L I M B

The outer edge or border of a planet or other celestial body.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

I'M NOT QUITE sure what it is that brings me to be awake this early. It could be the wreaking havoc the trees are creating outside as the wind sends their branches slamming into the exterior of the house. Or it could be the wind in general, the way it swooshes loudly. Or it could be the pretty little girl snoring into the side of my neck.

I have never slept with someone before. Ironically, I have slept with people, but there was actually no sleeping done. This time, we did nothing but sleep. 

I have been awake for a while now. Her blue lights are still on which is nice because too much darkness gives me anxiety sometimes. When we fell asleep just two hours ago around two AM, she remained on my chest, knees straddling my hips. Her hand was still drowning in mine and I was stuck lying on my back, which usually is my least favourite position—it makes my neck really fucking sore—but for two hours, it was fine. It was worth it.

I peer up at her thin, long window closer to the ceiling than it is to the floor and I notice the dark night sky has blurred into the thick grey clouds which welcome London's residents every day, almost. When I grab her phone, I see that it's ten past four. 

Ever so gently, I slide her off of me and onto the mattress next to us, like she's made of glass—but she isn't, I think a girl like her would be made of iron rather that a material that shatters easily.

In her sleep, she groans. As I stand up, I can physically feel all of her warmth leaving my body.

This morning when I woke up, I felt—and still do—like absolute shit. My body knows I haven't taken anything in too long. It knows that joint last night wasn't enough.

I need to get to my car, find my wallet, text my dealer, and meet up with him. That has to be put first. I can't go home empty-handed, otherwise the next week—my last week at my family home, I hope—will be miserable. Being there without having the luxury of taking a hit of something, is like being put into complete isolation. It's the only thing I can do to actually enjoy my time there. Mother has called the dean personally it UCL and given an award-worthy fucking excuse to excuse my absences, and Raven's my father's best friend, so he knows I won't be in for work, so really, I have no excuse to leave the house.

I offer her sleeping body one last glance before I head toward the door, turning the handle, then exiting. I close it quietly before manoeuvring through the living room and making my way toward the front door. Just as I near it, I hear light footsteps coming from the same direction I just had.

"Wait!" she says, almost urgently. I turn around and she's standing near the kitchen, rubbing her arms as she shivers, her teeth chatter. Her hair is in a ponytail but most of her hair is too short to reach the top of her head, so the front pieces and a lot of her hair at the back hangs loose and messily around her face. "Don't go yet."

The sound of her morning voice makes me want to argue with her just so that I can. But I don't.

"But it's four," I state, gesturing to the stairs. "Your father will be up soon."

She shakes her head. "I don't care." her sincerity surprises me. 

I depart from the door and walk over to her, stopping in front of her small figure. "You look so fucking pretty in the morning, you know that?" I whisper, tucking her hair behind her ear. "So fuckin' pretty."

Shyly, she rolls her eyes. "No way." she moves away from me, appearing nervous as she walks into the open kitchen and grabs a water bottle out of the fridge before chugging the entire thing down. She offers me one but I shake my head. "It's lemon water." she tries to convince me, but I still say no.

As she leans against the counter and opens her second bottle—drinking this one much slower than the first—I purposefully walk over to her, placing my hands on her waist. Her eyes narrow as she places the bottle down on the granite.

I notice two orange containers behind her with the name Margaret Kingsley imprinted on them, next to the fruit bowl which holds overly ripe bananas and one lemon, along with several cheap-brand non-prescribed medications from the pharmacy. Something inside me has me moving even closer as I press my cold lips against her equally cold skin and she gasps. I move my left hand to the back of her head and tug it to the side, giving me more access to her. She moans, so quietly, I almost miss it.

