Atticus Fell

As you wish

Atticus Fell

Atticus led a charmed life. Atticus had both a mother and a father, and they loved each other very much. Atticus lived in a pleasant house in a pleasant neighborhood on the pleasant side of town. Atticus was an only child and received all of the attention a boy could ever hope for. His father was a man of virtue that built beautiful yet simple furniture with his own calloused hands. His mother, Grace, liked to knit and sew, a traditional trade passed down for generations. Her favorite things to knit were tapestries with quaint little sayings like “bless this home." "What a b***h." Atticus was one of the most well liked kids at his well to do school. He was intelligent and attractive, philosophical and generous and always quick with a quip. He had a sort of dry humor that never failed to leave his captive audience taken aback until they could appreciate the irony. He could be president one day if he so chose. He could be anything he wanted. Not that that mattered. “Nothing really matters”, he thought, writhing in his piss soaked Siberian goose down comforter, hand-made by the greatest of great grandmothers, a wrinkled, shriveled thing with skin so thin and dry it scraped her velour blouse like sandpaper. Atticus wanted to die. Dramatically. Atticus wanted to die in a conflagration so grand and blistering that the sun would avert its gaze lest it be blinded. His family didn’t understand. His teachers didn’t understand. His therapist didn’t understand. No one could ever understand him. It wasn’t his fault, nor was it theirs. Their fragile minds were simply unable to grasp his brilliance and complexity. He was unable to relate to the intellectual lower class because, frankly, he was too far above them. He existed on a different plane; in a different dimension. He was a mental leviathan trapped in a hill of ants; mere mortals. He decided that it was in his best interest to take a walk and clear his thoughts. As he walked, he noticed the dullness of the lifeless grass and its alluring contrast to the vibrant rose red sunset. “Winter is such a lovely season”. He walked for what seemed like miles until he found himself completely and utterly lost. During his desultory stroll he noticed a cavernous depression. He smirked and marveled at its depth. He had more in common with this supernatural abyss than with his own kin. “Where could it have come from?” he mused. Perhaps aliens had left it there as a sign. Perhaps they wanted him to stumble across it and thusly know that they have been admiring him from afar. Perhaps God himself came down to earth to dig it with his own bare hands as a testament to the magnitude of Atticus’ insurmountable sagacity. Whatever the reason, it was pertinent that Atticus investigate this pit from a closer vantage point. As he approached what he now referred to ever so charmingly as “The Other Atticus”, he began to become fearful. “What could this terrestrial marvel hold?” As he peered into its vastness he began to lose his footing. Before he could blink he was barreling towards his untimely descent. There were no branches in sight. No handholds, no heroes waiting nearby to save the day. No, Atticus fell.

            The plummeting itself was rather boring and unimportant. Atticus flailed and swung his limbs wildly in an attempt to break his landing. No such luck. As Atticus arrived to an inevitable halt he hit the grimy dirt with a dull thud. Shortly after his landing, Atticus howled and growled and cursed in pain and confusion. Atticus howled and shrieked and cursed God and Satan and the great in-between. Most of all, he cursed his damnable luck. Atticus brushed himself off and situated himself into a cross-legged perch. Atticus slung anathema at each and every abhorrent thing he could think of. Atticus cursed the clay that began to harden against his bony a*s. Atticus cursed the sky and the birds that inhabited it. He envied their ability to fly away from their worries. Not that Atticus really cared to fly at this particular time. He was content with sitting in this hole and enjoying his new solipsistic existence. Perhaps he would live here. As he began to look a upwards he discovered that this hollow was less of a hole and more of an abyss. It stretched on forever. Atticus was not a victim of Aperiophobia. In fact, he embraced the indefinite, the infinite. He lit a lonely cigarette and relaxed. He and “The Other Atticus” would get along nicely. He found himself beginning to wonder if his parents missed him yet. Not that he was bothered by the thought. In fact, he relished in imagining their faces, tormented with panicked worry. Of course they missed him, he was the best thing that had ever happened to them. They had said so themselves. Albeit, they often said things with little to no merit. Especially his witch of a mother. Oh how he loathed his mother and her antiquated beliefs. She was a devout woman of religion, and it permeated her every exploit. Atticus hated her holier-than-thou attitude and her hollow southern charm. He hated the day he was spat in a grisly flood of blood and guts from her godforsaken womb. Ash from his cigarette dropped down and onto his thigh, leaving his exposed skin singed. “How poetic”. Atticus began to think in more detail about his predicament. What would he eat? No matter, he’d gone without sustenance before. "Water, on the other hand, is vital." He reached for his top of the line phone to begrudgingly call for help. Unfortunately, it seemed as though his phone had broken his fall, and, more significantly, his fall had broken his phone. Now that he was aware of the gravity of his situation he began to panic. He became so anxious that he hyperventilated to the point of unconsciousness. “Sweet dreams”.

