The Amnesiac

Chapter One

Anatoly Residnikov was thin, bookish, shy, and absolutely determined not to cringe as he passed his "father's" study. He took a deep breath as he opened his bedroom door, took three steps, and stopped. His eyes were fixed on the red door down the hall.

I'm crazy, he thought, I must be.

He took another step, and a shiver ran up his spine.

He wasn't a coward, not at all actually. He'd survived a devastating collision with an 18 wheeler, he'd survived the destruction of his body, and he'd survived the long 7 month coma that had stolen his memories and threatened to steal his sanity.

Nothing behind that door could hold any fear for him. Not his father, not death itself.

But what if it opened.

What if his father came out of it and asked "How's your day, Anatoly?"

The thought of having to come up with an answer, having to pull torturous small talk out of him. It was galling.

No. He couldn't fake it. Not today. Not any more.

He closed his eyes and slinked the rest of the way to the staircase. Anatoly threw on his jacket and went out the front door without a word. His parents still didn't like him driving alone, but he was twenty-one years old, a full grown man, and they couldn't really stop him.

As soon as he sat down behind the wheel, his phone began to ring. He answered it.

"Anatoly, where are you going," his mother said.

He shivered. That voice. His mother's voice. His...mother's voice?

"For a drive," he said.

"A drive? A drive to where?'

He rubbed his head. "I don't know just....a drive."

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line, "You can't keep-"

"Good bye."

He threw down the phone without hanging up, started the car, and went out into the street.

As he drove, voices and images swarmed around him, but he didn't pull over. There was a war going on within himself. On one side, there was everything that made him him. His mother, his father, his girlfriend, and his friends. Of Mice and Men was his favorite book, he'd read it over and over again one summer when he was in high school. His favorite music, the foods he loved. He knew all these things about himself. His parents had told him, so had Eloise, and all of his friends. They all had their stories straight.

Then, on the other side, there was... something. A mystic force. A whisper, a gentle breeze which asked, "There's something terribly wrong about all of this, isn't there?"

He couldn't say which side was winning. He couldn't even say where he was going.

He thought about Eloise. Beautiful, amazing, Eloise, who loved him and told him they'd be married someday. She'd kissed him when he woke from the coma. You'd think you'd remember a girl like that, you'd think you'd remember the spark of her lips. There had been nothing.

He thought about his friends. Apparently they'd practically been brothers since they were kids. Harry, Michael, Thomas, Brian, Daniel. Anatoly shook his head. Daniel? No, it was Jeremy. He couldn't even keep track of his own friend's name. He scratched his chin, Maybe there was a Dan? He shook his head again. No, certainly not. Was there?

Anatoly drove until the sun went down, and all the lights in the sky came out to dance.

There was a park around a lovely pond, or maybe it was a lake. It didn't matter, moonlight rippled off the water in the most alluring way, and Anatoly felt a tug like the siren's song.

He parked on the street and walked over to a bench. For a while he sat alone, and felt his loneliness lay heavy upon him. Desperately, he wished he could talk to someone.

He looked around, and found a man sitting on a nearby bench, staring at him. The man was bald, middle aged, and drinking from a bottle.

There was something in the man's eyes, something at odds with his shabby clothing. It was a hint of joy, a well of wisdom....perhaps, a slight twinkle of madness. Anatoly's mouth went dry. He wanted to call out to the man, but decided against it. Who knew, maybe the man had known him before the accident, and he didn't want to offend the man by not knowing. Still he hoped beyond all hope that the man would call out to him.

"You," the man said, "Come here."

The blood left Anatoly's face. Though only moments before he'd longed for company, he now felt an overwhelming desire to be alone. "Me?"

The bald man laughed and waved for him to come. Seeing no way out, Anatoly got up and sat down next to him.

"My name is Solomon," the man said, "what's yours?"

"Anatoly."

Solomon raised an eyebrow, "Russian? Go figure. You don't look Russian."

"I'm-," Anatoly stopped himself. He'd been about to say he wasn't Russian, but he wasn't sure. He'd have to ask his parents when he got home.

Solomon must have sensed the peculiar swing of ideas and emotions, or maybe he simply noticed the frown Anatoly wore. Either way, he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You know what sort of people come to places like this at night," he asked.

Anatoly swallowed. "No."

Solomon smiled, "There are two sort actually." He pointed to himself, "There are folk like me, folks so broken and shattered and wretched that they come to places of beauty, like this, hoping a little bit of what God gave this will rub off on them."

Anatoly blinked. He looked out at the water, "That might be me."

"No," Solomon said, "You're the other type."

"I don't even know who I am, how can you?"

Solomon tapped his head. "Ah, there it is. I can spot it a mile away. You see, the second folks who come here are those with questions

Anatoly nodded gravely, "Maybe I'm both."

"Is that your question," Solomon asked.

Anatoly faced him, "My question is...who am I?"

"You tell me."

Anatoly shook his head. "Everyone says I'm... me. But, I don't know. If only I had my memories."

"I don't understand," Solomon said, "Explain it to me."

The young man looked up at the sky, racking his brain for the right way to describe it. "It's like... You ever seen a stuffed bear? I mean one that used to be alive, and then a taxidermist tried to make his corpse look like it did when it was. Sometimes they can be so lifelike so close to being real. But that closeness is something foreign. It's wrong. You see it, and you know there's no more soul inside. That's what my life feels like."

Solomon thought to himself for a long time. He tapped his chin carefully, "Have you ever seen a stuffed bear?"

"I-," Anatoly blinked. "I don't know, actually. I mean.. I must have..."

Solomon smiled, "You're still in there, boy. Locked away maybe, but you're there. The real you is like a scared little kid hiding from a storm, it's up to this you to search for him, to let him know that the rain will pass."

Anatoly looked out at the water, then up at the stars. "You're right," he said. "I can't thank you enough, I-"

"Don't mention it."

Anatoly rushed to his car, ready to go find himself. As an afterthought, he called over his shoulder "Have a good night, sir!"

"Have a good night, Daniel," Solomon called back.

The boy got into his car and closed the door. He put the key in the ignition. He almost turned it.

Then he stopped.