ASHES TO DUST

“What do you see, Mr. Orpheus?”

Engulfed by towering flames, spindly pine trees cracked as they burned. He blinked. A branch fell from a tree close by, and while he tried to follow its trajectory, a heavy thud came from somewhere behind him. He swung around, fully facing whatever was coming for him, but nothing was there. He heaved a breath through his mouth, then coughed, the smoke making it near impossible.

“Yes, you survived the fire. But what were the woods like before it?”

This treatment had been his doctor’s idea, and he had figured there was no other choice but to entertain it. Hypnotherapy, it was called. Done right, it would allow for him to walk through his memories, recovering anything he found step by step. Done right, it would make his now month-long hospital stay worth it.

Two hours in, and the only thing he remembered was the fire. Just below the waves of his consciousness, he could hear the fatigue seeping into his doctor’s voice. She would lead him in one direction, attempting to coerce something, anything out of him, and all he could see was orange and yellow, all he could feel was heat. Over and over again, he would wake up on the ground, see everything around him aflame, and hear that thud behind him. It was not enough for this fire to have taken his other memories, it wanted more from him. It wanted him to remember it. As he once again watched the woods that burned behind him for any signs of movement, he thought it all to be a waste.

Then, something moved.

“What is it?” His doctor asked, energy returning to her voice.

Squinting didn’t make it clearer, craning his neck didn’t bring it closer. It hid between two burning trees, nothing more than a speck of golden light. His breathing slowed, and warmth spread through his chest.

His lips parted slowly, chapped skin trying to keep them together. He said something to the light, but he made no sound. He stepped forward.

“Keep going.” His doctor’s voice was lost just behind the crackling flames.

He spoke again, and this time a voice was audible. It couldn’t have been his—this one was too high pitched, too refined. Yet, there was familiarity to the words falling off his tongue.

“Come back.” He said. As he dashed toward the light, the warmth in his chest began to burn.

The light bounced into the woods, keeping its distance from him. Faintly, someone giggled. They couldn’t have been anything but a child.

“I’m trying to help you!” He yelled after it.

Dark smoke crept into the corner of his vision.

“Why do you flee the nest?” A deep, raspy voice hummed in his ear.

What should have been smoke swirled beside him, thick, and when he inhaled, he began to choke. He stopped running, hands falling to his knees as he hacked up his lungs. A sudden shiver took to his spine, forcing his head to shake. He panted, short and shallow, while sweat dripped from the hair in his face. When did he wear it this long?

“I have to save her.” He whispered.

The smoke rumbled, almost melodic. “Don’t look back, then.”

His vision went dark. Someone was laughing, and his heart raced. He should have feared what he was about to remember, and yet…he didn’t feel anything at all. Indifference accompanied his rapid heartbeat and his rising chest.

“Mr. Orpheus, where are you now?” His doctor asked, a slight panic clear in her tone.

That was a very good question. He was propped upright by a chair, stiff for the most part, though the seat was plush. In front of him was a table, made of varnished oak, and on it were four plates; one in front of him, one across from him, one to his left, and one across from that. All of them bore…something. Their contents blurred together into lumps of beige. Sunlight gently fell from a massive window to his right, though it was impossible to tell what else was outside—it, too, was blurry.

Across from him, wood screeched against wood. He looked up.

A man had gotten up from the table. How had he not noticed him? He wore a red coat, which, though shabby and dull, contrasted brilliantly against his pale skin and the blue cravat tied loosely around his neck. His hair, long and white, was pulled back behind his head. He held his lanky body straight, and stared down at Orpheus. His eyes were a gray so light they nearly blended with the whites, and Orpheus barely caught his furrowed eyebrows. He frowned, his mouth thin and long.

He said something, but once more, the memory was inaudible. Orpheus said something to him in turn, leaning towards the table to rest his chin on the backs of his hands. The cotton of gloves against his skin startled him. His mouth turned upwards as he spoke.

The man in red stood, unresponding. He turned on his heel and passed to the left, pardoning himself from whatever topic had just come up. Orpheus’ eyebrow raised as he watched him leave. In the chair next to where he’d been sitting, a woman crossed her arms. Her face was mostly hidden by a veil of gossamer descending from her hat, her mouth being the only thing visible. She pursed her lips, frowning as well, before similarly removing herself from the room.

His chair scraped against the floor. It was his turn to leave, then.

To his left was a young woman, dressed sharply in a light blue blazer and a plaid skirt. Her blonde hair was held by a blue ribbon in a thick braid at the back of her head, which was all Orpheus could see of her. She watched the veiled woman go, and presumably the man in red.

His mouth moved again, and she turned to him. She made eye contact with him, lingering for a moment before she nodded. Was there something on his face? Was it whatever he had said? He didn’t think he was much of a disagreeable person. Were these people just insufferable?

Who were they, anyways?

Whatever had happened, he hadn’t paid it much mind, strolling away from the table with a spring in his step.

