Atlas had been sitting in his office, in the house his father had bought for him, when the bell rang. The young man was lounging at his desk, a drink in one hand, his head in the other. His head had been pounding ever since last night, and he couldn't even remember what had happened. One minute he'd been having a session with his Doctor, the insufferable man, and next he was at home, passed out and missing one of his shoes.
The sound of the bell pounded through his head like someone was hammering into his temple with an ice pick. Atlas groaned, tipping his head back and downing the rest of his drink, hoping that would help with this unceasing headache.
"Go away!" He snarled the words as loud as he could, making the pressure behind his eyes worsen, Atlas gave a cry, dropping the glass and clutching his head, the shattering of glass felt like it was mocking him. He stood, ignoring the way the room swayed, and putting a hand on the desk, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white and his nails made little grooves in the wood.
He stumbled to the door, wrenching it open and glaring with bloodshot eyes at the man who stood there. Atlas clung to the door frame, half hunched over and disheveled, the first three buttons of his shirt undone and his hair a mess. The deep bags under his eyes were obvious, and the smell of alcohol came off of him in waves.
"What.." He inhaled deeply, a shuddering breath, looking deeply angry. "Do you want?"
The man at the door was familiar, or at least the uniform was. A mailman, Atlas briefly imagined wrapping his hands around the mans stocky neck and watching the life slowly drain from their eyes. The idea flitted away a moment after as some letters were handed over. Atlas grabbed them roughly, and slammed the door shut, stumbling back to his office. He leafed through the pile, annoyance bubbling up.
Bills, bills, bills, why do they bother sending them to me? Father pays them anyways. He was just about to toss the whole bundle into the fireplace, when a letter caught his eye, addressed to him from one Sir Bailey Fox. Atlas was curious, so he opened the thing, eyes scanning over the letter as a deep sense of dread settled over him. Oh hell.
I killed a man last night.
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The journal of Atlas Mill, a leather bound volume that shows signs of wear and tear. It's filled in sporadically, with large gaps between days. It looked frequently thumbed through, like the author often re-read it.
January 19, 1894
It doesn't feel much different being a murderer from a normal man. It's quite curious. I keep waiting for the feeling of guilt that's so often described in novels, but I can not for the life of me muster up more than a vague sense of annoyance. Dr. Harker was a nuisance and a quack, but he was a good doctor. Father will have to find me a new one quickly. And perhaps a good lawyer too. Jail sounds quite dull, lacking the creature comforts of a gentleman's life. Lacking entirely books and feminine graces, I wouldn't wish to go.
I received a letter today, from a detective no less. It asks some entirely too personal questions about Harker's "behavior and quality of care". The pretentiousness that oozes off the letter sickens me, I've got half a mind to tell him to go to hell and answer none of the questions, but then he might get the idea of coming to visit. Then I might be under investigation for two murders rather than one! Hah!
There has to be other suspects, the good doctor had many other patients, colleagues, I even vaguely remember William going on about a wife in one of his sickening spiels about his home life in an effort to "connect". Surely they are also under suspicion, I'll have to look into it, see who I can shove into the limelight to save face. In my letter back to the gumshoe, I'll see what I can do..
……………..
Letter from Atlas Mill to Sir Bailey Fox
Sir,
I'm appalled to learn of Dr. Harker's passing! He was a good doctor, one who I have frequented for much of my adult life. My father always spoke highly of him, so I often visited him for any malady's I had. I'm quite sickly you see. Going to his offices were some of the few times I was able to leave my house without assistance.
As for your questions, I saw Dr. Harker, I suppose, the night he was murdered. We were having one of our usual sessions, and it was going more tolerably than usual, but we were constantly being interrupted by others. His coworkers seemingly couldn't exist without him this night, seeing how they popped in an out with abandon. The only thing of note that comes to mind, was that he seemed a bit on edge. Glancing around as if nervous.
Oh, and just as I was about to leave, he mentioned to me, as if in passing, that his wife was waiting for him. It seemed oddly specific. Other than that, it was a normal visit, the care received was average, and of adequate quality. Like I said, I've known Dr. Harker since I was a young man, I was quite fond of him, but I always felt that he was somewhat disappointed in me. A frustrating quality of older men, no? Always jealous of the young, so they put all their expectations on them. Tell me when you catch the killer? I'd like to see them brought to justice as quickly as possible.
Waiting in expectation,
Atlas Mill
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