I continue to leave soft kisses down the entire side of her neck from her ear down to her collarbone as I reach behind her and take one of the containers. I almost turn stiff when the pills rattle in the bottle but as they do, I bite down on her flesh and she doesn't seem to hear a single thing as he moans drown out any other possible sound as I slide the container into my pocket.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Heavy ones and suddenly my little kisses aren't enough to keep her still anymore as her eyes widen.

"I can't believe you're actually leaving." she says in a whisper, sounding breathless. I cock an eyebrow. Why is that a surprise? As though she can hear my silent questions, she answers, "I just didn't think you cared to leave at the time I actually asked. So, you're leaving?"

I watch her awkwardly. I'm not one to physically sleep with people—and what happened before, that was more a nap, anyway, those don't count—she wants me to stay, I'm not stupid. . .but I think I want to leave.

"I'll listen." she says lowly and I furrow my eyebrows. She will listen to what? "I'll listen. Tell me what's wrong." Her voice is stern and equally sincere. 

I shake my head. "Just not feeling too good, it's nothing."

She opens her mouth to say something then closes them. The footsteps don't sound so distant anymore, and she seems extremely on edge, but quickly she gets out what she needs to. "Once you said that you don't like speaking because no one cares what you have to say," she looks up at me and those dark eyes in contrast to her bare face is quite possibly the most pretty thing I have ever seen. "I care. And I feel like a bloody softy saying that, but I do. I'll listen, Atlas." 

She puts emphasis on the last three words that I uttered a mere few hours ago. She may care but I can feel the heaviness closing over and I feel myself backing away, both mentally and physically, and even though she's telling me I can talk to her, I don't have it within me to actually speak. I simply nod before nodding toward the door and she exhales like she wasn't hoping for that answer.

My eyelids feel like they weigh a ton and I suddenly feel like I owe her something. I can't offer her my words or any affection. My eyes drift down to her phone in her hand and I take it from her hand, unlocking it with the code I saw her use last night. I see the note I typed last night and then I add my number below it, rather than adding it to her contacts, so she doesn't feel obligated to use it.

I pass it back to her before she follows me to the door, which I'm sure isn't how it usually goes—not for her, but certainly for me. Before I leave, I think she expects me to say something but I don't. I walk out and I don't stop nor do I look back. I don't say goodbye. 

I'm not the greatest at goodbyes, which is ironic. You would think I would be by now, but the unspoken truth is that my goodbyes don't encompass actually saying goodbye at all. I think goodbyes aren't ever really about the person leaving, but the person being left behind.

I begin my long journey back to where the party took place. I have never quite experienced London this early in the morning. Only in the city. Outside of the city, everything is silent. Dead silent, and I like it. I exhale and my breath turns into almost transparent fog. My jeans and jumper don't seem to be doing hardly enough to keep me warm.

I tug my hood on and rub my hands together, walking down the footpath as I grow further and further away from Rory's house. But even though I chose to leave, it feels like her hands have stretched all the way from where I left her at her front doorstep, to where I am, trying to pull me back. The sight of her just mere minutes ago floods my vision; the way her short hair tucks behind her ears, the way her lips are still swollen from last night, the way her eyes look so bright so early in the morning. But as I turn a corner and pull out the container I took from her kitchen counter, her hands disappear.

Two white pills. I swallow two white pills dryly and I feel most like myself I have since I woke up in the hospital. My body still aches for something stronger, but not quite as much as it aches when I'm sober.

I walk for what feels like hours—and probably was—but I'm not too sure how long it actually was considering I don't have my phone. The point is, I find my car parked not too far from the party and I feel instantly relieved when I see her shiny black exterior. I find my keys in one of my pockets and unlock it, sliding into the front seat.

My phone rests on the passenger seat and I don't bother checking it.

I place my key into the ignition, turning it until my car roars to life, the engine purring loudly. Me and my father fucking love this car. We spent weeks at Raven's suiting her up, wrapping it, upgrading it. I think my car is the only thing that I own and actually have some feelings toward.