            When he awoke, he returned to his previous state of calm. He began to remiss into a place of detachment that he had inhabited only months before. His therapist would be very displeased, her hard work slighted. He began to ponder how he had come to find himself in this place, both physically and emotionally, as they seem to have intertwined. Of course, most teenagers walk to clear their heads, but surely not of thoughts like his. He began to list all of the great wrongdoings that he was forced to endure by those closest to him. He thought back to his recent breakup. His ex-girlfriend had caused him a great deal of stress, before, after, and during their relationship. He may have hated her a bit for what she had done and what she had become, but the whys were irrelevant at this point. It was the emotion, or rather, lack thereof, that bothered him. Where did he store all of these emotions that he was unable to feel? Were they locked away in some large, wretched vault deep within his subconscious? He was too tired to continue hypothesizing. He thought of his father, William. William, while charismatic and rather funny, was prone to violent eruptions. He was a minefield, bouncing back and forth from gregarious to tyrannical. He then thought of Grace. She was a nice enough person he supposed, but he would rather eat nails than continue to live under her iron fist. She was extremely overbearing, determined to mold him into a perfect vessel to carry and spread the word of God. “God” was to blame most of all. Atticus didn’t believe in God, but instead that we humans create God within our subconscious to fill a void. The desire to be useful, to live a meaningful life, can drive men to convince themselves of something even as desperate and laughable as God. And even if God truly did exist, which he highly doubted, Atticus didn’t care. He hoped to never meet him, and trusted that such a God would know better to show his face around someone as enlightened as Atticus. If God truly so loved the world, why was it such a putrid and desolate wasteland? God had box seats to rape and starvation, to corruption and treachery and unrepentant greed. He watched idly as thousands were massacred in his name. If there was a God, he needed to beg Atticus on bended knee for his forgiveness. The more Atticus thought, the further away the opening to the chasm seemed to be. He imagined himself pacing, his path stretching farther and farther until it became less of a habitual alleviation of nervousness and more of a quest of sorts; a mission of exploration. He tried to see how far he could walk on either side. He journeyed until he could no longer see light from the opening of the pit. It seemed as though there was nothing on either side but clay; only clay and darkness. In truth, the pit was a claustrophobic’s nightmare. It spanned about eight feet wide, but the darkness made it feel even tighter. Death row inmates were given more room. He realized that there was no salvation buried within that pit. No underground well or spring. No subterranean civilization of long forgotten people indigenous to the land waiting to accept him as their god-king. He decided to wander back towards where he started. It was getting dark, and moonbeams waltzed drunkenly across the gaping orifice of the pit. Atticus licked his bone dry lips and wondered when his next drink of water would be. The average human can only go a few days without water, and judging from the position of the moon, Atticus was already roughly a third of the way there. He decided that he was rather done with the day, and found himself dazing off. Before long he was sound asleep. It’s important to mention that Atticus did not dream. Ever. He dreamt when he was younger, but couldn’t recall having a single dream in the past few years. The moon sank into its’ lair, frightened into hiding by the sweltering Georgia sun.

