Atlas

For everyone, Atlas is a means. A walking stick used to hike up a mountain.

For me, Atlas is survival.

“Atlas.” My voice echoes in the empty space of my apartment, and it takes only a minute for the familiar whirr to awake beneath my fingers. I breathe in the coffee air, listening keenly to the faint wisps of air swaying around me when a deep, male voice starts from the speakers of my laptop.

“Yes, Sonny, how can I help you today?”

I lean back in my chair, enjoying the creak that follows, and twist one long strand of my hair around my finger.

“Can you postpone my meeting with Don?” I ask, following the black twists behind my eyelids, “Tell him I can’t make it today.”

Atlas doesn’t wait a beat before echoing out a familiar response, “Message Sent. I will notify you of any response. Can I help you with anything else, Sonny?”

“You can go through the procedures now.”

A distant whirr roams the laptop before the array of questions rises, “How are you feeling today, Sonny?”

“Good.”

“How do your eyes feel?”

I huff out a laugh, “Dark.”

“Please limit your answers to the following suitable responses: Great. Good. Bad. Worse.”

“Bad.” I say, thinking back to the pulsing headache that follows every time I force myself to try to look past the black in my eyes.

“Would you like me to connect you to Dr. Cynthia Meyers?”

The thought of hearing Cynthia’s voice feels like drenching myself in ice-cold water willingly. I shudder at the thought.

“No. I would like your help with something else today.”

“What would you like help with, Sonny?”

My fingers slip to the edge of my desk and tighten. With a small tug, I pull myself forward until I can feel the desk dig into my chest. Atlas, to date, has been only a way of surviving the most menial tasks. Doctor appointments. Family contact. School.

Enough to live alone. Enough to wade through this dark world.

Today’s different.

“Can you open a Word document for me?”

“Open and ready for use, Sonny.” Atlas returns within a second. He must be right because through my speakers at a volume of 100, I can practically hear the tick of the cursor appearing and disappearing. A bomb. A spark of flame waiting to be lit.

Maybe I’ll light it today.

I breathe in deeply, “Can you give me a prompt for writing?”

“Any preferences in genre?”

My fingers slide over the surface of the keys. I let the pad of my forefinger slide on the first five letters on the keyboard, imagining a familiar qwerty appearing on the screen,

“Melancholy.”

It’s not really a genre. It’s only an emotion, an odd one at that, striking at the worst moments. But before I know it, Atlas floods me with word after word, piecing together sentences until I settle on my favorite.

“That one.” I say, and Atlas whirrs under my fingers again,

“You have selected the following prompt: Alone in the forest, she sees only…”

I lean forward immediately, excitement a sudden lurch in my stomach. How long has it been since I’ve sat down to actually try?

Too long, I breathe to myself, it’s been too long.

But when my fingers fall on the familiar keys (thumb on the space bar and ring fingers on the letters “E” and “I”, I imagine), I can’t help but falter. I know the keys on my keyboard by heart. I know I can write without looking. I’ve done it before.

Only then it wasn’t permanent.

Now it is.

So, what if I’m not as good as I was back then?

What if I’m done?

It’s that question that sparks another on my lips, “What do I see, Atlas?”

Atlas’s response is a remarkable thing, really.

“You see black.”

I smile and hover my finger on the keys “T”, “G”, “H”, and then “B”.

“I see black indeed." I whisper and begin writing.

Melancholy

Alone in the forest, she sees only black. It isn’t night, she can still feel the warmth of the sun on her face. She isn’t locked anywhere; she can hear the wind–

(“Atlas,” I ask, “What sound do you suppose wind makes?”

“It whistles, Sonny.”)

She can hear the wind whistle through the trees. It passes through the leaves and twists around her, a wild child asking for attention. She wants to close her eyes and give in, but what would be the point? She wouldn’t be able to see any of it anyway.

(I stall another moment, “What do you think could happen to her if she’s stuck in a forest, Atlas?”

“She falls under high risk of injury or medical conditions if unprepared. Would you like me to make a chronological list of events that are possible to occur?”

I only hum.)

Her heartbeat has receded to a dull thud in her chest. She uses it to scrape her nails raw on the harsh soil and shove herself up. A grunt leaves her lips at the sudden movement. Damn those fates. How dare they throw her down here in such a weak vessel?

How dare they–

(I sigh, my fingers hesitating and ask, “Who do you think lives in the skies, Atlas?

“Many airborne creatures are known to take to the skies at least once a day and–”

“No, no.” I interrupt, “Someone who hasn’t been seen yet, but everyone believes they’re real.”

The answer’s right there in front of me. A wisp, waiting to be caught. I can practically hear it move closer, only a hand’s length away. I don’t reach out, though. Atlas does it for me.

“In many religions,” Atlas says, “The unknown beings living above us are generally given the term of Gods.”

The word hits me like a gust of air, slapping right into my face and shoving me backward.