I don't care for my seatbelt, instead, I press my foot down on the accelerator and even with little pressure, I'm sent zooming forward. I lean back in my seat, one handset on the top of the steering wheel, my other resting on the gear stick.

I travel through the city which is already noticeably more alive than the outer suburbs where I just was—people hurrying to work or getting coffee. Eventually, I exit the city and enter Fulham. Turning down King Street and then onto the street of my parents' home, I pull up alongside their house.

My car idles for a moment before I kill the engine. I don't exit the car straight away, instead, I sit and watch the priceless house which makes every other one on the street look cheap. It makes me wonder what my parents had to do to get where they are. They migrated from America to the UK when they were relatively young and somehow, they now have everything they could ever ask for. The big house in a safe residency, wealth, fame, children. I feel like I should be envious but I'm not. I know I could never have any of that and I don't want absolutely any of it.

I check the time on the screen of my radio. Six-forty-two AM. It's a Saturday, so no one should be up for a while—an hour, at least.

I quietly close my car door before walking up the front steps and using my key to get inside. As soon as I close the door I turn around and jump in fright.

"Fuck," I curse, seeing my father sitting on the third step from the bottom, holding his head in his hands. "Fucking hell, dad. What are you doing?" I say in a whisper.

He can't even look at me, instead, her looks down at his shoes. The familiar feeling of guilt swirls around in the bottom of my stomach before he stands up. I notice then how awfully tired she looks. Staring back at him feels like seeing myself thirty years from now—if I were to live that long. The dark bags, the lifeless blue eyes.

None of the lights is on and it makes me wonder how long he has been seated there for.

He shakes his head slowly. "All night, Atlas." he says disappointedly. "All night I have been driving around looking for you. Your sister said you were at some party and she never saw you again after that, do you know how bloody worried I have been?"

I cower back, only because I absolutely hate when my father is mad at me. I can't believe Alula fucking snitched on me.

I consider apologizing but instead, something else comes out. "Does mum know?"

He hesitates, running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands angrily, and then to my surprise, he shakes his head. "No." he says and my mouth falls open. "When we got back last night, I told her you were asleep in bed. If you had walked through that door two minutes later, she would know. I'm not keeping secrets from my wife—your mother, Atlas. Make the right decisions that don't just benefit yourself."

His tone isn't loud but it's still extremely stern and I nod without thinking despite both of us knowing I won't do as he says. I don't thank him because I can't speak, but I am glad to know that he didn't tell my mother. I don't want to fight with her right now. I don't want to listen to her cry or tell me how disappointed she is. I already know.

Besides, dad knowing is bad enough.

I attempt to step past him but he places a warm hand on my shoulder, preventing me from leaving. "I looked everywhere for you, Atlas. I checked every alleyway, every bus stop, every public restroom, every street. I called the police to check if they found anyone matching your description. . ." 

As he trails off, I feel my short nails digging into the skin of my palms. I hate that he hasn't slept. I hate that he's disappointed. I hate that he lied to my mother. And most of all, I hate that I am the reasoning behind it all.

"I was worried sick that you were dead somewhere and how would your mother ever forgive me for lying to her if that happened?" he continues. his question is rhetorical but just knowing he spent the entire night searching for me makes me want to kill myself. I can physically feel the guilt clawing its way up my throat. "It's not about her, though. The thought of you not being around anymore kills me, Atlas. Just. . ."

Change.

That's what he wants to say. Just change. Just. Change. But he can't say it because he knows it isn't that simple. He knows because he was once like me. Not at bad but he was similar. 

I shake my head. "I know. Sorry." I reply, looking down at my shoes, just wanting this conversation to be over.

I hope for my insincere apology to end the conversation, so that I can go to bed and sleep until I don't feel like such a fucking burden anymore, but the truth is, I'll always be a fucking burden. That's all I am. And as much as I wish I could, I can't physically sleep forever. I mean, I suppose I can, in theory.