            When Atticus awoke, he at once realized that he was saturated with stale urine. He must have pissed himself in his sleep. “No matter”. This was not to say that he didn’t feel a hint of repulsion, but ultimately he was unfazed. “It’s not like there was anywhere else to relieve myself in this damned hole”. He thought more about the hole that he was in. "What exactly is a hole anyways?" "It’s not really anything, is it?" In fact, it’s more of an absence of something. A tangible entity of nothingness. “Interesting”. When Atticus was young, his father bought him a dog. At the time, he was terribly enthralled by a girl in his class named Nikki. Yes, Nikki with two K’s. Her parents were obviously pioneers of nomenclature. Atticus named this new puppy, a moronic mutt who never failed to piss all over whatever poor victim decided to pet it, Nikki. Now Nikki (the dog, not the bratty, blonde haired girl who failed the second grade three times and popped loud pink chewing gum bubbles in class) however stupid, had captured Atticus’ heart. He cared for the whelp every day, and became very, very attached. One day, he walked into his backyard and whistled his signature whistle, a call that summoned the beast without fail. However, Nikki did not come. Atticus became frantic, for she was nowhere to be found. Young Atticus began a frenzied fit of crying. His parents came rushing to his side in an attempt to offer some sort of help, but he was inconsolable. William, with a face as warm and compassionate as the grave, explained to him very plainly that Nikki must have run away when Atticus left the gate open the night before. Atticus wept for weeks, and then, after a while, he forgot about the dog entirely. Years passed, and on his sixteenth birthday, his father explained to him that Nikki had not run away. Instead, William had taken him to a trailer park and dropped the stupid mutt off in the hopes that someone else would shoulder the burden, Atticus felt nothing. Atticus laughed as he remembered this happening. It was funny in a twisted sort of way. Hindsight is undoubtable twenty/twenty. Atticus felt the stagnant piss begin to dry against his name-brand Bermuda shorts. The Georgia humidity was intolerable. Sweat dripped from his brow and down his sullen face. He’d gone over a day without the high end anxiety medicine prescribed to him by his inattentive family doctor. Doctor Vapaa meant well, but his philosophy, the more the merrier, crept its way into his work and before long he was handing out pills strong enough to tranquilize a horse like candy. “A pretty s****y candy at that”. The issue with the medication that Atticus had been prescribed was highly addictive. In fact, the withdrawal symptoms were comparable to those of heroin. Atticus felt sick. Severe vertigo and nausea were a heinous combination. “Thanks for the warning Dr. V”. Atticus’ irritation with his doctor was further expressed by a stream of dark brown vomit that covered his ancient Chuck Taylors. This worsened his dehydration. He didn’t even bother trying to clean it off. Accompanied by his piss soaked shorts and his vomit drenched converse, his only companions in this incalculable void, In only moments he was comatose. The occupants of a morgue envied the depth of his slumber. But not only did he sleep. No, Atticus began to dream. Atticus dreamt of the future. He envisioned himself in a nice, big Hollywood mansion. He was a successful director and musician, and in his spare time, when he wasn’t wooing super models and countesses, he read the classics by a smoldering fire. Atticus had always been fear-stricken by the very idea of marriage, but he loved children and animals. His two year old son and his faithful German shepherd, Nikki II, sat by the foot of his Plume Blanche Diamond Encrusted Sofa. Atticus sipped a warm cup of gourmet coffee and smoked a Cohiba Esplindido cigar. He was finally enjoying the finer things in life. He was finally happy.

            Atticus rose and shone to another fit of violent nausea. His shoes were spared, but his favorite black shirt was not so fortunate. Atticus spat and choked and coughed and spat again. His situation was getting desperate. His tongue was chafing the sides of his cheeks, his lips were cracking, and his gums were raw. If he didn’t drink something soon, he was going to die. He thought of the all of the things he had wanted to do with his life. He would never be a famous musician or director. There would be no imported cigars or dainty foreign royals. He would have no spawn to oversee his vast fortune, or to fill his shoes. Hell, the kid could have even surpassed him, with the right coaching of course. No, there would be none of that. Atticus would have sold his soul for these things, if he thought he had one. Atticus could still have these things, possibly even more, if he could only get himself out of this hole. “The Other Atticus”, he scoffed, “this hole has brought me nothing but misery”. It was unfair that his life, with all of its immeasurable potential, was to be cut short by such an absurd adversity. Atticus could not accept this. It was not his time to die. This pocket of pestilence would not be his grave. His fate, much like the opening of the pit, was not sealed. He was going to scale the moist clay and climb out of this catastrophe. From this point on, he was doing his own stunts. Atticus dug his hands into the earth and ascended. He scaled the walls of pit and he climbed and he climbed. He found himself half way up the pit and his face was overtaken by a grin so large his lips split and began to seep blood. As he reached upwards towards his destiny, he lost his balance. Then, without a warning, he began to plunge. Yes, Atticus fell.

