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Prospero now had approximately 24 hours of reliable memory under his belt, which, he supposed, was a lot better than the 0 hours he’d had a day ago. It wasn’t that it disturbed him, forgetting his identity – but it was frustrating, and with all the townspeople’s paranoia it clearly left him at a disadvantage, should anyone start feeling trigger-happy. Not to mention – he had this feeling of exigency – a pressing need to recover his memories, though not, he suspected, for his own sake.
Last night, Esperanza – Doctor Esperanza – surely he could remember new information! – Doctor Esperanza had visited him. “Preemptive measure,” the doctor had told him.
“Unfortunate I haven’t been attacked,” Prospero had said.
“Bit suspicious.”
“If I am, I don’t remember. Got hit in the head or something.”
Dr. Esperanza had brightened at the opportunity to demonstrate zeir medical prowess! That had been a boon, Prospero found. According to zem, the amnesia almost certainly stemmed from something psychological. The head trauma (“Perhaps a mild concussion – not anything too threatening,” Dr. Esperanza had said, almost disappointed) was unrelated, but could cause other cognitive hiccups, like problems forming new memories, or poor coordination. This knowledge Prospero found immensely useful.
Though, he reckoned, probably the most useful bit of information bestowed upon him was the name. It had come up after a long brainstorming session, but when he heard it he started. Finally, something to anchor himself to – neither the loose accusations of the vocal townspeople nor the silent paranoia of the others provided him anything to hold firm to – Prospero.
“S’ironic,” he muttered. He brushed his fingers lightly over a headstone, then held them there as a wave of disorientation briefly rooted him. The final bit of advice the doctor had given him was to investigate the cemetery. Something about – family names? Occupations? – he couldn’t remember the doc’s reasons (at least he could blame the head injury for that one). Still, it was better than nothing, which was what he was trying his damnedest to escape from.
He didn’t much like the cemetery, though. Awfully dark, and… sad. He didn’t think he was afraid of the dark, but there was something about being alone in it – just a, a strange sense of – failure?
Maybe he was remembering something – or maybe his stupid concussion was fucking with his emotions.
Not failure, he realized. Well, in a sense – but this was more like the feeling of letting someone down. Unintentionally, he figured – had to be – not like he’d knowingly betrayed anyone – but the more he denied it, the guiltier he felt, until he found himself pacing the tombstone-rows at a disrespectful speed, blinking away – not tears?
Prospero stopped.
He’d heard – he’d heard – what had he heard?
A voice?
He walked closer. This area of the cemetery was darker than the rest, canopy-shielded by trees. Prospero was assaulted by the sudden and revolting image of twisted roots curling through buried coffins, slowly defiling countless corpses.
This section, he realized, was also quite far from the exit.
The stones were well-made, though – perhaps even grander here, on average, than those on the other plots. Prospero wasn’t looking at the grave markers anymore, though – he was fixated on the cluster of figures he could only just make out in the murky plot.
Six figures, he thought at first – but no, there was another, kneeling, and – and, oh, fuck, he’d just invaded a fucking funeral; damn the doctor; damn him… One of the figures was speaking.
They had a soft voice, but it didn’t waver. Prospero found himself leaning forward, but realized (with some feeling – regret?) that he simply couldn’t make out any words at his distance, and was not at all intrepid enough to approach. So he stood in place and swayed in roughly-matched rhythm with the cadence of the words, scarcely aware of his surroundings – certainly not in control of his actions –!
Which, of course, he realized only after he inadvertently let out a very conspicuous sob.
“Who’s there?”
“Show yourself!”
“No running – get’ch’self over here.”
Prospero, now hyperfocused on the threats before him, noticed multiplefigures reach for their waists as though armed, and had the relatively underwhelming thought that he was going to die without ever regaining his memory.
He raised his hands and walked forward – slowly! – biting his lip, trying not to let his breath catch like before, but still feeling that peculiar depth of emotion that had caused him to cry away his cover in the first place – what was that? Why was that?
“Who’re you?” Not the person praying (he assumed they had been praying), this figure had a gruffer voice and was holding an actual firearm – the rest, Prospero assumed, had been acting (after all – how many guns should a party bring to a funeral?)
“Prospero,” he said through tears. He kept his hands up.
“No, I mean – what – what d’you do?” The woman kept the gun trained on Prospero’s chest.
Fuck, he’d invaded a fucking Mafia funeral – Prospero tried to remember what yesterday’s sunrise had looked like, reasoning he had no chance of ever seeing another one.
“I, uh – I don’t – don’t remember.” Had there been some purple? Definitely purple. Not a lot of orange, he didn’t think…
The woman scoffed. “That’s – huh! That’s a new one. Kudos for that.”
“I’m not lying –!” his own stupid sob cut him off; he realized he was still crying for the dead body, the Mafia member he couldn’t even fucking remember – fucking Esperanza’s fault –!
“Why y’crying, kid?” Another woman, shorter, looked like she could crush his skull between her palms – “Crying even before we saw you –?”
Prospero could only shake his head. Somehow he felt even more distraught now over the unknown corpse. Just lying there in a coffin, about to be – to be gored and, and twisted up in those tree roots. “I dun – dun-n-no – just, started crying. Looking – through the gr-graves – Doc said ‘might, help me rem-m-ember –! But I don’t –! Don’t know!”
