The Amnesiac

Chapter Three

Hush.

Quiet now, or you'll shake him from his dream. And this was no ordinary dream.

There are dreams, see, and then there are dreams that seem to go beyond. Everything is amplified, detailed with a brazen intensity. In the moment it feels lifelike, but upon waking the dreamer finds that it was more than life, and life, by comparison, feels a little dull.

It was such a dream that Anatoly fell under. It would settle upon his shoulders and yoke him even after he woke, and longer.

Anatoly saw a puddle of blood, slowly spreading. At once, he stood in the center of it. He had not walked to it, nor had it spread to him. As dreams do, his surroundings had adapted to ensure he experienced the full horror of them.

The blood became like quicksand, he felt himself sinking.

He screamed for help, but no sound came from his throat.

Then Eloise was there, "Don't you remember," she asked. Her voice was pleading, desperate.

"Help," He tried to scream. Again no sound rang from his throat.

Eloise burst into tears, "Don't you remember," She asked again.

"Yes," he begged, "I remember, just please, pull me out!"

Eloise studied him for another moment, as if trying to hear him. She shook her head. "The wolves are coming," She whispered. She settled her sweet face into her hands and wept.

He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat.

His mother was there clutching his hand. "I told you he'd start looking for..." she was saying, but then she felt him stirring and cut herself off. "He's awake," she exclaimed.

His father jumped to his feet with a quickness and balance that bespoke hidden athleticism. "Anatoly," he said hoarsely.

Anatoly. Yes, that's my name. Anatoly. I am... am I?

He cleared his throat. "I'm-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "There was a man at the park, he said to..."

No, that wasn't what he should tell them.

"There was... a deer... a young buck. He... I held him and he...the wolves..."

"He's delirious," His mother said.

"A fugue state, maybe," his father answered, "I've read about these" He tapped his chin thoughtfully,  "he might have no recollection of the prior night."

A sound rumbled from Anatoly that sounded so similar to choking that his mother paled, leapt to her feet, and was about to strike his chest when she realized he was laughing. Then she looked at him in perplexity. "Are you alright?"

No recollection. That's funny.

"Are you alright," she repeated.

Anatoly eyed her. "Are we Russian," he asked.

She looked from him, to his father, and back again before laughing cautiously. "You are, dear," she said, "I only married into it."

"I see," he said.

"It was your Russian blood that kept you alive last night, no doubt," his father grunted, "How much did you drink?"

"Drink? I didn't drink." A sudden pain smashed into his head like a hammer. "Ah," he winced, hand moving to his temple.

His father's honest face, so simple in its making, so easy to read, turned crimson with fury. "We found a bottle of vodka in your car, which, by the way, you destroyed last night. What were you thinking? And now you lie?"