Willow and Wisteria

The Marvelous Phantasm, Arshevieth Myvdiviev

Chapter III

             Shveowtoswav would have expected a heart attack to be much more painful, but he was considerably indisposed with being unconscious to bother figuring out why. For all he was able to comprehend, the expanse of the universe was simplified to a state of oblivion that for all intents and purposes he did not exist in, and the sensation of careful stroking between his ears. Still, the whole arrangement struck him as strange, because he knew – well, 'knew' – that on some instinctual level the world kept existing. The problem was that he couldn't interact with it anymore. Which, if his very bones had anything to say about it, was absolutely terrifying.

             He hoped Hell had decent tea.

             There was a knocking sound that echoed through his small existence. Well, perhaps 'echoed' was too strong of a word. He heard it happen rather close. But perhaps the process of one's soul extraction from their body was less of a cosmic endeavor and more of an unceremonious toss into the dumpster, he concluded.

             “Mister Adamchyk." Oh. Someone finally knew how to say his real name. Perhaps each life did indeed have to wait in Purgatory for their paperwork before they were consigned to the rest of eternity. Yes, he could hear the shuffle of papers now. “Have you finally come back to us?"

             Had he? The question of God's true benevolence always weighed on him. What measure of kindness was it that made Him let evil run rampant upon His creation? Some said that evil was not a result of His gifts of life. Others maintained that He only intervenes to those who dutifully await His return at the orphanage He left us in. There were just as many answers to this question as there were souls that have lived, died, and yet to be born on this Earth. It was this inconclusive solution to this ephemeral puzzle that left Shveowtoswav to fester in apathy all these decades.

             That, and Catholicism's insistence of carving guilt into the very marrow blood flows forth from.

             But since apparently the nature of the Lord is beyond mortal understanding, ascribing meaning to existence was just as futile as purifying one's soul to appease an indifferent arbiter.

             That was the last heretical thought that percolated from his mind and body. He now resigned to the cold dull blades slashing his pedal pawpad.

             And when blades touched his other footpaw, he reeled back in recoil and hissed, “How the absolute fuck dare you molest my soul, is God a coward?!" Fangs and claws ready to confront these lesser order charlatans.

             Who strangely wore scrubs.

             And carried those little knee hammers.

             “Welcome back to the world of the living," one of the be-scrubbed fursons said with a dryness only a mortal who was too used to the habit of breathing could muster. “Lay back down so I can examine you."

             Who would have known that at the end of Shveowtosav's spiritual path was a kindred spirit?

             That kindred spirit handed off that little knee hammer that was decidedly not a divine executioner's sword to the other fur in scrubs. He laced hoofed digits around lynx wrist and watched his watch. “High rate and respirations. Note sudden wakefulness and agitation," he said to his assistant, while punching some buttons on a monitor, silencing a frantic beeping nobody could remember starting. “Now, tell me, do you know your name and how you got here?" He crossed his arms and regarded the patient.

             Shifting his position, getting comfortable since he didn't need to defy any heavenly agents today, he said, “I don't remember." He looked around, panting a little less.

             “E-excuse me, doctor? The form is asking for the specific number," the assistant interjected.

             The doctor heaved a sigh only achievable by a morbid exhaustion. “Kid, learn your reference ranges. Just put down whatever. High."

             That mouse scribbled something and stiffened up, gluing his eyes to Shveowtoswav and the doctor. Who he noticed was a horse, now that he was back in reality. A horse who turned back and raised his eyebrows and slightly leaned in, as if to say 'Well? Out with it.'

             “I'm Shveowtoswav Adamchyk." He kept trying to settle and calm his breathing. “Am I," glancing at his monitors and the wires attaching to him, “in clinic?"

             “This is the Eastfield Hospital. You were found on the-“

             “Shouldn't we let him try to remem-“ the interrupting mouse was interrupted by psychic daggers thrown by means of the doctor's glare.

