Chapter Text
Lights flashed above him. There was the distant murmur of setting panic all around him.
It hurt.
He could not tell what. Everything.
He was the deer standing still in the middle of the road as the car neared. He could see the lights. The grief was pre-emptive.
Penelope… Telemachus…
“... sir, can you hear me? Can you hear me? … unresponsive … transfer on three … losing the pulse … Clear!”
A shock of energy pierced him, and he was dragged down to oblivion.
He swam in it and lost himself in the currents of nothingness, drowned in it. His body was a hollow shell dragged around by the currents, pulled from one side to the other. A corpse lost in a current, washed down by the sea. A great beastly figure loomed above him, unhinged its jaws around him and swallowed him whole, encasing him in its maw of bleached white teeth. That was oblivion. It chewed him on. It swallowed him whole and spat him out.
He felt like a carrion, festering on the road.
Funny word, oblivion. Ob-liv-i-on. Latin roots, Old French drag to it. It weighed him down, drowned him, pulled him from one direction to the other. Great unrelenting beast that refused to let him go, refused to let him out as he once was.
His whole body hurt, a concentrated bruise, and he moaned weakly when he was joustled. He couldn't move himself, felt gentle hands and a shushing voice dragging him down even more. His bones felt brittle, his capillaries and arteries an open wound, his head like it was about to crack open.
There was a pervasive pain that came from his foot—left, right? No sense of direction mattered as he drowned—and he sobbed into the water, letting it wash his tears away.
Far away, he could hear a methodical beating, high and shrill. It grew closer, slowly, until he opened his eyes to white light.
He winced and closed them again in pain, feeling like he was being blinded.
He heard a soft continuous beeping sound, felt a tug on his arm. He opened his eyes, turning his head to the side. He saw a hand hooked to machinery and an IV bag.
It was his, he realized with a distant sort of acknowledgement. That was his hand. He was the one laying amidst a nest of machinery and antiseptic comfort. His left leg was suspended above the rest of the body by a contraption, covered by a white cast.
He tried to sit up and felt a sharp bolt of pain spread all over his body, like lightning across the sky, a pained impulse that travelled all over his body and then hit a spot, concentrated on his foot. He cried out in pain.
He felt a foreign touch across his arm, pressing gently and unwittingly on a bruise. His breath staggered.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” a high, thrilling voice greeted him back to the waking world. “You've been sleeping for days, I was so worried!”
He turned his head to the side to look at the owner of the voice.
It was a petite girl, with huge eyes, dark as liquid chocolate, with soft-looking dark skin, free of all blemishes and imperfections, and long black hair done in a hundred pretty braids that pooled at the side. She was very pretty, in a delicate, girlish sort of way. She was dressed nicely, in a bright red dress with billowing sleeves that cinched on her wrists, flaring at her hip.
He stared at her uncomprehending, and felt the slow beginnings of panic as he realized he did not know her face, but she definitely knew him. She was smiling softly, looking slightly bashful, and peering at him with hopeful eyes. He could not tell where he'd seen her before, but the sight of her made his stomach swoop nervously and his heart skip a beat.
“I—” He stammered, feeling like a deer in the forest whose ears were raised high as he waited for a predator to pounce. Who was this girl? Who was he? “I'm sorry, I— Who are you?”
Her face did something strange then, eyes widening, smile twitching. Her grip became even tighter, making a sure bruise bloom on his skin. He gasped slightly. Her hand softened immediately, but did not let go. “The doctors said you may wake up without any memories, but I didn't think—”
Heart beating fast, he asked: “What? What happened?”
Slowly, she gathered herself. She put her hands over his. Soft, manicured, pretty hands. “There was an accident,” she said gently. “A hit and run driver while you were out. I was so afraid you wouldn't make it! You were in such a bad condition when they found you…” She shook her head, teary eyed. “I’m your wife, Calypso.”
She smiled as she said so, as if she hadn’t delivered earth shattering news to him with the carelessness of the wind carrying away a butterfly.
Calypso. It rang a bell. He knew that name well.
Still.
“Wife?” His voice cracked.
He was married? How old was he? How old was she? She didn't look too old, she could still pass for a girl. What happened?
Her eyes were full of compassion. “Yes, love. We're married.”
“Oh,” he said faintly. His head started pulsing. Could he truly have a whole life that he did not remember?
What did he remember?
Nothing, he realized with a start. Absolutely nothing. There was a gaping emptiness in his head.
“Odysseus.” He flinched when she reached to touch him, but she laid her hand on his face anyway, cradling his skull. “It's okay. We'll get your memories back. Everything will be fine.”
“Thank you, Calypso.”
“Love,” she said, quickly. “Y-You always called me by love and other pet names.”
“O-oh. Thank you, love.” This was probably hard on her, too, he reasoned. Her husband had lost all memory of their marriage. It was fine if she was a little tense.
Calypso gave him a blinding smile that made the awkwardness worth it. “But what do you remember?”
