Snippet #2816206

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last moved. There’s chinese take out containers on the floor that have started to smell, and open bottles of whiskey, and mugs half full of tea because he wanted tea but it never tastes the way - he never closed the gallon of yellow paint and it’s crusted over.

Atlas pushes himself into a sitting position. His head hurts, he’s probably dehydrated, and his fingers itch towards his phone to check the time, the date, anything, but he can’t. He’d put it on ‘do not disturb’ mode eventually, but he knows that if he unlocks it, the text that will be waiting for him is from his supervisor: a long winded speech about how the death of a doctors first patient follows them their whole career, but it doesn’t make them any less of a doctor.

People die. Atlas had been snapping those two words ever since he’d been accepted into med school. People die, get over it. Every human came with an expiration date. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t lost people before. His grandfather, a well liked aunt, a friend in college from a freak accident. But this was different. This was … worse than he had expected.

His fingers reach for the Johnnie Walker on his coffee table and the polish on his nails is beyond chipped, a look he never would have accepted before. The bottle comes up with a flyer stuck to the bottom of it, and autopilot more than actual desire leads him to peeling it off.

Widow’s Peak Halloween Market.

It was from the hospital. Some teen had been passing them out to the staff, Atlas had ignored them but Cassidy had taken it, and with a bright smile pressed it into Atlas’ hand and asked him if he was going. Atlas had given him a blank stare as a response, but Cass had just shrugged and mentioned that he’d like to, if he could.

Atlas had talked to the Aisling’s, Cass’ head doctor, and they’d all agreed Cass could go, with a wheelchair and his oxygen and a medical professional with him. Atlas had volunteered to go, and so had Graham, to his great annoyance.

Four days later, Cass was on a ventilator.

He should go. It’s an annoying, intrusive thought that doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, but for some reason it makes him stand. He takes the bottle of whiskey with him while he showers, and while he picks out clothes that are warm enough he won’t be miserable. He used to enjoy that part of his routine, but now it’s just black jeans and a black turtleneck and the closest shoes and he decides that's good enough.

He trades the bottle for his wallet on the way out the door and lights up a cigarette the moment the cool Oregon air hits him, and walks. There’s not many people out, small towns don’t promote loitering, but there’s a boy on the bench and Atlas turns his gaze to the ground because he’s not in the mood for small talk.

A curly mop of hair. A flash of glasses. A smile. That smile. His smile.

Atlas closes his eyes tight and takes a deep inhale of smoke, his logical mind fitting the pieces together. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s dehydrated. He’s been drinking. He’s going through the stages of grief. He shouldn’t look back. Keep walking.

He looks back.

Round cheeks. Fidgeting thumbs. Deep breaths. Bright smile. His-

Stop it.

He’d thought he’d gotten past the denial stage long ago. Maybe this was the bargaining stage? Maybe this was the part where he would think the world owed him just a little more than it’d already given him. Where he’d promise he’d give it all back if that boy on the bench was-

“Atlas!”