             “You were found unresponsive on the floor of the precinct office." The monitors started their alarms again. “That being said, they can't touch you right now. You're under our custody for the time being." The monitors quieted. “We've ruled out a heart attack and a couple of other serious things."

             “Not a heart attack?" He pulled the sheets over, trying to piece together what happened. “If not," he closed his eyes and leaned back, “my affliction, what?" There was rain. And a power outage. He remembered because there was someone who helped him. But what? Who helped him with what? “Memory eludes."

             Doctor and student attentively scrutinized the patient's face. “Hey, open your eyes for a second."

             After Shveowtoswav did so, the doctor slipped a pen-flashlight from his chest pocket and instructed him to follow the tip of it with his eyes. And then shone it in quick succession at each eye. With an absentminded hum, he moved onto tapping the inside of his ear with the pen, and touched the tip of one of his hooflets to the tip of one of his whiskers.

             “What are you doing?" Swatting the doctor's hand, he jabbed a quick hiss. “Induced series of twitches, for what hope you reach?"

             “Hold out your arms in front of you."

             He complied.

             “Now, push against my hands as hard as you can."

             He complied again.

             The doctor made a grabbing motion towards the student, and he gave him the clipboard. With the occasional glance to the lynx, he flipped through the pages. “Is this how you normally talk?"

             “Study and accuse, your malice and malpractice, what demands you make?!" He heard it then. He opened his mouth, but his lips moved in complete silence. Quickly clapped a paw over his throat.

             “Do you have a family history of any neurological or heart problems?"

             The lynx tried to speak, but his mouth could only squirm. He slapped a paw over it.

             “Wait," the mouse was tapping his phone in one paw and counting something off in the other. “Can you read this for me?"

             Shveowtoswav took the offered phone, and squinted at the screen. His doctor reached to the side table and handed over his glasses. It was a poem. Brief and poignant, one subsumed. But silence there screamed.

             “And how about this one?" The mouse had jotted down something on the back of the chart.

             The lynx arched an incredulous eyebrow. “The summer grasses, all that remains laying there – the warriors' dreams." Gasping, he clawed back up the head of the bed again and threw the phone against the window.

             “Explain." The horse silenced the various machines again.

             The mouse sadly shuffled over and picked up the pieces of the case and battery. “I really don't know. It kind of sounded like a specific structure. So I wanted to see if it was a haiku or some kind of iambic-“

             “Who knew the fine arts would've been useful someday. Look," he collected the clipboard and charts and pens knocked over in the panic. “I'll call speech pathology and neuro. You," the doctor turned back around and gestured to Shveowtoswav, who was choking a pillow and hissing low and yowling mumbles, “read Shakespeare with him or whatever."

             The student made to speak up, but the doctor was already as gone as the patient's voice. “Uh…" He poured the remains of his faithful phone into his pocket. “N-Nice kitty."

             The nice kitty threw the pillow at the mouse's face with enough force to knock him down. “This theory of yours – absolute fucking bullshit! Respect my name!"

             He quickly clambered back standing and carefully inched forward. Gently making shushing sounds while timidly reaching his paws out. “There, there. Let's all calm down and-“

             “Witness me – a cat. And then there is you, rodent," he spat at him with all of his salt and bile. “Nature will select." Punctuated with a hiss and a feigned slash.

             “Hey." A squirrel called out assertively, hands in her lab coat. “What's with all this racket?"

             “Oh, professor. Just… trying to soothe the-“

             “Intrepid ingrate," he swiped towards the mouse. “Dares deny me fursonhood!" Again, a swipe. “Revoke his license!"

             “Again?" The squirrel pocketed the stealthy needle nobody had noticed. She also turned off the alarms that yet again had slipped into the background without anyone's notice somehow. “Sir." Glaring at the mouse, she jerked her head towards the door. The student complied. “Would you like another pillow?"

             Shveowtoswav found himself sitting again, propped up on the head of the bed that was also stealthily adjusted. A simple nod, and she went off.

