Memories of Ghosts

Twenty-One: The Lucky One

**It's been roughly a month, but my heart goes out to France's recent tragedy of the burning of Notre Dame. I walked into my world history class to find my professor playing a news report on the burning and just watching it get swallowed in smoke left me speechless; it was hard to see one of the world's most beautiful and religious buildings set aflame. BUT it could be worse. Many artifacts were saved, most of the building still stands, and you Europeans are really good at buildings things to how they were before (with all those wars and everything). Yes, it was devastating, but it's totally manageable. France is okay, you guys—it's gonna take a whole lot more than that to take him down. 😊

Speaking of internal devastation, here's another chapter.**

31 March 2017

Opening his eyes was like trying to open a door with rusted hinges and a jammed doorknob. Something was always holding him back—the blinding sunlight steaming in through the wide windows, the alcohol still clogged in his brain, the dull aches reverberating around his body—but, for some reason, he still insisted on opening his eyes, on waking himself up.

Gradually, his eyelids peeled open and he was brought back to the twenty-first century.

The first thing he came to realize was the carpet beneath him. It was hard and scratchy and smelled faintly of dust. He rolled his head toward the ceiling, sensing a crook in his neck and the beginning of a terrible headache. His eyes dragged to his left where he saw a door opened ajar, white tile flooring, and the curved handles of a large cabinet. A bathroom.

He peeked at his right. He recognized his own briefcase lying flat on its side next to him. An outlet was stuck to the steel grey wall and an oak trim ran along its border. He also noticed the dull shine of a key and a plastic tag attached together on a metal hoop. On the tag were the words "Marriott Hotel" in a wavy font.

A small sigh escaped him. He was in his hotel room.

Arthur clutched his head as he slowly sat up, wincing slightly. He felt the sharp pounding against his temples and could taste a bitter spark on his tongue. His back popped rhythmically as he straightened his curled spine. He peeked through his dirty fringe and glanced down at himself. His suit was stiff and wrinkly, his tie was undone, his shoes had dark stains all over them. He looked and felt like shit.

Fuck, I need a shower, he thought to himself, reeking of sour clothes and shame. He sluggishly got onto his feet, shuffled deeper into the small room, grabbed some clean clothes from the suitcase he left by the bed, and then shuffled into the bathroom. It wasn't until he had removed his jacket, yanked off his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt that he started to wonder what had happened the night before.

He remembered having dinner with Kiku, hearing his experience in Nagasaki during the war, watching him leave with Mei and Yong Soo, ordering another pint. But what happened next?

His eyes surveyed his body in the mirror as if there were physical evidence somewhere on him. He saw the pink shriveled-up piece of skin around his heart—it was about the size of a pomegranate—that slowly grew each time his capital burned, but other than that, nothing significantly important could be spotted on his person. He looked down at his wedding ring and recalled being very upset and ordering another round at dinner once Kiku left. Another frustrated sigh blew from his lips as the memories—recent ones, that is—clicked back on in his mind like a flickering flashlight.

He flexed the hand that he had pierced with the broken, dirty remains of an empty beer bottle; it was clear of any grime, blood, or glass as if nothing ever happened. His eyes squinted at his open palm. But who brought him to his hotel room? Did they rummage through his things to get his room key? He remembered being handled roughly in that alleyway and he did just wake up on the floor as though he were nothing more than a stray dog with no sense of purpose. It had to have been someone he knew.