February
002
Ice forms slowly, slowly, drifting, drifting, a storm of denial and pride…
It is on Valentines day when they meet Alfred and Ivan. But they meet in different ways—in strange ways. In hospitals and clinics.
They are all diagnosed with the same thing. As if unfairness has decided to side with them, two other men have been condemned to the fate of having memory loss. It is strange as it is lovely and like a growing seed of destruction and mayhem they bond over there mutual pain and the dimmed memories they can briefly remember. But the thought recycles like a deadly virus attacking from touch and breath. The thought grows and they remember it because it is the only thing that makes remembering less painful.
They are not forgetting. They are fine.
And they tell themselves that because they choose to believe it. They do believe it. They do.
It is less cold and there are days with a striking warmth although through and through the chills of there aching bones remain. They walk together, perhaps in a straight line if not for the strange differences in height, and they sit together in a small booth that fits four.
"We are not losing our memories." Arthur explains to a hungry American. The American is easily repelled and repulsed and his eyes dilate in the heavy income of sucrose and salt. It is amusing, Arthur thinks and he tries to remember the way the younger man holds his knifes and forks. Because it is unique and irreplaceable, he repeats in his brain. Irreplaceable.
"I hear you, Artie, mhm mhm…" Alfred swallow's coffee and perhaps five teaspoons of sugar and he does not mind. Memory loss is the least of his problems when money is low, and the rich Russian is paying the bill. And perhaps deep down he is the person who is convincing himself the most because Yao could only see a hungry man despite the tainted memory.
A strange feeling erupts. Jealousy. It fuels him enough for him to look away. He is not as free spirited and he is not as carefree. His chest hollows. Maybe that is where he went wrong.
"Perhaps, da…I do not understand these things." Ivan responds bitterly and thoughtlessly. He sits closer to the Asian and quite honestly, he prefers the Oriental male compared to the witty and charming Britain. There is a method and a procedure in liking people. He knows this because he likes Yao and he doesn't like Alfred. He prefers Arthur and he still dislikes Alfred. He likes Yao, he thinks, because Yao is warm and Yao-Yao is cold. To him, the other is a mixture of colours and shades. He likes mutations—he likes hybrids of special kinds.
He likes different things.
"Arthur, aiya…we have not yet forgotten anything yet, do not fret over such things so soon." Yao says calmly, he chooses not to believe in the sickening development that has not yet crossed his mind. He is not ready for the struggle and he has not yet struggled. For that he is glad.
Arthur feels the same. And that is one of the few things the two agree on other then tea. He is not forgetting, and when he gets back home he writes that over and over again in hopes of truly not... forgetting. Because sometimes the thought leaves him and he needs to search everything to find it again. Because sometimes he remembers something else such as; I am forgetting, and it hurts his mind all the same.
The sound of Alfred eating is all that remains. And the silence is comforting although thoughts and secrets and hope and despair are all muddled together. Ivan pays the bill easily and like they were strangers they walk out, not knowing exactly where they're going.
Perhaps they forget each other but that is not today.
No, not today, and they smile because when they reach their homes of different sizes, they still remember each other's names and each other's smiles. It is in every sense a miracle and they bask in the glory of a day well remembered.
So the lie grows and deepens, they are not forgetting, they are not forgetting…and they remember it, because they are optimistic, they tell themselves despite the sharpness of the unraveling truth. Because they are right, and they can't be wrong.
They are not wrong.
It is the mental persuasion that works much faster then logic and in that moment they believe it. They believe the lies and ignore the prescriptions and the pills and the torn parchment.
They all smile in different times at different places, ignorant, arrogant, similar smiles.
Yes, how could they be forgetting?
Later on in the month there is more snow and it falls, and it hardens. Like Arthur, Alfred thinks, there is layers to the personality. There is discovery and secret places he still has yet to dwell in. There is so much to be found and used within green because now he can manage with tea and with whatever food Arthur claims as his own. He manages and slowly, slowly, he understands the meaning between having time and using it wisely.
He drinks from a hot cup of coffee, his sixth because the February night leaves him breathless in insomnia. He drinks in the night sky, the scent of the cold and the emptiness of shadows and phantoms. He drinks and basks in a day's glory, the nights vanity's, life's beautiful way of tempting him.
And he remembers green eyes, and the rare smile. He remembers and draws—scribbles portraits, and he writes and dreams of that, just that smile. It is pure and it is lovely within the memory loss and the window that overlooks a brick wall. But in his dreams that smile is directed towards him, inviting him to whatever comes next. And he awaits the journey because he likes adventure. He likes discovery.
He sips once again, feeling warm either from the caffeine or the sweet thoughts, and he closes his eyes.
The insomnia does not leave him, but alas he has something to think about.
The snow falls, deeper the lie grows, deeper the stem of evil spreads. Like a disease, slowly, slowly, deeper, deeper, into the abyss…