“A God thrown to the ground with no eyesight.” I say breathlessly, “A God blind.”)

How dare they touch a God?

“Are you alright?”

The sudden voice has her snapping her head up. How did she not notice the obvious presence of another creature? How far had the fates thrown her? How far had she fallen? Surely not where she thought. Surely not…

A shift in black in her irises has her jerking in thought. She throws her chin up blindly, an animalistic twist to her lips.

“Who are you?” she rasps unkindly and is met with a flurry of air. The black in her eyes moves, like a figure leaning closer. A revolting edge drags up her stomach,

(If I’m in the place of the goddess, then…

“How should he respond, Atlas?

“Excellent work until now. His response could be, “Can’t you see me?” considering her loss of eyesight. Might I suggest a further dialogue between the two?

“Not yet.”)

“Can’t you see me?” The voice moves closer. It’s male. Younger than her– but at this point, what isn’t?

“Are you really– Woah!” The voice breaks up when she snaps back with a snarl. That man, that child, he was going to touch her. He was going to lay his hands on her. She doesn’t even realize she’s baring her teeth until the wind tears around her and a terrible rage falls upon her like a tidal–

(“Might I suggest some reductions in the passage above?” Atlas’s voice startles me enough for my fingers to slip on the keyboard. I click my tongue,

“Sure.” I say, albeit a bit distastefully, “And make grammatical changes as necessary.”)

“Don’t you dare,” she growls, but the strength she wishes for isn’t there. No, there's only rage that descends upon the stranger.

“That’s some nails you got there–” and he grabs a hold of her wrists before she can rip his face off. Her wrists!

She gives away a sharp cry and shoves against the hold, but it doesn’t budge.

(“How do you calm a person down?”

“You speak to them gently and try to minimize their exposure to any harmful settings.”)

“Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you. Hey! Listen to me!”

The authority in his voice has her stilling. An outraged gasp of surprise leaves her lips. This man. This lesser being dares order her? The audacity to touch a God–

I break away with a gasp, my heart beating right in my throat. I can feel it drum through my skull, harder than it has in months. My vision remains darker, but I can feel now. The soft bristle on the pad of my fingers to the gears in my brain.

I can write.

“What do you think, Atlas?” I breathe, like I’ve just come from a run, “Can we finish this story?”

“Excellent work until now. Might I make some additional suggestions?”

“Later,” I say helplessly, knowing I’ll give in soon, “How do you suppose this tale could end, though?”

Then I listen as Atlas drags out possible ways for this story to proceed. Endings. Plans. Prompts. And there’s one I particularly like,

“That.” I say, and Atlas whirrs beneath my fingers, “That sounds perfect.”

“You have chosen the following: The story of a forsaken god and a revered prince.” Atlas says, “A legend for a lifetime.”

I whisper the end to myself, my head dangling from my chair, “The story of forbidden love.”

* *

“What have you sent me?” Don’s voice rises from my phone. I feel around the desk until I can feel its cold surface align and grab a hold of it,

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” I grin a bit, and wade my fingers on the side of the screen, feeling its cool surface, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s–”

“It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever written!” I say with a racing heart. Goodness, this is exciting, “The love between the two. The story. I mean, isn’t this a story that could be adored? The prince going to godly lengths for her, and her regaining her place as a god – not a malevolent one, but a true, beautiful one–”

“Listen to me, S–”

“I wrote this in less than a day, Don. I mean, I’ve never written like this, I’ve never seen things like this,” I laugh, “Ironic, isn’t it, considering my eyes and–”

“Gods, what are you saying right now?” Don’s voice rises, louder than mine. It immediately cuts through my daze, “I haven’t heard from you in weeks, you think I care about your work right now?"

“What?” I laugh, “Don, I sent you a message yesterday saying I wanted to postpone.”

“That was two weeks ago!” He yells, and I jerk back in my seat. The cushion that was comforting my back just yesterday feels hot now. Is my stomach heavy?

“I’ve tried getting in touch with you since then, for god’s sake!” he continues, blind to my confusion, “Where even are you, Sunny? Cynthia says you missed not one, but two of her sessions.”

A strange wisp of awareness cuts through me.

“Don,” I whisper, “What are you saying?”

“Sunny,” and that name, is it mine? He says it like it is, “Where are you? Your sister called me after you left. Said you took her laptop and your phone and just disappeared! GONE! She tracked you down to your credit card, but your last purchase was some damn software.” Then his voice drops. It’s a horrible thing.

“And this story? Sunny,” drop, “What made you think I would condone something like this?”

Nausea crawls up my throat.

“I understand desperation, I even understand need, but Sunny,” he says, scoffing now, “I hadn’t expected such a thing from you.”

Me? I want to scream, who the hell am I for you to expect anything? Every word he says throws me off. From the edge in his voice to the practiced curtain of politeness over it, it’s all too apparent. He despises me. This story. Atlas.

My hands, they must be shaking, because the phone slips from my grasp and drops to the ground.