            Atticus began to sob uncontrollably. He pictured “Sorrow”, a famous Van Gogh, and felt a metaphysical connection to the painting. Van Gogh was quite the character, which is why he was Atticus’ favorite painter. Van Gogh was notorious for eating yellow paint in an attempt to make himself happy on the inside. And, of course, for allegedly detaching his own ear from his skull. Atticus was plagued by thoughts of his family. Never again would he kiss his mother softly on the cheek and whisper good night as she slept in a cramped pose on the worn sofa where she had waited for him to return home from a date with some girl that he really didn’t care about. Never again would he solemnly embrace his father, feigning indifference. Tears drenched his hollow cheeks. He would never again hear his mother laugh at his father’s asinine attempts at humor. He would never again hear them sing off key to archaic hymns at the local bethel, “Christ’s Church of the Redeemed”. He began to frantically scream their names. He wailed like a banshee. He was terrified and heartbroken. He was hopeless. He was desperate. In a newfound appreciation of faith, he began to call on God. He pleaded for forgiveness. He pleaded for salvation. He pleaded for help. He howled the name of the Lord his God not unlike like a Pentecostal preacher. Glory Hallelujah Amen. He thought of Joseph, and how God had delivered him from his tribulation. “God”, he cried, his broken voice dripping with remorse, “I am sorry”. “I thought that I was God. I thought that I was above you, but I now realize that I am not. I am but a servant to your will. I thought that I was immortal but I am humbled. I am nothing but a misguided fool. I beg for your mercy. Please save me. Please.” Then, exhausted from his ranting overture, he sat in silence, content with waiting for a reply from The Almighty. He sat for what seemed to be hours, but Atticus did not lose faith. Atticus had a loving mother and father to return to. Atticus had a much needed therapy session scheduled that weekend. Atticus had a world of endless possibilities waiting for him. He waited, and he waited, and he waited. Nothing. Atticus refused to forsake his newfound optimism. His conviction was unwavering. He determined that he had simply asked for the wrong things. Instead, he uttered a simple prayer. “God, if it is your will, let there be rain. All I need is something to drink, anything to quench my thirst. I am willing to wait here for as long as you feel necessary. I am learning a lesson. It all makes sense now. You are the master and I am the student. I have so much to learn from you. I am spiritually bankrupt. Enlighten me with your infinite wisdom. All I ask is that you send a little rain for your loyal serf.” Atticus began to evaluate his invocation, and ruled that God would surely be pleased with his prayer. With that, he sentenced himself to some well-earned and much needed rest.

            A single drop of water nestled itself gently but firmly against Atticus’ throat. Then another. Drip, drip…..drip. Before long he awoke, confused by the sensation. Then, it dawned on him. “Rain! By God’s grace I am saved!” He stood, knees weak, legs shaking, and raised his hands to Heaven. He opened his mouth wide and tasted the sweet taste of his deliverance. He was born again, a changed man. Well, boy. Man, boy, whatever. All that mattered was that he was saved. He laid down, still as a corpse, and gorged himself. He didn’t even notice the thunder. Or the lightning. Or the shrieking trees fighting to stay rooted to the trembling earth. The rain began to fall in droves. An army of droplets sieged his underground prison. The rain was unrelenting. The skies had opened up and unleashed a maelstrom that would be forever etched into the history of Georgia. Atticus was a king, doused to his heart’s content. The pit began to fill with water. Atticus was euphoric. The storm was unending. Atticus stood up so that he could better gulp, guzzle, and gormandize. His gluttony knew no bounds. The water was now at his ankles. When it had reached his knees, he bore a perplexed grin. Then, an expression of startled bewilderment consumed his face. His marriage with reality was finally consummated, and he began to fret. He cried for help. Once again he found himself crying out to Grace and to William. Once again he found himself crying out to God. The only answer he received was drip, drip…drip. The water reached his waist. He was wading. He was going to drown. He howled obscenities. Damn God. Damn his negligent parents. Damn his ineffective therapist and his absent-minded doctor. Damn it all. The water reached his shoulders. He was treading water. He had heard that when someone is put in a perilous predicament, their entire life flashes before their eyes. This proved to be untrue. The only flashing that Atticus saw was the lighting seizing across the charcoal sky. Not that he wanted to relive his miserable excuse for a life. His thoughts were dominated by despair. His mind was monopolized by his fear of death. He wasn’t ready to die. He was too young to die. His muscles began to burn. He, like a single mother of four, haggard from her exhausting search for a job in a crippled economy, struggled to stay afloat. He was never much of an athlete. The water was up to his ears. He felt his arms begin to quit on him. He was sinking. He was drowning. This was not the great conflagration that he had hoped for. He would not go out with a bang, but rather with a wet thud. Drip, drip….drip. Atticus’ salty tears were infused with the reaper, creating a morbid sort of specialty drink. His body began to slump as water filled his cigarette sautéed lungs. He was completely submerged. Fighting unconsciousness, he realized that he did, in fact, fear the infinite. The abyss. Then, the fear subsided. He had accepted the futility of it all and allowed his thrashing body to go limp. His mind went blank. His eyes closed for one last time, and his mouth hung agape, obscuring his face in such a way that even Picasso would be repulsed. Atticus was no more. Physically, he remained, floating near the top of his hollow grave, but his spirit or consciousness or whatever you may so choose to believe was gone. Drip, drip…drip.