“I—The car, I think?” He peered at her nervously. Why was he so nervous? Why did seeing her make his heart beat as hard as if he were being chased through a forest? “The lights as it—”
“Do you remember what it looked like?” She asked, eyes boring into him. “The police haven't found it yet.”
“No.” And then, because it felt like the sort of thing he said to her: “I'm sorry.”
She smiled reassuringly. “It's okay. It'll come back. And before that? Do you remember anything?”
Odysseus tried to remember, tried to think beyond the roar of an engine and the lights. The pervasive sense of fear.
He remembered—
A beach outing. He was a kid. A smaller kid was hand in hand with him. A perfume of jasmine and a long dark braid. Broad hands raising him up high.
“No. Nothing.” The words were out of his mouth before he even thought about the matter clearly, and he was struck by it. Why did he feel uncomfortable with that memory? Why didn’t he want her to know? It wasn’t anything bad, just a faded childhood memory. Did he just not like his family?
“That’s okay,” Calypso assured him. “I’m with you. No matter what happens, I’ll stay with you.” She leaned and kissed him on his forehead, right on a bruise.
“Thank you,” he said.
Calypso smiled and kissed him again, a small peck on the lips.
Odysseus swallowed down the swell of fear that rose in his chest. It’s because I don’t remember this, he told himself. It’s just that. They had probably kissed each other a thousand times, and she looked like an affectionate girl. They were married—they had probably done much more than that.
He ignored the way he felt himself sag in relaxation when she leaned away.
In his dreams, he ran.
He didn’t know where, or to whom.
No. That's not true.
Penelope. Telemachus. They were waiting for him. The house was long and winding and full of treacherous steps, all shadowed in the dark. He ran and ran and ran.
Then there were hands on him, and he sobbed.
He realized fairly early that he was not staying in a run of the mill hospital, but a quiet, remote private clinic, with the smell of antiseptic and medicine always strong in the air.
The nurses treated him with the utmost gentleness, with the care reserved for broken things and scattered pieces, and their hesitant hands were always soft as they took him out on his wheelchair, assuring him that he would walk once he was strong again, administering his medications with the same care, and playing memory games with him to help him pick something out of the ruins of his life.
Their hands were always soft as they tended to the injuries on his wrists and up to his arms, on his legs and hips, ankles and neck, too.
Car accident, everyone told him. Broken leg and amnesia. He was lucky to be alive.
It explained some things. It didn't explain many others.
He looked at his body as he locked himself in the bathroom, prodded at the bruises on his wrists and ankles and hips, the uneven spread of cuts on his body. He examined it, broken foot and all, and tried to remember its history again, wondering where the old scars came from.
Penelope. Telemachus. Those two names rang clear through his mind. They were links to his life from the Before. He ran them through his mind and enunciated them carefully, but, try as he might, he had no idea where he'd heard the names. He didn't dare ask Calypso. The mere thought of it made dread overwhelm him.
He was lucky to have Calypso, he realized, one evening as the nurse took him out on his wheelchair and saw that many other patients weren't cared for in the way he was, not by their families. Daily he saw a washed out woman with faded bruises on her face seated by the windows, who was sometimes visited by a man her age that seemed to shrink her into an even smaller creature when he appeared, a perfect microcosm of the patients staying at the clinic. He didn't want to think about what seemed to be the primary clientele of the hospital he wound up in, or why his wife knew about it.
Calypso dutifully appeared every day during visiting hours to tell him all about their life together, bringing life to his room by putting on a vase full of dahlias by the window and covering him with a knitted blanket, telling him all about their life together.
He was Odysseus Hodel, her husband. She always smiled when she said so, her eyelashes fluttering with a pleased glint to her eyes.
She had even brought him an album full of their life, showing the pictures to him proudly. The two of them as college students, alternating between them working on and showing off their projects, though there were others that looked far less poised, and most of them had him front and center.
There were some where he was clearly smiling at the camera, at the beach or at a museum, though the grand majority of them had him in the blurry distance or doing something else—mostly, reading books.
“You have no reason to worry about work,” Calypso said, working on another of her crochet projects. She went strangely quiet after that, and he realized that there was probably a deeper story there, one that wasn’t as perfect as she trying to make their life appear to be. The doctor had said it was better for him to be under as little stress as possible, so she was likely being a considerate wife.
“Well, how are we paying for the house?” He asked, instead.
“Oh! Don’t worry about it!” Her face was painfully soft. “If your memory doesn’t come back, I can take care of both of us.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” he said, because it was. He felt terrible for her, having lost her husband and being left with a stranger wearing his face, without any memories or idea of how to handle her. “Love,” he added, just to see her smile.
Calypso leaned and kissed him. Her lipstick tasted like strawberry.
Calypso never once complained about having to take care of him. She liked to talk to him about their life, about everything and anything, and she was always affectionate, kissing and hugging him. She was always bringing him small treats of baked cookies and creamy pies, sitting by his side patiently as he played memory games to stimulate his mind, never once complaining. He didn’t feel comfortable when she kissed him, but he supposed it was the least he could do for her.
