all god's orphans
Chapter 1

The blackness washed him ashore into consciousness and his head hurt all over as though spikes had been driven into his ears and forehead. A television hissed static at him from across the room and beside him on the small table lay an open bottle of pills, an empty flask of whiskey, and a letter bearing gold embossment at the bottom. He sat up on the couch and held his aching head in his hands. His teeth felt carpeted like the matted entrances to cheap motels near airport strip clubs and the sight of the whiskey made him ill. Nausea sat deep in his stomach and reached a tentacle up into his throat. He thought he might vomit but it passed with just a burning in his esophagus.

His bones creaked slightly with every little movement, groaning like an old house in a windstorm. The fatigue coiled itself like ivy around his entire being, including his brain. He was running on autopilot. Gently he swayed side to side without noticing as he stared into space, focused on nothing in particular, his eyes like empty windows. He felt as though he might stay like that forever if he didn’t start forcing himself to move.

He finally took a look around himself and realized he didn’t recognize this place. The living room was bright and spacious with cream-colored furniture and sheer white drapes on the windows. Molten daylight poured through the windows in viscous, glowing sinews and outside he could see the backyard. It was small and surrounded by a high wooden fence blocking his view of what lay beyond. He struggled to his feet and limped over to the nearest faucet. He turned it on without thinking and let the cool water pool in his hands before rubbing them on his face and massaging his temples. He almost didn’t realize how parched he was until he drank. Wiping his mouth, he glanced out the window to see a number of people standing around in the streets.

They weren’t doing anything, just standing around staring up at the sky. There were dozens of them, all standing still with their heads tilted up. He had no idea why. The street itself looked like a painting with manicured lawns and healthy trees separated by little white fences and individualized mailboxes. One was a tractor. Another was a bright red barn. A slight breeze was blowing but other than that there was silence. He stepped away from the window and turned back into the house trying to get his bearings. The kitchen opened onto the living room and was separated from it by an island making the place seem larger than it really was. It was tidy and large windows let in buckets of sunlight giving the whole house the illusion that it was glowing. His headache had subsided slightly and he sat back down on the sofa to make sure the nausea was also gone for good.

He picked up the bottle of pills and examined the label. It was covered in strange markings he couldn’t read. Likewise, the letter had on one side very disciplined writing, but the back was covered in a series of sloppy symbols all written in concentric circles, neither of which he could decipher. Strangely, he felt like he should know what it was, as though he had known at some point, but now it was gone forever. It was like trying to remember the name of a Kindergarten teacher. What was once large and important now sat faded and obscure, just on the tip of his tongue and as soon as he thought he would get it back, it all slipped away.

He moved the whiskey bottle out of his sight. The scent of it triggered strong feelings and blurry images, but any attempt to wrangle them into focus failed. He only knew that this brown stuff was ‘whiskey’ and the rest of the label made no sense to him. That didn’t bother him much, but the letter seemed important. The small table was empty of all other artifacts save that letter and it appeared to have been placed there deliberately for him to find. He wondered who might have done such a thing and as he began to picture other people, he discovered that he could not picture himself. His hands and arms were familiar to him, but the rest was a mystery. His name, too, was gone. He tried to recall how he had come to be in this place, but there was nothing. Everything before just a few moments ago was gone. He stood up, suddenly frightened and snapped his head around in a panic. On one wall, he spotted his reflection and moved closer to inspect it.

The man in the mirror had grey hair that had splayed outwards into short, unkempt spikes. His eyes were blue and there were lines on his face that were obvious, but not deep enough to make him ancient. Light stubble grew on his structured jaw and he was well dressed in a white button down shirt and black slacks. His pockets were empty and he wore no other jewelry. He stared intensely at his reflection hoping to find some clue to his situation, but nothing came. He was just a crazy man glaring at his own face in the mirror.

To one side of the television was a bookcase adorned with framed photographs. He picked each one up and compared his face to those of the people in the pictures, but none of them matched. Then, without warning, a blaring alarm shrieked out from the television startling him so much that he dropped the photo he was holding, shattering the glass as it hit the hardwood floor.

The image went from static snow to a picture of a bird in a circle with its wings spread, surrounded by more symbols he couldn’t read.