            His funeral was short and sweet. William stood solemn as a terracotta soldier, stone faced. Grace wept, her frail body heaving against his broad shoulders. The minister said a few words. Everyone said a few words. They didn’t really mean much. It’s not like these black clad mourners knew him. They didn’t understand him. They couldn’t. It’s a shame really, seeing such a brilliant youth painted a lifeless shade of blue, his existence extinguished long before its prime. He could have been anything. He could have been a world famous musician. He could have been an artist. He could have been a masterful director, hordes of adoring fans anxious to view his latest film. He really could have been anything. Hell, he could have even been a writer.

           

Author's Note

Criticize me

Reviews

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Firstly, I would like to start with a hearty hello, then, I wish to state how very much I like this piece! With a name like Atticus, it entices one with a certain frame of mind to gaze at this piece in a counterpoised means, half enjoying the false reality, half analyzing the symbolism and meaning within the depths, in-between the letters, and inconspicuously positioned inside metaphor. For those who simply seek enjoyment from literature, this piece, too, will suffice and satisfy the mind of the innocent, teasing the reality they know with one seemingly much more profound. However, as one of the only possible things I can criticize, in the essay there are 77 mentions of the name Atticus, the majority of those at the beginning of a sentence, and over a tenth of those are in the first paragraph; this can wear very thin, even though the title of the piece is titled the same, the scrupulous among us find it hard not to ignore after a while. This is easily correctable however.

The opening paragraph does what I assume every author intends; to capture attention, to seize curiosity, and to envelop the imagination. Indeed, the opening component does all of the latter, and if I had to pick a favourite line, 'twould have to be: "Atticus wanted to die in a conflagration so grand and blistering that the sun would avert its gaze lest it be blinded." How beautiful! It's obvious from this line that the author has that connection with language so many famous authors cannot even taste; it's as if there is an ongoing sensuality between writer and creation, the pen gently slinking across the surface of the paper the sensual dance leading to the ultimate finale, the goal, a chapter! The ending of the first paragraph is almost an ending in itself, and considering the reader is presented with a paragraph straight away after the protagonist seemingly meets his demise, this further invokes a great curiosity.

The second section, introduces to the reader, a chance to inter-personally get to know the protagonist, through means of third person rumination, which in my own opinion, I praise of lower quality that first person, but sometimes, authors find this difficult or problematic to adopt. Nevertheless, the author does a good job, and we are allowed to view into the thoughts of Atticus, which leads us into an understanding of his true nature, and, graciously, the more acute among readers will begin here to formulate reasons behind Atticus' disposition towards the line I quoted at the beginning of the review. Very, very nicely done mi amigo.

