House of Skin

MEMOIRS OF THE TEMPLAR SOCIETY (10)

Stadtler was walking aimlessly up the streets.

The nice man had cleaned him up, dressed him and sent him out into the world. The city was a beautiful place. Full of bright lights and music and many, many staring faces. So many people tried to help him, but he wouldn’t let them. He didn’t need their help. Not tonight. Not in this wonderful loud, pretty town. He loved it here. He almost felt like he should know every street, every corner and cubbyhole, but he didn’t. Not anymore.

He didn’t know who he was.

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t even know what he was.

But the nice man told him not to worry. He’d know in time. When things were right, he’d remember it all. The nice man said he’d put a special word in his mind and when he heard it, he’d remember everything.

But who cared?

It was so wonderful walking and walking.

So many things to see.

As he walked, he saw that a car was following him up the street. He stopped and smiled. He waved. A man got out of the car. He was big and strong and wore a lovely blue uniform. But he didn’t smile. There was a piece of metal on his coat. Shiny, silvery. It winked back light. Stadtler almost remembered something for a moment, something about shining, blinking light—

“What’s your name, pal?” the man asked.

“I can’t remember.”

The man still didn’t smile. “Give me your name.”

“I don’t have a name. Not yet—”

The man grabbed him and threw him up against the car. He was mean and rough and… brutal. Stadtler didn’t even know what that word meant. Brutal. What a strange word.

“You know,” the man said. “I really need this shit. Thirty years on the fucking force and I get all the hippies and freaks and weirdos.”

The man was very terrible. He spread Stadtler’s legs and forced his hands onto the hood of the sleek car.

“I want your name,” he said.

Stadtler wanted to cry. This man was so mean and all because he had no name and this man thought he should have one. Was it important for all men to have names?

“Fucking freak,” the man said and began searching Stadtler’s clothes for something. He found it.

“This your wallet or did you steal it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

The man spat on the sidewalk. “Shit,” he said. “Let’s see here.” He was looking through the wallet, never taking one powerful hand from his freak.

“I don’t know my name. I don’t know it,” Stadtler kept saying, tears in his eyes.

The man shoved him against the car and stuffed the wallet in his pocket. He said, “Well, I know who you are. That’s all that’s important. I think you’re stoned, boy. You need to dry out and I got just the place for ya.”

“Who am I? Who am I?” Stadtler asked.

The man knew who he was and he wouldn’t tell. I want to know who I am, Stadtler thought. I have to know. If only he’d say the special word, all would be right.

“Tell me,” he said to the man. “Please tell me who I am.”

The man sighed and Stadtler heard one word: “Fenn.”

And then he knew.