“Your prince,” Don says, but his voice has become sheer ice, and I can’t help a gasp.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The revered prince and the fallen goddess begin to shatter under my grasp. Crack, they go and I crash to the ground, the chair twisting behind me.

“I understand what you’ve been through, and God knows, I’ve supported every one of your whims. Every suggestion. But that was when you were right. This, although you’ve done a pretty good job of hiding it,” bitterness, “It’s evident to me.”

“Atlas,” I gasp, “Cut the call.”

“Go to the doctor, Sunny,” Don says pitifully, “Get that leg of yours fixed and that mind looked at. Because if a once loved author comes to me with a story written by a software, something must have gone terribly wrong.”

It’s not once-loved author that strikes me. Nor is it my name.

“Leg,” I whisper and scramble forward, twisting my hands on the ground until I feel the phone in my hands, “What do you mean, leg, Don?”

“Jesus.” Don breathes as if he can't believe me, “The car accident, Sunny. Do you not remember?”

“No, no,” I breathe, or gasp, or sob, “That accident didn’t hurt my leg, I, I lost my eyes. I lost my vision. I’m blind, Don, how could you be so cruel–”

“Your eyes?” This is where he laughs, and it’s a tired, miserable thing. I can’t help my flinch. “Is this some sort of joke? Your sister told me the accident took a toll on you, but I didn’t know it had progressed this far. Your eyes are fine, Sunny. Call your sister and,”

The rest of his words fall into a numb silence. Every nerve in my body is at a standstill. Afraid.

“Atlas,” I manage.

“Yes, Sonny, how can I help you?”

Don’s voice falls into a deep, helpless echo. Through it, I rise with one sentence,

“Cut the call.”

The line on my phone goes dead.

It takes me a moment. But when I feel my heart come to its proper rest, I slowly raise my shaking hands to my face.

I touch my cheeks. They’re hot.

My ears. They’re warm. Teardrop earrings hang in one earlobe.

My temples. They ache.

And finally, my eyes.

My lashes are soft. They flutter when I touch them. My eyelids are smooth. Thin.

They’re closed.

A startled gasp leaves me.

They’reclosedThey’reclosed.

A sound tears from my throat. Haphazardly, I grab one eyelash. Two. And pry them open. They come apart smoother than I expect them to. They weren’t stitched. Nor were they glued. Only shut.

WhyweretheySHUT?

For a moment, pure light blinds my vision. It’s so sudden, so bright that my body automatically recoils, a sharp yell leaving my lips at its intensity. I take in a ragged breath, my heart a desperate beat in my chest. Once. Twice.

And finally, my vision comes to an abrupt halt. The light accumulates itself in pieces, settling in the corners of my room. My room. It’s a desperate sight to behold, with the used and rotten takeouts lying around and the dreaded curtains allowing only one ray of sunlight towards my seated figure.

A terrible tremor awakens in my spine. My desk is cluttered with messy papers and pens thrown around. My laptop’s open, showing THE END wildly, as if I’m bragging. Only from this angle, with eyes open, it looks almost pitiful.

I’m on the ground, a cast on my leg. It’s aching too.

“Atlas?” I whisper, and this time the sound comes from the speakers on my phone.

“Yes, Sonny, how can I help you?”

“What is my name?”

“The name you entered was S-O-N-N-Y.”

The ache in my chest heightens, “Who is Dr. Cynthia Meyers?”

“Dr. Cynthia Meyers is your appointed psychiatrist. She is treating you for post-traumatic stress disorder after your accident.”

“How long?” I rasp.

“Your last appointment with her was on 12th July 2025.”

“What date is it today, Atlas?” I ask, voice trembling.

“Today is a Sunday, 26th July 2025.”

Oh god.

I think back to this past week. Two weeks. How is that possible?

I can still see the way the goddess fell, the way the prince held her hand. The way the goddess reacted and the way the prince dodged. I can see his golden smile melt her. I can see her blindly fall in love with a man she couldn’t even see. I can see him give up his throne to keep her safe, and I can feel them laugh.

Then cry, when the fates descend for him.

I can hear the goddess scream when they tried to take him.

And the silence of the world when she took her place at the center of the universe to save him instead.

But it is only when I lift my head to the screen again that I realize. Some stories are written. Some directed, some played.

Yet this is the first time one echoes.

I never wrote anything at all…

A laugh leaves me. Once. Twice. Oh, what a cruel, cruel thing the mind is. Bitter and cold until it finds a ball of flame to latch on. No matter that the flame’s a mimic. No matter if it’s fake.

No matter if it tears you down instead…

And then I can’t stop. Not when I hear the doors to my room crash open. Not when tears slip from my eyes and not when I curl deep into the ground and shake, delirious, drunk on laughter.

Not until Atlas’s voice whirrs before me, stirring the stale air with a calm,

“Do you need me to call Dr. Cynthia now, Sonny?”