“This is the emergency broadcast system.” Said a sullen and serious voice. “Please stay tuned for an important announcement.” Then the blaring started up once more. After a few minutes came the voice again. “This is the emergency broadcast system. Please stay tuned for an important announcement.” More blaring. After a few more times, he got tired of waiting for the important announcement and simply unplugged the television after failing to figure out how to turn down the volume.

He had tried. The concept of the remote control was something that his brain had on file, but the buttons were individual, indecipherable mysteries and he eventually just gave up haphazardly mashing them and simply pulled the plug.

He briefly considered venturing out and asking those statues for help, but the thought soon terrified him. What would he say? He didn’t even know his own name. He decided it was best to stay inside. He closed the curtains slowly just to make sure they wouldn’t see him if they ever decided to shift their eyes away from the clouds.

The water had settled into his stomach and awoken a fierce hunger. In the kitchen he could recognize certain items as food but he had no idea what some of them were or how to prepare them. In a bowl on the counter were some apples, which he found he could devour in a few giant chomps. He quickly ate two of them before exploring the rest of the pantry. There were boxes behind several of the doors and he pulled out the ones he could directly identify or that looked good and had a feast of cereals and oat bars. He discovered that he was fond indeed of chocolate and the taste of it brought such strange thoughts to his mind, but nothing that he could clearly contemplate, just random, translucent shapes devoid of context or form.

His memory was gone. That much was clear, but he still had some faculties. He tried to think as clearly as he could about his surroundings. The open floor plan of the house made it seem large, but it was just a trick of design. He could see now that it was smaller than he originally thought. The furniture was light and modern, but not sleek, just new, and it all matched as though it had been purchased as a single unit and then sprinkled aabout the place. He took an instant dislike to it.

On one side of the house near the kitchen, he opened a door that led to the garage. There was a black car and a few containers, but what caught his eye was a large white box sitting in the corner humming to itself. He opened the top to find that it was cold inside and the warm air rushing in made everything start to crackle. Food, he thought. Freezer. But that wasn’t it. He knew there was something missing here and it needled at him that he couldn’t name it. Something freezer. He sat on the hood of the car and started mentally identifying everything he could see. Car. Garage. Boxes. Ball. Shoes. Mop. Deep freezer! That was it. The tiny victory brought him some comfort and he decided he might search the car for clues.

Inside there were empty cups, all white with a green drawing on them. All the same, just scattered on the floor. The backseat was full of papers, some small and filled with writing, others were large and had pictures with the words. Newspapers. He pushed them aside as they were no use to him. There was a pair of shoes in the back and he realized he was barefoot. He took the shoes for later because they seemed large enough to fit him, not like the many pairs of much smaller shoes that were in a heap just inside the garage door. The inside of the car stank and he decided there was nothing else to see so he shut the door and went back inside the house.

Across the living room, a small corridor led to the other side of the house with doors leading off of it. The first room was nearly bare and the bed in it seemed like an afterthought. There were no frames on the wall, nor any other furniture at all, just the lonely bed that looked undisturbed. By contrast, the bathroom across from it was quite disturbed. The mirror had been broken and cracks shot out like a spider web from the center, distorting his reflection. In the sink, dark brown stains rimmed the white porcelain and similar drops had left little footprints on the counter top. He looked at his hands and found that the knuckles on his right were damaged. Beside the sink was a pink razor that had been broken open before being apparently abandoned and the tub was full of water. The scene made his stomach turn and he backed out slowly lest any sudden movements should wake thoughts he’d prefer to let sleep.

He stood in the hallway silently for a moment trying to collect his thoughts and searched for any semblance of a memory, but nothing came. The next door he opened was just a closet full of towels and relief washed over him. The fresh scent of laundry reached deep inside him and created a feeling of comfort, seemingly out of nothing. It was warm and familiar in a way nothing else had been since he had woken up. Reluctantly, he closed the door and moved on. At the end of the hallway were two doors on either side. The one on the right held a desk and a few more boxes. Again, no art on the walls. Just some files, assorted office detritus and a computer. He left it and stepped across the hall into the last room and his heart stopped for a second.

At first he thought she was sleeping, but the grievous red blossom on the headboard behind her head said otherwise. She was lying on her back. Blank eyes filled with blood stared up at the ceiling. Strangely, her face looked almost serene and there was no other sign of damage, but the pillow had been soaked through with blood. Flies buzzed around her face and he dropped to his knees as his stomach violently rejected everything he had eaten.

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