7.3) Bring Him Home

Atlas quietly walked up the stairs to the rooftop. The door at the end was slightly open, allowing light to seep through the gap. He leaned closer onto the door, peeking through without exposing his presence.

Under the sky that was slowly turning blue, Abigail was helping Victor Truman sip a bottle of water, who was sitting on one of their plastic chairs. It seemed that he was still recovering his strength.

Abigail gently pulled the water bottle away from his lips. “Feeling better?”

Victor nodded with more vigor than he had earlier.

“Good.” She put the bottle down on a nearby table, then dragged another chair closer to sit across him.

“... Abigail,” Victor finally spoke.

“Yes?”

As Victor spoke quietly, Atlas turned his head slightly, trying his best to hear what was going on.

“... Can we at least spend the rest of our days together?”

Abigail clasped her hands and pursed her lips as if trying to hold back from saying something she would regret. But she seemed to have made up her mind.

“... No, Victor. I can’t.”

“... Huh?”

“I said I can’t. I’m sorry. I have things to take care of before the world ends. I have promises to fulfill. I have my own battles to fight. I can stay with you for a short time, but we’ll eventually have to go our separate ways.”

“But then… What did I come back for? Why did I come back?” It sounded like his heart had just ripped in half.

Abigail looked up to the sky with a melancholic expression. “You came back because you regrew a conscience. I would congratulate you, but maybe it was the worst time to do so…”

“... Or maybe, just maybe, it was the best thing that could have happened to you,” she added.

She leaned forward on her chair and held Victor’s hands together. “Listen. I need you to do something else for me.”

He sighed, apparently having no will left but to follow directions. “What is it?”

She leaned in even closer, staring into his eyes. “Let me bring you home. Back to Alice.”

Victor’s eyes widened.

“Absolutely not.” He immediately regained his strength to speak clearly.

She shook her head. “You’ve been avoiding her for years–you haven’t communicated with her in over fourteen years. It’s the end of the world, Victor Truman. It’s now or never to reconcile with her.”

He pulled his hands away from her. “I can’t face her.”

Abigail sighed. “Fourteen years after the accident? Still?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Everything died with her that day. My sister died that day. There’s nothing left of her.” He lowered his gaze, fidgeting his hands.

“Victor, Alice is alive. I don’t understand why you keep pretending like she no longer exists. At least tell me why. You always avoid telling me, but it’s now or never.”

Victor remained silent, turning his gaze away from her. But Abigail held his face, forcing him to look at her in the eyes.

“Don’t let this follow you to your grave, Victor. Tell me the truth.”

After more silence, he sighed, seemingly relenting. As Abigail pulled her hands back and sat properly, he began speaking in a frighteningly calm manner.

“... I’m afraid to see her again. I’m afraid to be disgusted by the sister I loved so dearly. I’ve seen what’s become of her body; I haven’t forgotten. In the past, just thinking about what happened made me want to throw up. But now I don’t, because I’ve numbed myself.”

He scoffed humorlessly. “She has lost the ability to fulfill her dreams. Her body is deformed. She has lost her voice–she is unable to sing. And she can’t present herself to the world with her disfigurements. She can never leave her home. Her dream of becoming a songstress has been long dead. There is nothing left.”

He continued speaking without needing to gather his breath, as if his words flowed naturally.

“So really, if I see her again, I will hate what she has become. I will pity her existence. And I will wish that she had just died on that day. Yes, I will wish that my sister had died and not survived...”

“... And even now, I wish she had never been born. She was born just to suffer. Born to dream just to have it be completely destroyed in a single, random accident.”

He sighed. “I wish ‘Alice Truman’ never existed.”

A silence followed. Abigail stared at him in disbelief. Victor averted his eyes, then closed it, unable to bear her gaze.

He concluded his thoughts. “Judge me all you want. I understand that I’ve been a horrible brother. I don’t ask for forgiveness. But I’m not going to see her.”

Atlas watched Abigail, confident that she would yell or slap him. But despite her faster breathing, she remained calm, seemingly trying to empathize with his reasoning.

Eventually, she took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “I admit I should have resolved this with you sooner. I also feel at fault here. I’m sorry.”

“You’re… not angry?”

“I’ve heard worse things, Victor. I’ve seen worse. I can handle this. And…”

She laughed bitterly to herself. “All of us have already been sentenced to death. I don’t want to bring more negativity into this world.”

She held his hands together once more. “But listen. I want you to go see her. It’s not just about her–it’s about you. You need this before everything comes to an end. This is your chance to make everything right. Right for her, right for yourself. I’ve said before that some things matter to me more than life itself. I think this could be the same thing for you. And…”

“... I want to see you guys reunite before everything ends. If not for her, do it for me.”

Victor bit his lips, then sighed.

“Maybe for you, I would. But it’s pointless,” Victor said. “Even if I wanted to see her again, we can’t. You can’t.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Very soon, the universe will become so condensed that the gravity of Earth will start rapidly changing. We won’t be able to take a plane to where she is–most planes will crash. On top of that, it will get hotter and hotter until it’s unbearable. Then we’ll die painfully. That’s it. It really is the beginning of the apocalypse, as they say.”

Abigail leaned back on her chair, tapping the plastic armrest.

“But this is your chance to save yourself,” she muttered.

“... Save myself? In the apocalypse? What are you talking about?”

“Death and salvation aren’t incompatible, Victor. That’s what you’ve always gotten wrong.” She stood up, undeterred. “You say there’s a good chance that we’ll die while flying? So be it. We’re going to try anyway. I’ll call someone to fly us over.”

“Wait, Abigail… that’s crazy. I don’t want to crash and die in the middle of the ocean.”

“At least we’ll die together if that happens,” she said with a sigh. “Probably a better death than whatever hell awaits the rest of the world. You can either wander around aimlessly until you die, or you can risk death with me to try and save your soul.”

Victor was becoming increasingly stressed. “Abigail… Even if we do make it, we’ll still die painfully. Don’t you get it? Even if we make it, we’re all going to burn to death. So the best case scenario is... what, me returning to my sister just to watch her burn and die? Again?”

As he rubbed his face in distress, Abigail gently patted him on his head. She bit her lips, as if not wanting to accept the validity of his concerns.

She sighed. “We still have some time to think the plan over. I’ll come back with something for you to eat. Try to relax, okay?”

Abigail turned away from Victor and began walking towards the stairway. Before Atlas could hide or flee, she opened the door.

They didn’t exchange words. They simply stared at each other with equal surprise. But eventually, Abigail softened her eyes and patted his shoulder, as if silently telling him that Atlas had already done all he could. There was nothing left to be done.

Then, she walked down the stairway, her footsteps slowly fading away until a door could be heard being opened and closed below.

Atlas thought back to the things Abigail had told Victor. After a few seconds of contemplation, Atlas looked back at Victor, who was still sitting silently, possibly thinking about the same things as Atlas was.

Then, Atlas entered the rooftop. As he walked forward, he covered his eyes with his forearm, protecting himself from the gust of wind. Then he dragged another plastic chair over and sat down, leaving Abigail’s chair alone.

Victor looked up with a tired expression, far different from what was seen in their first encounter.

“... Ah. My Prometheus. What can I do for you now…? Do you want me to apologize? It must have hurt quite a bit when I stabbed you.”

Atlas shook his head, sitting with both his arms on the armrests. “No, Victor Truman. I have some things I need to discuss with you.”

“Sure. That’s the least I could do for you.”

“... And one more thing.”

“Yes?”