To The Moon and Back

𝟐𝟑 | 𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫

E V O L V E D  S T A R

A star that is near the end of its life cycle where most of its fuel has been used up. At this point, the star begins to lose mass in the form of stellar wind.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

IN THE TIME between sending that text and now, I don't know what happened. I'm sitting on the couch. I've thrown every stupid cushion off. There's another broken vase and another hole in the wall. I throw my phone across the room and now I sit with my head in my hands. I take the last two of Margaret Kingsley's life-saving pills, before discarding the container entirely.

They don't work much—barely at all, in fact. It's like there is a tough wall between my humanity and the drugs. The humanity tries to keep the wall strong, but the drugs are stronger, and slowly, they slip through the cracks of the bricks and eat away at that last little bit of human in me. Kills his veins, bruises his arms, makes him pale and skinny. 

Everything comes with a price, though. Doesn't it? We cannot endure the addictive—and fucking amazing—effects of drugs and that be it. No. There needs to be a consequence if the comedown afterwards isn't already fucking terrible enough. The consequence is how the substances slowly peel away at our exterior until we eventually look just as shitty as we feel on the inside.

I can barely stand my own reflection. All I see when I stare back at myself is an evolved star running out of life as it fizzles away into nothingness.

I tap my foot relentlessly, pulling on my hair with my fingers as I try to focus on anything except for my fucking breathing, or the sound of my heart pulsing, or the fucking clock I didn't even know I had ticking away on the wall.

Just stop.

I just need everything to stop.

I hear a soft knock at my door and I don't bother moving to answer until they knock again and then again. Eventually, they take the hint that no one's going to enter and so they open the door, I hear it creak open. I don't turn to see who it is because whether it's my mother or sister or a fucking murderer, I absolutely couldn't care less.

"Atlas?" her soft voice calls. It echoes and bounces off each and every wall and for the first time ever, I'm happy that my apartment is practically empty.

I slowly lift my head and turn to face her. Fortunately, she's not staring at me, but rather analyzing my apartment instead. She takes in the art pieces on the wall, the television that still has the screen protector on it, she takes in the broken vase and the hole in the wall and then her brown eyes finally settle on me.

I turn away from her, staring straight forward at the tall blank wall. She sighs, walking over where I am. She kneels down in front of me and her pretty little face enters my line of sight. She's put make-up on since I last saw her and changed too.

She places her hands on my knees to stabilize her as she gives me a look I can't quite decipher. "I'm here." she says and I nod. I know she's here. "Not like physically—I mean, that too. But what I mean is—I'm here for you. Talk or don't talk but I'm here either way."

She stands up and repositions herself on the opposite end of my L-shaped couch and makes herself at home as she rests her head on the arm of the couch and grabs one of the cushions off the floor, using it to hug it to her body, concealing her torso from me.

A few minutes pass and I remain still. I feel stupid for even inviting her to come over because I don't know what to say. I don't know how to talk. I don't know what it means to express yourself. This is a complete waste of time, especially for her having to come all the way here when she lives outside of the city.