It was a new kind of numb.

It was as if Atlas himself had been relieved of his burden for a few small moments. It was a relieving rush, the kind you turned to when you had no others left to turn to. It didn't help in the morning, and it stung going down, but it sure as hell helped in the moment.

The moment was now, and what he needed was relief. Relief from the world that lauded him a hero, worshiped him as the savior of humanity, the killer of kings, the liberator of man.

But what he truly was, deep inside, was a scared and alone child.

He had nobody to turn to anymore. Everyone expected something profound, or something sage. He had simply done what he was told to do, by instinct or others. He wasn't a savior, he was an automaton. Simply a tool of war, able to topple cities because he was born with a power that not many had, at least not at his level.

To be revered wherever you went, everyone wanting a picture, or thanking you for your service. They don't truly know. They don't realize that he wasn't unlike like them. He too, was a person who didn't know what they were doing. Someone living only because they were alive. Yet, they had not seen what he had seen. While they lived hidden away from the horrors of war in their underground sanctuaries, sheltered away from the real world, he had seen death.

He had seen the true, ugly face of sentient 'spiral' beings.

Could he live like this any longer? Consumed by his own guilt, having to put on a facade that everything is okay, life is great, that he was enjoying the attention, for all of these people that want nothing more out of you than to say "I've met him!" or to have a photo opportunity.

It was disgusting. Before the war, he was a gross, smelly child, who worked all of his life in order to eat. Nobody liked him. They whispered about him behind his back, sharing their gossip and lies, smirking while feigning innocence when he would ask.

But there was the one.

The one who believed in him.

Who told him to believe in the you that believes in yourself. The man who took a broken boy and made him whole. And he couldn't even save him. The one time he was needed, and he failed. To be hailed as a great man, the one who had saved humanity, yet couldn't even save his brother? It was disgusting. He didn't deserve any of the praise.

He deserved people shoving him, telling him what a pathetic sack of shit he was, gossiping about him behind his back. But they didn't. History would remember him fondly, generations upon generations would learn about his 'marvelous deeds for humanity'. All while his brother, the man worthy of the praise he received, would be forgotten by history. Everyone who died, forgotten.

Why couldn't it have been him who died that day? Why did it have to be the driving force behind their rebellion? He was forced to grow up too soon, and he hated life for it. Perhaps the bottle could truly drown his sorrows.

He took a swig of the brown colored liquid. Rum. It tasted terrible, like liquid flames going down his throat, but it lowered his inhibitions and made him feel somewhat better. So he took another hearty swig of it.

It burned. He drank, and he drank, and he drank until the bottle was out.

His vision was blurred, and he felt like he was on fire, but he was truly amazed that someone his age could have finished the entire bottle by themselves. He got up and staggered to his bathroom. He fell over a few times, but picked himself up, and opened the door. He stripped down bare, and started turning the knobs until they couldn't be turned anymore. It was fine, he wanted the burn.

If he couldn't drown his sorrows, he would drown himself.

That's how he rationalized it in his drunken stupor. It scaled his skin, but he didn't mind. He didn't care anymore. This was as close as he could get to relief. He felt the tears streaming out of his eyes, but it didn't matter. Nobody could see him crying in the shower. Nobody could see him at all.

Within minutes, his brain finally registered that his skin was being seared by the boiling water coming out of the shower head. He turned it to cold, let the water cool him, and swung the shower door open. His vision was really blurry now. He felt like he was going to black out.

He started walking towards his room, but it seemed as if there was now four doors and they were all shaking.

He stumbled, but moved forward, tears streaming down his face now. How pathetic was he? He couldn't even get to his bedroom correctly, he couldn't save his brother, he couldn't do anything.

He let his towel fall to the floor, grabbed a pair of underwear, and then flopped on the bed. He smothered his face in his pillow, and sobbed. He sobbed, hiccuped, and sobbed, until he passed out in the darkness of his desolate home.

Being alone was all he knew, and it was all he would ever know.