             How exhausting. He was finally able to catch his breath. Those monitors beeped quietly for once. A metronomic rhythm. Almost in sync with his breaths. It lulled him, making for a meditative experience to count his breaths in time with the beeps. For a device that ruptured into alarms nobody could catch the starts of, it ticked loudly.

             Then again, being torn from unconsciousness and thrown into some sort of weird haiku brain damage was enough of a dull shriek in the back of his mind.

             Exactly how did he come here? Doctor horse over there had mentioned something about the police. There was the police, rain, a power outage, and… someone. And some sense of urgency, his gut could remember. Rain and power outages are common enough occurrences, and provided little context. Police and urgency, those go paw in paw. Whether the urgent feeling preceded the police or if the police caused that urgency, a cat could never be too sure with all those dogs running those kinds of institutions. He might currently suffer memory loss, but this was an ancestral memory etched in his viscera by his forebears.

Lastly, that mysterious someone. These pieces laid out before him like an incomplete puzzle, and no matter how he mentally turned them they wouldn't fit together. Nor did they conjure additional pieces. Whatever. He was in good care now. The memories would return of their own accord.

His eyelids drifted apart ever so slightly. He didn't realize he had closed them. Only that he could make out a retreating shadow. For some reason, the thought of that furson being a child slipped to his awareness, and jolted him back to wakefulness. Rather, it was the strangeness of that idea that jolted him awake – a child's presence didn't make sense, nor did it relate to that puzzle. Why would it? Perhaps that very oddity meant a child and his missing memories were related.

But the soft weight he felt behind his head and neck told him that it was most likely that stealthy squirrel bringing his requested pillow.

Just as well. These disparate events made no sense, and they weren't going to for a while. He was in prime place and conditions to nap. So he did.

             In the void, a fox was reading a book.

             That's it. That's all the dream was.

             Shveowtoswav wasn't exactly sure about the order in which things happened, but in the same instant instance, he felt the same sensation of his head being pet, the sound of pawsteps padding away quickly, the creak of a small door opening, the perfunctory door knock of somebody entering, and a voice calling out for a 'Mister A-Adam.' It probably happened in that particular string of events, but all he could on was self-admonishment of having such a paltry dream.

             It was that vermin from earlier, holding a thin stack of papers. His preceptor looming behind him. “How a-are you feeling now, sir?"

             Really, he wanted to wither him with a glare, but he was much too tired from the day's events. And whatever happened beforehand. “Mysteries aside, I fare fine, relatively." He made a show of looking around. “Speech pathologist?" Hopefully the rat abstains from patronizing the nice kitty this time.

             “Um, about that," the mouse said, squirrel inching closer behind. “You'll have to come back for follow up tests."

             A shudder of disdain shook through him. Yet another weird coincidence. But if this was also related to his misplaced history, just what had he endured? Exactly what was the last thing he could remember? “What happens to me? Deliver diagnosis. Tell, why am I here?"

             “Well, your care team ruled out a myocardial infar-“ The squirrel cleared her throat. “I- I mean, a heart attack. And we couldn't find any signs of injury or battery." He flipped through the papers. “Nothing for head tr-trauma either. No stroke, bleeding problems, nerve damage, nothing." Timidly, he approached bedside. “The only thing we could see was some acute psychological distress."

             “Psychological?! By what means arrived-“

             “Sir, please, c-calm down," the mousy student tried gesturing gentle patting motions again.

             “Ps-s-s-s--!" The lynx choked on a scream, screwing his eyes shut and violently twitching. He gargled on yowls, clenching his head and ears. His right leg in particular began involuntarily kicking and jerking.

             The squirrel barked a quick 'fetch someone,' and the mouse fled. She made rapid work raising the bed's side rails and held her paws at the ready to rip off any wires and electrodes that might tangle around his throat.

             By the time the mouse and the horse doctor came and surrounded his bed, his convulsions eased down to soft twitches. That was nothing to say for the massive migraine and total depletion he felt. Shveowtoswav could make out the medical fursonnel deliberating reports and orders as his paws slumped down to his sides. The rest of his body went limp as he slipped back into unconsciousness