"What kind of man abandons his family?"
Punch.
"His wife."
Punch.
"His boys."
Punch.
"What kind of man are you, Atlas?"
Wendy, in a hospital bed, dying from cancer.
"Shut up."
"What kind of husband treats his wife like that?"
Wendy, bleeding out from some wound, bright red blood seeping between my fingers.
"Shut. Up."
"What kind of father treats his sons like that?"
Wendy, crying out in pain, gasping that she's scared, that she doesn't want to die.
"Shut up!"
Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch. Kick.
"Tell me what's going on!"
"She's going to die!"
I punch and punch and punch and punch the bag until my knuckles are shredded, each punch emphasizing a word.
With a loud, angry roar and a furious kick with all my strength, the bag snaps off the chain and collapses to the ground.
And I collapse with it.
"She's going todie!"I scream until my throat is raw. "She's going to die, she's going to die, she's going to die—and I can't stop it!"
The words pour out of me. I can't stop them, I can't hold it in anymore. They just keep coming and coming and coming.
My father looks at me, horror etched across his face. "Atlas..."
"She's going to die, Dad," I sob, watching my blood drip to the floor, dots of red spotting the concrete. Red. Wendy. Her hair, her lips.
I always associate that color with her, with warmth, with love.
"And I can't do anything to stop it! My head—my fucking head won't shut up, and these goddamn nightmares won't stop!"
I clutch at my head, gripping my hair and pulling.
"Atlas," my dad moves toward me, wrapping his big arms around me, but I fight him because I feel as though I'm half-beast right now.
My dad's always been as immovable as a mountain.