The young woman grabbed his arm, creasing the pristine white fabric of his jacket sleeve. When did he wear things like that?

“Who are you?” She asked, clear as day. She sounded like the smoke that’d spoken to him during the fire.

“Who are you?” He—not the memory of himself—demanded. He looked over his shoulder, the young woman staring blankly up at him.

“Why are you here?” A higher, effeminate voice mixed with the low rumble of the question. The lower voice seemed amused, while the higher voice pleaded. The woman’s brow creased.

“Why are you?”

“Who are you?” She squinted in thought as if she, this figment of a woman he knew once, would be able to tear through him like the pages of a novel.

“Let go of me.” He remembered saying.

She did. He brushed off where she had grabbed him, and turned his back. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and took a step forward.

“What did you do next?”

His shoe met the ground with a soft crunch. A bird screeched in the distance. He looked for it, or at least its general location, but all he saw were spindly pines and the moon, full and high in the dark sky. Nothing responded to its call, so it cried again. A river bubbled. Clean air mingled with some putrid, sour stench nearby, but no smoke hung on the breeze.

There was buzzing behind him.

Someone ran right into his back, sending him stumbling forward with a grunt. Whirling around, he was met with a swarm of hornets attempting to mimic the form of a human. A flashlight was in their midst, being tossed from one bug to the next, practically hovering.

As one, they buzzed, emitting a dour note.

“Stay back!” He threw his arms up to block them. Not as if it would do anything, but it was reassuring. Unfortunately, he blinked.

In the swarm’s place was the veiled woman, worse for wear. The knees of her striped pants were caked with dirt, and her coat was torn at the bottom. She brandished the flashlight as though it were a sword, as though it might protect her. Why she would, he had no idea.

Voice low and shaking, she said, “Get away from me.”

“What?” Orpheus blinked again. The swarm took her place.

It buzzed at him again, swinging the flashlight in his direction. That was enough, apparently, for him to turn tail, careening off into the woods.

Trees flew by, a few sticking him with their branches. None of them drew blood, but his arms slowly accrued scratches. He tried to silence his heavy breathing, which only caused his lungs to strain and ache. He grew closer and closer to a dilapidated structure of stone bricks, its four walls in different states of collapse. One seemed more of a fence than a wall, while another stood tall behind it. Perhaps he’d be safe upon reaching it.

The speck of light waited for him there. It giggled with the voice of a child.

His foot caught on something, and he flew forward. Head colliding with the ground, an agonized yelp came from deep within his chest. His momentum flipped him forward so that he ended up on his ass. His head lolled forward briefly, before he snapped it upwards.

Standing above him was something more of a monster than a man. Muscle constrained against skin, which appeared to slough off its body like mud. It wore torn clothing—what could have been a green shirt, what could have been gray pants. Pure red eyes bore into him, gnashing teeth were frozen in a snarl. It dragged an ax behind it, sharp and void of rust.

Despite the trembling of his hands, the sweat dripping down his neck, the beating of his heart so loud it rattled his head—he pushed himself to stand, dirt sticking to his palms. He was just below half of this thing’s height, and he couldn’t look it in the eye.

He watched his fist collide with its jaw. Skin and bone cracked against its strange flesh, ringing hollow and loud. It cried out in a voice that was remarkably human. Orpheus swung his other fist around directly into the opposite side of its head. It cried again. It dropped the ax and reached for its face, giving him the chance to kick it in the knees. It didn’t go down, instead growling and throwing its own punch at him. It landed in his stomach, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would.

A blink, and suddenly he was on the ground, his fist coming up from another blow. It dripped with blood, staining his skin and clothing.

Below him was a man, sprawled on his back. Black hair, matted with blood, framed his head. The right side of his face was scarred, but the long healed wound didn’t hold a candle to his current state—blood flowed from his nose and mouth, both sides of his face were beaten bright red, and his eyes…Orpheus didn’t know how he forgot the terror in them.

“Stop.” He pleaded, weak.

He didn’t know why he didn’t listen.

“Orpheus.”

Someone squeezed his right hand.

“Mr. Orpheus.” He readied his bloody fist. His head grew light, as though he stood up too fast. Something fell on the ground to his left. Whirling his head, he saw it was just a book, its open pages facing the sky.

“Mr. Orpheus!”

His eyes flew open, chest rising and falling with panicked breaths. He was in a dark room with one window, laying on a plush red couch. His right hand was trapped in someone else’s—a woman with black hair, dressed in a white doctor’s uniform. She stared at him, eyes wide.

He yanked his hand out of hers. “It didn’t work.”

“What?” She asked. “Mr. Orpheus—?”

“Your Hypnotherapy.” He swung his legs over the side of the couch, feet touching the floor. “I remembered a nightmare, not my life. Some treatment.”

“We can’t be sure of that. And you’re not supposed to get up—!”

“I’m not doing it again.” He said plainly. “It didn’t work.”

Outside the window, a bird crooned. He couldn’t tell what kind.