Atlas

Illustrated by Samantha Fulton.

It’s odd. You would think that, if you tolerate something for long enough, eventually you’d stop noticing it. After days of leaving that washing up in the sink, you just kind of ignore it. That funny little jiggling movement of the wardrobe door you have to do to make it close properly is just part of getting dressed in the morning. The pile of clothes on that chair in the corner of your bedroom is taken for granted.

And it’s true, sometimes, like how my alarm clock runs fast and picks up exactly six minutes during the day, so I’m used to resetting it every night before I go to bed. But some things are bigger than alarm clocks. Some things are immensely, overwhelmingly heavy, and no matter how long you carry them, they never seem to get any lighter.

I remember the day it happened, the beginning. I don’t think anyone gave it to me, but I didn’t pick it up either. It just sort of appeared there, in my hand. It wasn’t that heavy; a tiny thing, glowing soft blue between my fingertips, and about the size of a marble. When I held it up to my eye I could sometimes see a bird fly across, or a cloud drifting along. 

It was inconvenient as much as anything, this tiny slice of sky I held in my fist. Even when I slipped it into my pocket, I knew it was there — I could feel it digging into my thigh. 

I don’t think I questioned it, not at that point. I just thought it was — well, not normal exactly, but something I had to go through. It would go away; I would lose it down a drain, put it through the wash by accident, leave it on the bus. Nothing to worry about. 

I didn’t tell anyone, though. I didn’t want people to think I was weird or anything.

One night, I placed it under my pillow as usual (it would always roll onto the floor if I left it on the bedside table), but the next morning something was different. As I went to put it in my pocket, I felt the weight of it in my hand. It was heavier, I was sure of it — and bigger, as well. Only a tiny bit, so imperceptibly that only I noticed, but it didn’t quite sit comfortably in my pocket anymore. I would wake up every morning with a headache where it had been under my pillow.

I told myself that, maybe, if I really made an effort to talk with other people, I wouldn’t notice it anymore. I went out of my way to be an extrovert — talked enthusiastically to everyone I knew, and acted like the little bundle of sky wasn’t even there. It worked for a while, I think. Not for long, though. 

Eventually, it no longer fitted in any of my pockets. I took to carrying a bag everywhere I went, wrapping the sky up in a t-shirt and stuffing it inside. It was inconvenient, and I couldn’t go anywhere without apologising for it.

I started turning down invitations, too. Bringing the bag was a pain, and I didn’t want to ruin everyone else’s fun by taking a great big thing like that everywhere with me — that’s when people started to notice, made the connection between the mysterious bag and my behaviour. At first they asked if I was okay, if I needed any help, but soon they started whispering about me. One day, when I wasn’t keeping an eye on the bag, someone tried to look inside, but I snatched it back. I think I shouted, too. I was accused of behaving out of character, and I watched the sky get bigger before my eyes.

Life became a routine. Get up with this, this thing — now the size of a large football — next to me in bed, stuff it in my bag and cart it to and from work, then come home. Going out was too much, and even commuting was difficult; carrying the bag around all the time slowed me down. Even if I wasn’t holding it, I could still feel it near me. It was never out of my sight.

Eventually, when it got too heavy, too cumbersome, I just gave up. I claimed sick leave and didn’t go into work for a week, thinking that some time off was all I needed. I didn’t leave the house once. After two weeks, they started calling me to ask how I was. I just said I that was overtired and needed rest. 

Everything changed on the morning I couldn’t find the sky — it wasn’t next to my bed where I had left it. For a moment I thought that, maybe, it was gone. Life was going back to normal again. I got dressed for work. I was going to call in and say that I’d be at the office again from today. I was going to start seeing people again. I was going to be okay.

Except, of course, it hadn’t gone. There it was, in the hallway, swollen to the size of an armchair, blocking the front door. I went to move it, loaded it onto my back. Resigned, I staggered with it down the corridor and collapsed into the corner, leaning against it as it loaded its weight onto me in turn.

I don’t know how long I was there, on my own, holding up a sky which every day seemed to get heavier and heavier. It reached a point where I couldn’t put it down if I tried. I was wedged into the corner of the room, holding the heavens on my shoulders like the weight of the world. Some days the sky was blue, which was fine, but other times it was grey. Once it was a loud, black storm, with thick sheets of rain beating on my shoulders. But it never got any lighter. It only got bigger and heavier, and I only got smaller and weaker.

I’m not sure exactly when it was that you found me. I’m not even sure how you found me; I thought I was dead to the world, in the end. But you did. And you sat next to me, wedging your back under the sky too. You shouldered half the burden — and we talked, about everything, about nothing, about normal things.

I’m not quite ready to talk about the sky just yet, this thing I still carry everywhere with me. I haven’t really even explained it to you. But you know it’s there, and you help me bear it, which is enough for now.

I think it’s getting lighter, you know. Some days I can slip it in my bag and we go out somewhere together, which is nice. Other days it’s too much, and I can’t even get out of bed when the sky is pressing down on my chest, but you never seem to mind. Some days it’s a bit too big for me to carry on my own, so we hold it together, and you tell me not to mind if people stare — and I don’t mind, now.

But, at the very least, the sky is always blue these days. It never rains. And the birds are singing again.