The Amnesiac

Chapter Five

The water washed over Anatoly's head. Steam filled his nose. It was a miasma of warm sensation, purifying him, and washing away his filth. 

He had a passing thought that people were supposed to sing in the shower, that he in fact had always done so, atleast according to his mother. But other than the sound of water washing over him, there was a euphoric emptiness that he dared not do anything to disturb.

No one ever appreciates emptiness, the absence of everything. But he did. In it he found peace, he found serenity, he found-

"I have something to show you..."

Anatoly's eyes shot open. The whisper lashed him like a winter breeze.

"I have something-"

He paused, and then all at once threw back the shower curtain like a child looking for monsters under the bed. No one was there. His breath came heavy for four seconds.

Just a whisper, he thought. He laughed. What am I saying? A whisper? No... just my mind playing tricks.

Harry, meanwhile, faced an awkward decision.

Anatoly was tall, almost as tall as he. But the lanky Russian was also rail thin, whereas Harry was built like something of an ox. Any of his nicer, newer clothes would be too big for Anatoly. That wouldn't do.

He dug around for some of his old clothes, and these might have fit Anatoly, but they looked worn-out and faded. At the bottom of his closet he found one such shirt, and as he examined it a slight smile passed over his face. On the chest sat a hefty panda licking an ice cream cone, with the caption "Got any more?" scrawled beneath. Anatoly had laughed at that shirt once. But no, it wasn't right.

In the end he found a polo his aunt had gotten for him last Christmas. It had been too small for him, and frankly not at all his style, yellow with thin black stripes across the midsection. Still, it would fit Anatoly perfectly, and it had never been worn.

For pants, Harry had dug around for something that wouldn't slip at Anatoly's waist. In all his wardrobe, he'd had only one suitable option. A pair of black cargo shorts he'd found stuffed at the bottom of his closet. Again, not something he'd wear himself, but...

Anatoly had always had his own style. He was lucky, in a way. People mistakenly perceived his shy, quiet, attitude as stoic, mysterious, alluring. His aloofness was perceived as confidence, and there was an intensity to him that lent an air of coolness to everything he wore and did. 

Finally pleased with himself, he'd folded the clothes up nicely, along with a pair of clean socks and fresh boxers, and set the ensemble down just outside the bathroom.

Anatoly's words still resounded in his mind, "You're a good friend, Harry." He smiled once, and rejoined the others, lightened by a sense of goodly virtue.

Exiting the shower, Anatoly dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He studied himself in the mirror for a moment. A clean scar traced its way from just above his heart to his belly button. It was from surgery, he'd been told, a procedure to repair his obliterated internal organs following the accident. He ran his finger down the length of it. Not an ugly scar, he thought, not too bad.

He opened the door and found the clothes Harry had laid out for him. Was this some sort of joke? He'd lost his memory, not his fashion sense... 

And where were his clothes? He looked around, but found them nowhere. Harry had taken them? The bastard!