"Come with me." my father demands and I reluctantly follow him as he walks toward the door and opens it.

I follow him outside, closing it behind me as I follow behind him confusedly. We step onto the footpath and he walks around my car, standing on the passenger's side before giving me an impatient expression.

"Get in the car." he says sternly.

My eyebrows knit together. "What? Why?"

"Get in the car, Atlas." 

Still not completely following, I fumble with my keys before pressing the unlock button and getting into my seat—the driver's seat. Just like before, I place my keys in the ignition and begin driving, though I'm not sure where exactly I'm headed.

"Make a left up here." he says as I near the end of the street.

I indicate left before turning. The next ten minutes are spent like this. Him directing me and me following the directions. Eventually, we end up at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital—the hospital I was born in and also the hospital I almost died in.

As I park, I audibly groan. I fucking hate hospitals. It's the place where my life started—the life I didn't ask for—and I hate it for that. Not to mention, those doctors and nurses, they saved me. More than once. And I know that's their job and fucking good for them for saving people who need and want to be saved, but I didn't.

My father exits the car first but I take a moment. He doesn't rush me, though. He stands at the hood of my car and peers up at the tall, hideous brick building. I clench my hands tightly around the steering wheel, so tightly that my knuckles pale in colour, and momentarily my eyelids flutter shut. I'm so fucking tired. 

Finally, I exit the car, then lock it. I walk toward my father and he begins walking toward the building and with every step closer, I physically feel my body becoming more and more tense. The thought of being here for no good reason makes it even harder, but my father is stubborn—I suppose that's where I get it from—and I'm not strong enough to argue with him on this right now. If it were my mother, probably. She's easier to win against.

He pushes the door open, then holds it open for me. I step inside and am instantly greeted by warmth. At least it isn't as cold in here as it is outside.

Thankfully, we don't walk far, thankfully, instead, we head straight for the waiting room on this floor and sit down, occupying two of the five empty seats available. Unasked questions begin to fill me and I feel myself beginning to feel trapped and claustrophobic, unable to breathe properly.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. Countless missed calls and messages from my sister, even more from my mother, and even some from Solar. But those aren't the ones I'm focused on. It's the one at the top.

(Unknown, 7:06 AM)
Hi it's me. I swear if you gave me someone else's number, I'll strangle you.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. It's her. I add her to my contacts before responding.

(Me, 7:06 AM)
Who is this??

(Me, 7:07 AM)
Kidding.

I snort, knowing that would have pissed her off. I didn't even think she would use the number, especially not after how I left. Last night was. . .fun, but that was last night. Just last night. I thought things would have ended on my leaving this morning. I accepted that and I didn't care, but quite obviously her thoughts were not as similar as mine.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

(Red, 7:07 AM)
Fuck you.

I turn off my phone, sliding it back into my pocket as my father nudges me with his knee. I snap my head in his direction, irritated. He doesn't say anything, we just sit there, and we wait. Just wait. For what, I don't know, but I think an entire hour passes before a doctor enters the room, walking over to the family seated across from us and announces the delivery of a baby birth.

Each member bursts with joy. Both audible and physical. The middle-aged woman cries tears of pure happiness and the man next to her seems both relieved and equally excited. The other few surrounding them share similar reactions.

"That's exactly how your mother and I felt when you and your sister were born. Two minutes apart, and ironically, you almost killed her, you asshole." he nudges me with his shoulder and I snort. I think Everly was the only child that didn't give my mother complications during childbirth. "I'll never tell Mercy, or Lula, or Ever this, but of all my children, I was most happiest when you entered this world. My first and only son."

I didn't know he felt that way.

My head hangs low and I don't dare to look him in the eye as the family leaves the room to meet the baby who unknowingly granted them so much joy.

"I'm sorry I didn't turn out to be the son you wanted." the words fall from my lips and I feel a numb tear slide down my cheek as I turn away from him briefly and wipe it with my sleeve.