccer wasn't my passion, I never loved it, I just enjoyed it—it was also because I knew that there had to be someone else on that long list that deserved it far more than I had.

"Right, because you want to fix cars for a living?" the way that she discussed it sounded as though she had just eaten a sour lolly, but nonetheless, I nod in agreement. "Overall, would you say that you had a good childhood?"

Memories flash before my eyes from my mother and father taking me to the Eiffel Tower during the summer with my sisters, to visiting family in America. It's cliché, but we ate croissants and walked along those old streets for hours until I got tired and my father had to piggy-back me the whole way back to the hotel. 

During every holiday, we would do something unforgettable and amazing. Which leads to my answer: "I had a good childhood." magnificent, even. "So, to answer your dying question, no nothing happened that made me the way that I am."

Placing the tip of the pen between her teeth, she nods. "From what I have gathered thus far, you are normal, Atlas. You are no monster." yes, I am. I tried to stab my fucking mother, which is why I am here to begin with. Because of what I almost did to her. What I could have done to her. I am here because of her. 

Her words send an untamable amount of anger coursing through me, hot and red, causing my knuckles to turn pink as I ball my fists, and white frost freezes over my heart, turning it to ice, and as I zone out, I hear the distant beating of my heart disappear, reminding me that I am the furthest thing from human. I am a monster. And the fact that nothing caused me to be like this makes me even angrier. This is just me. There is no rhyme or reason, I am just a fucking terrible, miserable, unsavable human.

"You don't know me." I stand up abruptly. "I know it's your job to try and fix me but you can't. And I won't let you."

Something Pandora had said just weeks again rings in my ears. You can't be saved. In which I responded with: I don't want to be saved. When the fuck will everyone just accept that? Unless they can transport me into a different body with an entirely different brain and mentality, I don't want anything other than for everyone to fuck off and leave me be until I am no longer here to ruin everything and every bloody person around me.

My vision blurs with anger as I step past the hideous coffee table and storm out of Doctor Rinn's office, and as I had predicted earlier, I slammed the door too. I follow the way I had come in, down the long, thin hall, then entering the lobby where other patients sat on the seats, watching Animal Planet playing on the small television mounted onto the wall.

I exit the building and walk onto the crowded streets of London. My hand slides into my back pocket and I pull out a clear bag with two white pills. I put both on my tongue, and I swallow.

A U T H O R ' S  N O T E
hi everyone! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, i feel like it involved more of atlas and who he really is—or more so who he thinks he is. this chapter was honestly really fun to write but let me know what you thought! anyways please remember to vote, comment, and follow me, also read "always atlas" by Gemma_Grace_ for auroras pov. also if any of you share any experiences or issues like atlas please do message me! okay i love you all, see you sunday <3