Following an unorthodox conceptual advancement, we here - at the beginning of the third paragraph - are give an antithesis through these two exact sentences: "He began to remiss into a place of detachment that he had inhabited only months before. His therapist would be very displeased, her hard work slighted." The reason I quote these sentences alone as opposed to others I also have a great love for, is purely because at this point the reader feels the story has slowly been becoming more and more subjective; meaning of course that the majority of the story and plot development has been progressing via, and through the mind of the protagonist. Therefore, if there was to become a problem, would it not make sense to, also, exist within the mind of the main character respectively? Indeed, and here, with the sentences I quote, we get the first inkling of a problem, that is, guilt. Trouble ahead? Perhaps. From the middle to the end of the paragraph we are allowed to view, retrospectively, over the life of Atticus, which at this point seems natural, and it seems I am not the only one to see the glory of the technique you use, which I'd love to discuss with you! The only other criticism I have here is that in the second to last sentence of this paragraph, you use the words, "It’s important to mention that" - now, is this just the narrator momentarily jumping in like a child who has not developed any great tact, or is it intended to stick out? Either way, it's curious to have that there while the reader is off imagining the world and subjections of Atticus.

In the first portion of the fourth paragraph, the author reveals his brilliant sense of humor: "Yes, Nikki with two K’s. Her parents were obviously pioneers of nomenclature" had me emit a hearty laugh I must say. The rest of the paragraph continues with the introspective character building, and we, this time, are allowed to glimpse into the reality that made Atticus who he is, and why he thinks and acts the way he does. This is of course the crux of any works that intends to conclude with a decision, made by the character obviously, therefore, it is of utmost necessity that these descriptions are revisited time and time again in order to ensure you have the reader's concentration and attitude completely controlled. This I feel something you have mastered in this piece thus far.

This fifth paragraph adequately achieves what I believe it intends to: slowly bring up the sense of despair, of lost of hope. Indeed, it too connects very nicely with previous thoughts and descriptions from his life, very nicely done indeed.

As if personally leading us through the stages of human despair, the author firstly builds up who we are to follow, and then carves a path through the multitude of emotions we are to feel along the way. The sixth paragraph is summarizing that first sense of existential depression that sets in upon one's realization that all they have ever thought of, valued with any worth, and contemplated are pointless, absolute triviality, and in fact worthless. The author does a grand job of relating the character's ruminations upon these things to the previous content, and expressing his resulting depression. Great job, and something only this greatly achieved by one who experienced, and began to understand the almost rarefied knowledge.

The seventh paragraph can only be commented on briefly, because, it entrances the reader, captures attention until finished, then neatly wraps up whatever it is the reader may understand. This paragraph is divine - excuse the pun - and contains multiple gems ... "The skies had opened up and unleashed a maelstrom that would be forever etched into the history of Georgia. Atticus was a king, doused to his heart’s content... He, like a single mother of four, haggard from her exhausting search for a job in a crippled economy, struggled to stay afloat..." and my personal favourite, "...his mouth hung agape, obscuring his face in such a way that even Picasso would be repulsed." All of these are... well... f*****g beautiful really, some of the best things I've read in quite some time! Gorgeous writing here my friend, and comparable to one who not just understands and loves language, but feels it, like some linguistic-kinetic synesthesia. Divine. Could not ask for a greater penultimate paragraph.

However, the final paragraph seems lacking. I understand the story has set up the "perfect death" as it were, and then stolen that away from the character, but then it seems anti-climatic, and what I believe is the case, is that the author was trying to go with an Albert Camus "The Outsider" ending. Am I right? Were you trying to create that ending wherein you try to set it up so the reader, no matter who that may be, becomes desensitized to the ideal, that being the "perfect death" in this case? If so, I feel the final paragraph needs a slight bit more development, however, that is all I can give you at this point I'm afraid, because to create that feel perfectly, I believe the author must delve into the work as they see it and then create the ending depending on how they see it, as opposed to the reader, and to a certain extent, ignoring them. Other than this, I really quite like this paragraph, the imagery is vivid indeed.

Overall, I would rate this with almost top marks, I mean a ninety-nine percent grade. Superlative language usage, environment creation, character development, and concept progression. However, I struggled to feel and find any great texture to the piece, perhaps it's because I'm reviewing at eight in the morning, or perhaps there is just not enough in the language for me to feel - this point seems nebulous, so I feel I may have to come back and read this again at another time. So, I suppose, for the time being I wouldn't worry about the texture. However, this NEEDS to be developed. Perhaps do a reverse-chronological story, a demise-depression-happiness-birth sort of thing, these have been successful in the past, but you must bear in mind that if this is done, it needs to be fresh, new, because they have been done to death!

Top quality my friend, and would love to read more from you - it seems you really do love language, as much as one might love that whichever inspires them. Keep on my friend, because if you do, I feel there can only be greatness in your wake.