He gasped for air and found himself talking again; idiot, shut up – shut up shut up shut up – get yourself killed –! “Heard y’talking and – just – sounded so nice, an’ – ‘m sorry, I’m sorry; it was–” breathless now, his voice fell to a whisper: “it was beautiful and I felt so… so upset, like I knew ‘em, and – I don’t know anyone, but I felt like I knew ‘em, and I don’t – they died and I don’t even – I don’t even remember that I knew ‘em? I –?”
Prospero didn’t quite think his legs were supporting him; he registered a supporting arm around his midsection and didn’t even question it – just sobbed over this dead stranger, into the shoulder of another stranger, surrounded by strangers – but, fuck, his own damn self was a stranger, wasn’t he? And with that thought came the warmest feeling of camaraderie he ever remembered feeling, and his barely-competent brain finally started regaining control of his lungs.
The person holding him up was crying, too, not quite as messily, but openly enough to be a reassuring sight when Prospero at length managed to look xem in the face. Xe smiled – just briefly, sadly – and pulled a rag out of a jumpsuit pocket, and fucking – xe fucking wiped the tears and snot from his face, like some kind of angel, and is this really the same Mafia the townspeople are going after?
“Easy. Look like a lost puppy, y’do,” xe said, wiping xeir own eyes. Xe traced one finger lightly over Prospero’s cheek – around his birthmark, probably; Prospero had checked his own reflection first thing day one – and pocketed the cloth.
Prospero just sniffled. He felt like a lost puppy.
“He could still be Town. D’we kill ‘im?” The armed woman cut in. Prospero gave a tiny shrug and tried to step away from his rescuer, make himself a decent target at the very least – common courtesy – but xe held him fast.
“No – don’t kill him.” This was a new voice – from the kneeling figure, thick with grief. The man stood – he was quite tall, even slumped by sorrow – and looked Prospero up and down. “You are mourning, no?”
Prospero’s breath caught in his throat again, but he nodded. Whomever it was in the grave – he was mourning them.
The tall man cocked his head and regarded Prospero just a bit more critically than before, nodding at length. “You’re no liar,” he said, tone almost warm if not for the hollowness from his earlier weeping (of course he’d been weeping – no other type of cry so suited the man’s distinguished aura, his aloof competence).
“Who – who were they?”
The man’s shoulders fell, but only briefly. “His name was Isaac.” He turned his back to Prospero, regarding the grave. His voice took on a fonder lilt – “He was… he was everything.”
Tears once more welled up in Prospero’s eyes, but he managed to keep his composure. As the tall man turned back towards him, Prospero saw he was weeping again, and freely.
Prospero held out a hand, his supporter this time allowing the action. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as the grieving man gently grasped his hand – and held it, turning it over and examining his fingers.
“Thought so,” he breathed at last. “This callous, here,” he presented Prospero his own hand, the amnesiac surprised into silence by this odd gesture, “Do you do a lot of writing?”
“If I remembered—”
“Isaac forged documents.” The tall man was becoming more agitated, though still grief-weighted, cocking his head and tapping his long fingers against Prospero’s palm. “Your hands – he has… had,” he quickly pushed past his error, “this same callous, from writing. Here, look—” He led Prospero to the fresh tombstone, fumbled around in his overcoat, procured and struck a match so Prospero could more easily read the inscription.
Isaac Fletcher O’Hare, it read, and the epitaph: Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.
“Start from nothing…” Prospero murmured, idly feeling the newly discovered callous on his right hand.
“It’s awfully pretentious for a forger of wills, isn’t it?” the tall man said fondly, sadly. He shook his head in the manner of a dog shedding water. “But to return to this matter – do you at all remember writing?”
“I…” Prospero bent his hand as though holding a pen, and – there was, there was something – but just as he thought he had grasped it, it fled him – he was left nearly as empty-headed as before, only the twinge of familiarity tethering him – but it was something.
“Go easy, Edwin.” The same person who had aided Prospero before pulled him up and away from the grave. “Think we’ve loitered enough.”
Edwin seemed to deflate, but nodded. “What do we do with him now?”
Prospero looked to Edwin, fearful in spite of events, but the person holding him laid a large hand on his back. “Don’t worry. He means – d’you got somewhere to go tonight?”
Prospero nodded. “Yeah. I got a house. I think. I mean – they – the town – said it must be mine, since it’s not anyone else’s.”
“Mm. How ‘bout this. We meet outside the town at night to talk. You sh’d join. Pretty clear you’re a forger, yeah? I don’ think we got anything t’ worry about from you.”
“No –! Not at all.” Just the notion of any of these strangers – could he call them strangers at this point? – these people dying, at his hand, especially, had him once again on the verge of tears.
“’M Vincent. The one who pulled a gun on you is Yves, ‘N’ this is Alice–” the muscular woman “– and y’know Edwin, ‘n’ Owain, Henry, Jeanne,” introducing each mobster in turn.
“I’m this close t’ remembering,” Prospero complained, frowning at his feet. More frustrating than ever, now, his amnesia, since it was obviously keeping him from doing his job.
“Dun’ worry about it, pup,” Vincent rubbed his shoulder gently. “It’ll come.”