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EDVARD TUSK without his face - Part 14:

Something is happening to me

I watched the man cleaning the wounds on my hand and arm, my affect detached - I was underneath so much thought that movement, mental or physical, was not truly a possibility. Let him wash my hand, tear some bedsheets, wrap my injuries with (for all intents and purposes) proficiency - what did it matter? This was all just something happening to me, it was so something happening to me that it might as well not be. The fact that he was not speaking, except in little sub-vocalizations to himself - these referencing his task of clearing and bandaging ("Okay, tighter tighter..." "What's this here..." and tsk tsk tsk noises - made the moments all the more easy to let flow, no action required from me, a page being taped back in a book, spilled milked sopped up, the base of the glass given a little swipe of towel before the thing was refilled.

I looked over my shoulder, trying to glean if it was finally morning, but the blinds were shut fast (seemed closed more thoroughly than should be possible) a stale of twilight, of middle-of-the-night to the room air, television flicker mute-mingled with the tint of the room lamp from near the bed. It should certainly be morning and if it was not yet, it had no choice but to be so soon - my topsy-turvydom had nothing to do with the physical laws of the world - and then maybe I would just leave. Though this man - there was still this man - might try to stop me, might still be the one responsible for what had happened to me (except even as I considered this I felt, knew with each passing moment I relaxed into the mindset of relaxation his ministering was providing me, that he was not).

On his knees

And on the beat of that thought, he coughed, stood from where he'd been on his knees, backed up from the chair I'd been sat in, looked at me in the bathroom mirror reflection (and I looked at his reflection, back, both of us tacitly deciding this was how remarks would be delivered to each other, it seemed) and asked me directly what had happened to me.

"Why don't you tell me," I answered back, surprised at the steadiness of my voice - the words in my head felt like discarded egg yolks, some mess that would become a hardened, tactile stain on a gritty tiled floor - and he made a sniffle as though there was a response he could give, as though this retort of mine was not only sensible but germane, it just a matter of his finding the correct words to use in answer.

"I'm not even sure who you are or why anything happened to you," he finally said, spit in the sink, ran the water, wet his fingers then dried them on his shirt front. "Did you kill someone?"

The question was flat, curious, the tone of voice like I just so happened to be something he was interested in, no different than having a conversation with a stranger about orchestration and then learning that the person one is speaking to just so happens to be second chair violin or a musicologist specialising in The Marriage of Figaro. And maybe it was because of this that I answered, freely - pathetic, strange, giddy and too rushed, like I was some fellow just blurting out intentions to a woman he has had a fine evening with, going too far in my enthusiasms, unable to stop the tumult of my desires, betraying something not consciously known.

Room two two four

"What woman?" was all he asked, casual raise of eyebrow (reflected eyes averting from my reflected eyes) when I finished explaining to him what had happened in room two two four. I didn't answer until his reflection looked back at mine - he grinning, as though amused to acknowledge I had been waiting, took a posture to assure me he was listening (the casualness, again, leading me to let down all guard).

"I don't know what woman. I told you: I woke in that room, like this, saw her, thought she was already dead - she was dead! - she was even when she attacked me, I think..." and he allowed me to trail off, nodding and raising an understanding hand (pat pat pat) to the air between he and the mirror glass, a gesture to let me know he understood it all, had been listening to my previous narrative, no need for me to trouble myself if I was getting upset.

Then he turned, letting out a long breath (cheeks fully puffed, it seemed thirty seconds before the low hush of the air being released had finished) held eye contact with me until I sheepishly looked down, then said "What is your name?"

I looked back up - my instinct was to glare - and the disquieting sensation of having no idea what my own name was clambered over me, I felt my stomach sour, insides beginning to shudder as though I might vomit, urinate, lose bowel control, but I clamped down on this, focused entirely on holding steel my gaze on him, begging my name to click in to place (now that it was missing, it was missed - how long would it have gone until it had struck me I did not know what I was called if this man hadn't asked?) and then, feeling my resolve starting to buckle, I asked him what his name was.

Absolutely no idea

"Now, that's interesting," he began, smiling, relaxing the smile before continuing, "because at just the moment, I have absolutely no idea what my name is."

I wanted to think he was toying with me, but the timing, my own thoughts where they had just arrived, and the absurdity of the conversation, the way it would look if the room were observed, impartially, as though by a camera affixed to ceiling, instead made me believe him (trust him) utterly (even against the qualm that he may know, somehow, I did not know my name and be saying this to catch me out) and I confessed "I don't know my name."

"And you don't know who Edvard Tusk is?" he asked, immediately.

"I have never heard that name before. No."

"And it's not you." This was not a question, his head turning to the side, scratching his neck. Then facing me in the mirror, again, he went on to say "I think I haven't known my name awhile. I remember things, but don't know if I knew my name during that time. Do you remember the last time you knew your name?"

Obviously it wasn't a trick question, but it was so ridiculous I narrowed my eyes, looking for him to reveal he was being conniving me somehow. If I could remember the last time I knew my name, I would be able to remember my name - this was a children's ploy - and I started to move, wanting to laugh and voice some iteration of this when it occurred to me I did recall. I did. Plainly. I'd no idea what the name was, but I'd known it earlier, this same night.

He must have noted my expression, because he turned and asked me "When?"

Perhaps not

"Today. Just now. Just before."

Had my assault done something to me? Perhaps not. This man, after all, was not injured and claimed to be in my exact situation - was in my exact situation, I could tell he was, there was nothing suspicious about him any longer - so every indication was that the vanishing of my name had nothing to do with my physical injuries. Perhaps I was in shock? Perhaps he had been, too, and the same result.

He seemed to be lost in thought (maybe going once more over his memories, searching out some feeling of name, of knowing) and only snapped to when I moved to stand, leaning gently in my direction (maternally, almost) and told me to stay seated.

"You don't know the name Edvard Tusk, at all? Not at all?"

"Not even vaguely."

I stared at him. Suddenly I could mark the lack of control in his eyes, a motion to them like the gloss was moving independent of the core, and I told him I was sorry, that I wish I did know. It felt like my lack of knowing this name was going to make him leave and (deeply, imperatively) now I did not want that to happen. Even though I knew he would do nothing to pursue me if I wanted to flee, I did not want him to go away - again, it could be a shock reaction, simply warming to his kindness after what had just happened to me, but it seemed more seeded than that, imperative, genetic.

"Who do you think Edvard Tusk is?" I asked.

He stood, turned to look himself straight in the mirror, his reply perhaps not meant for me, as it was whispered (something shy of a mutter).

"He will tell me who I'm supposed to kill."

To be continued