Missed Messages

Miles struggled the next day between the world in his head and the world of his subconscious. Snippets of his dream flashed through his mind at every aimless moment, images of the ethereal woman and the wolf that had given him that nasty bite. He flexed his hand at the memory and was rewarded with a jolt of pain up his arm and straight to his heart.

Frustrated, he dropped his hand and tried to focus on his surroundings. He needed to piece his life back together. Yet, searching his apartment provided few answers. He found no photos save the one on his bulletin board in his office. There were only a few pieces of paper throughout the apartment, mostly bills or credit card statements dating over the last few months. 

“Thanks, Past-Miles,” he murmured aloud to himself when he realized everything was set up to be paid automatically. He eventually found a few bank statements that had him taking a hard seat on his modern grey, tufted couch. “Damn,” he whispered when he saw the number hit five digits and that was just in his checking account. He had money tied up in investments in the low millions. With that particular concern taken care of, he was freer to look into more personal matters. 

Back in the office, he looked through the drawers thoroughly, examining even the most mundane objects for a clue to his past. 

The top drawer had a notepad with a blank page on the top. He flipped through the pages and found nothing. The pens, pencils, stapler and paper clips were all uniform and didn’t seem to be of any import. The following drawers held similar levels of non-interest, so he studied his bookshelves. Most of the books were mundane. There were a few engineering manuals and several hard-backed books about European Architecture. He was surprised to see a few books written in a language that was familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite grasp. He cocked his head to the side and squinted at one of the titles until meaning finally popped into his head like a soap bubble, The Stories of Maenalus. 

“Huh,” he said aloud, “sounds like a long read.” He dismissed the bookshelf and found himself in front of the picture on his bulletin board once again. Aside from the pictures, there were a few post-it notes written in a neat, familiar hand with purple ink. 

They were all similarly confusing. One said, “Who is pure of heart?.” Another said, “Ravage with me.” The last was not in the neat handwriting at all, but in a scratchy, thin scrawl in blue ink. “Do not return,” it said. He felt a compulsion, as his eyes shifted around the board, to lower his nose to the wall and smell each note. He laughed at himself aloud. “I’m losing it,” he whispered as he shook his head at the notion.

He turned his attention once more to the small rectangular image before him. He removed the tack from the board so that he could inspect it closely, though he found it still unclear. He wiped at small, white specks that had gathered on the glossy image to clear them. He thought he could almost see something deep in the forest at the forest of a massive tree. Just as he began to focus, however, the image began to cloud again with the white dust. He wiped at it, sending tiny droplets of water across his desk. 

“What the-” he jumped back, flinging the picture on his desk, where it flipped. Written in very neat, clear handwriting. The same handwriting that was on the small pieces of paper, were two words: Chaidou Forest. He picked up the picture and turned it back around. This time, he shook the image vigorously and felt his stomach lurch as tiny snowflakes fell out of the picture. He quickly pushed the pin back into the tiny hole in the picture and placed it back where he’d found it. He took measured steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. Without another thought, he threw on the black coat from the hospital once more, grabbed his keys and wallet and left the apartment, acquiring some much-needed space from whatever the hell that was.