Chapter Text
Atticus was at his workbench, in his workshop, in the garage. On his fourth cup of coffee, he yawns, resisting the want to fall asleep.
Oh Atticus… dear Atticus… don’t you ever get to rest?
The phone rang.
Atticus glanced over. Who could possibly be calling at this hour?
He let the phone ring.
“Hello!” His cheery, tired voice sounded. The voicemail prompt had begun. “I’m not here right now. But if you want to leave a message, just start talking at the sound of the tone!”
The tone sounded.
“Hello?~” The voice on the other side sang. It was familiar. Terribly so. “This is your wife… are you there?~”
Atticus turned his head.
“Atticus…~ It’s been a rather long time, hasn’t it? Ah well, I was just wondering,~” A pause. “Are you there?~ I know you are, love.~” Another pause. “Answer the phone, would you? It’d be a pleasure to hear your voice again.~”
The voice laughed. A coy, sweet, sickening sound. It made Atticus’ stomach churn.
Carefully, Atticus stood. He grabbed the phone. The voice, still there, seemed to celebrate.
“Atticus!~” It… she… cheered. “Is that you, dear?~”
Atticus clenched the phone. Breath unsteady... hands shaking… “Lila.” He said. “What are you doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You left. You were told to never call. I told you to never call.”
“I suppose I had gotten a little homesick. I just had to know how you and our son were doing!~”
“‘Homesick’…? This isn’t your home. Not anymore. We don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Oh please, Atticus, just wait a minute before you hang up, will you?”
“What.”
“The King has been asking for you.” Lila hummed. “He wants you back.”
“I don’t want anything to do with him.” Atticus stated. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Atticus-”
“Goodbye, Lila.”
Atticus carefully, almost regretfully, placed the phone back on the receiver.
The nerve of her…
Atticus grabbed his coffee mug, as well as a knife, turning off all of the lights in the room as he left. He went upstairs. The attic.
There was something he needed to do.
Something he should’ve done years ago.
Atticus spotted a picture. A rather large one. Leaning on the wall. There was a time he looked upon this picture fondly. It had been collecting dust all this time.
He grabbed it, staring at those in it.
Himself and his wife. Taken about a month after their wedding.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. He never wore his wedding ring. He never spoke of his once wife. There was hardly a hint that he had ever been married.
The only hint was his own son.
Those who knew him, old friends never spoke a word. New friends did. Atticus always deflected.
His son was his own little miracle, his everything.
His son didn’t need to know what happened. He didn’t need to know why one parent suddenly switched for another. He didn’t want to know.
Effects of Atticus’ recent past were hidden. Buried. Burned.
This would just be another one.
Carefully, Atticus began scratching out the pretty face of his estranged, absent wife.