“I have a present for you,” she told him as they disentangled. She reached for her bag and started rummaging through it. She handed him a book. It was well-loved, he could tell. It had scribbles on some pages and he could see where the weight of a hand holding it would have fallen. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, the lettering read. “It’s one of your books. You've always liked reading, so I figured you'd appreciate having this.”
“Calypso,” he said, softly, touched by the mindfulness of the gesture.
“You don't have to worry about anything,” she cooed. “You were always so tired and stressed before… I'm glad you're finally relaxing now.” She smiled and stood up, looking tall from where he was bound to the bed. “I'll take care of you.”
“Love—” He said, because he had no other idea what else he could say. Maybe why was I always tired and stressed? “Thank you.”
“It took me so long to finally talk to you at first,” she said, running a finger through the spine of the book. “You always had your head in some book or other. I think you read your way through the entire library.”
Odysseus couldn't help but laugh. “So how did we meet?” He teased.
“Well, we both were working for our BFAs, but it wasn't until we ended working on a project together that we really talked.”
He leaned against the pillow, and watched her with fondness growing inside him. He could imagine falling in love with her, in some distant past. “That sounds nice. What about our friends? When can I see them?” He asked, thinking about the two boys that seemed to be with him in many of the pictures taken, one of them tall and broad, the other one with dark curls and round glasses.
Calypso's face flickered. “My love… We don't really have friends. We just moved here.”
“Oh,” he said softly, and ignored the pang of pain that bloomed inside him. “And coworkers?”
“You don't work,” she told him gently, reaching to cradle his face in her hand.
He frowned, and felt a shock of swooping panic be injected into his bloodstream. “But didn't we meet in college?”
“Yes,” she said. “But you don't practice. Didn't I just say you don't ever have to worry about work, silly?”
He used to work, even if he couldn't remember what it was that he did. Odysseus knows that much. He remembered an office that smelled like coffee and ink and the vague shapes of his co-workers. Co-workers that didn't care about him, clearly, since they hadn't come to visit him even once. He was completely alone. No one cared for him except Calypso, his wife whose life he just made more difficult everyday.
“I’ll ask the nurses when they'll discharge you so we can leave,” she continued, breezy as ever. “It'll do you well. Oh, you'll just love our home!”
She had already made up her mind, he could tell, but it felt wrong for the decision to happen so suddenly. He laughed, slightly, nervous, and curled his hand protectively around the book. “Why don't you tell me about your childhood? I realize I haven't asked. I'm sorry.”
She waved it away. The room smelled strongly of antiseptic and dahlias. “There's not much to say. I had a normal childhood. My dad wasn't around, so it was just me and my mom when she remembered me.” Calypso kissed him on the cheek. “You know, he was in prison for fraud. Don't worry though, he's dead.”
Odysseus made a choked up noise, and decided not to pursue that line of questioning further. “What about my parents?” He asked. “My mom and my dad?”
Calypso's face flickered. “I'm so sorry,” she said, voice growing appropriately grieving. “But they're dead.”
“What?” He asked, voice breaking halfway through the word.
“Your mom had heart problems,” she said gently, “and your dad had dementia. That's why it's so important for you to take it easy…”
Odysseus let her voice wash over him. Dead. His parents were dead and all he had of them was a distant memory. He tried to focus on the smell of jasmine perfume and picture broad shoulders raising him up high, but the memory slipped from his fingers like sand grains.
“I'm sorry,” he choked up. “But can you give me a moment?”
She blinked, surprised and hurt, and the hold of her hand tightened around his wrist, until he bit down a sound of pain.
“I could stay with you,” she told him—urged him, really, but he shook his head.
“I want to be alone for a second,” he managed to gasp out.
Calypso stared at him for a long moment, before she composed her frown and stalked outside the room. The moment the door slammed after her, a sob caught in his chest.
There was a gaping ache inside him.
It would hurt less if he knew nothing, but he couldn't help but be grateful for the memory he had, blurry as it was. It was his only connection to them, and he held onto it with both hands. He tried to imagine what sort of life they'd had, and cried harder when he couldn't imagine anything at all.
Calypso didn't apologize when she came by next morning, but she changed the dahlias in the vase for fresher ones, bright red in color, and kissed him.
It was rougher than their usual small pecks on the lips were, and he gasped when she grazed him with teeth. She didn't slow down until he was gripping the hospital sheets in surprise and was flushed from cheekbones to neck.
She stayed and talked to him, as she always did, with the eyes of a fox eyeing a rabbit, lovingly running her fingers through his hair. “The nurses say we’ll be free from this place in two or so days, aren't you happy, love?”
“I am,” he told her. Odysseus wanted nothing more than to feel fresh air against his skin again.
That night, he dreamed of running.
He always seemed to do that. He never managed to escape whatever followed him in his nightmares. Every night he dreamed he ran and tried to escape, and every night the nightmare would end with him being trapped, foreign hands pushing him down and rope holding him there as he sobbed and thrashed. All he could do was lay there and ride the wave of grief that washed over him and snarled it's jaw open to swallow him down.
He never escaped, not even in his sleep.