The Amnesiac

3:4

The diner hadn't felt right for their meeting, not after what'd happened. Thus, once more proving his aptitude for consideration, Ron had invited the others over to his home. 

From outside the wind howled like it meant to be heard. What do you want, Ron wondered. What more? 

He'd never been religious, but things lately seemed bad on a cosmic scale. Things like that, dark things, they don't just happen. 

He hoped they didn't, anyway. 

There had to be a reason. But what? But why?

"Has anyone texted Anatoly," Brian asked. 

"He's coming," Ron said. It was said with the sort of determination that always accompanies doubt. 

Helena was the only one wise enough in the ways of the world to detect that shrill doubt hiding in the recess of Ron's voice, and she shivered from a chill brought on by the implication of her friend's words. They were all falling apart. She knew it. But what could she do?

Brian noticed his girlfriend's sudden shutter and stiffened. Was she laughing at him? Was she inching away? What'd that mean?

Moira soaked everything up with her typical air of quiet suspicion. She gave off the impression of a fox in the darkness of night, eyes low and hackles up. 

"Maybe you should call him," She whispered to no one in particular. 

"Sure," Ron said.

But just as he was pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans, Ron spotted Anatoly's figure through the window. He smiled, "Ah, he's here."

As Anatoly entered a wave of cold air entered with him, rushing in like an opportunistic thief. He paused there, in the doorway, taking in the faces of his friends. They all seemed somehow haggard. Somehow tired, and stressed, and perhaps... scared.

Had they always been that way?

Is it me? Am I the shadow hovering over them? The shroud of darkness and depression and despair inching ever closer to their hearts?

Helena shivered again, this time genuinely from the cold. She wondered if her breath would come out like steam, but couldn't bring herself to release the breath she held.

Brian's eyes were on Anatoly, but his undivided attention was dedicated to Helena, who appeared to shake again in his periphery. He could taste the doubt in his throat. It was raw, sweet, and sour all at once. Something is going on, he thought. I know it. I just know.

"Hi," Moira said.

Anatoly forced a rigid smile. "Sorry I'm late. The weather, you know."

It was obviously a line he'd pre-prepared and practiced, and they all recognized it for what it was: Phony. Anatoly winced. He'd hoped to reassure them, but he'd only furthered the unease in the room.

"Sure. No problem," Ron said.

I'm despicable, he thought.

"No you're not," The little echo in his ear chimed in, "They are! Can't you see?"

"Shut up," Anatoly thought back at it, though if he were honest with himself, which would've been impossible, he appreciated the little voice in that moment.

Ron cringed, "Um, sorry?"

Anatoly's face flushed crimson. "Oh... not you," He said.

Ron nodded. He...wasn't about to touch that. Later, he thought.