"Ashes to Ashes to Ashes" - January 16, 2025
A young man wakes up injured in bed but with no memory. Are his caregivers his friends, or do they have something else in mind?...
Every Thursday, Silver Gecko Publishing highlights one of my stories, either a work of short fiction, a novel, or an audiobook. This week’s selection is an excerpt from the short story “Ashes to Ashes to Ashes,” from the anthology 13 TURNS, available on Kindle and in paperback.
This story came very close to being published in the 1990s, catching the attention of various editors of the professional and semi-pro zines out there. Unfortunately, it never quite made the cut.
In the early 2000s, I resurrected this in screenplay format while I was dabbling in independent filmmaking. The biggest obstacle was I entered indie filmmaking back when everyone was expected to always shoot on film (a catastrophically expensive way to do business).
Even though we shot the movie version of ASHES TO ASHES TO ASHES quite well with a great cast, the digital video format had not reached the level of respect by the film industry. (Curse you, Soderbergh for not being two or three years earlier with your exploits!)
Also, there were no platforms available at the time for releasing a film online, so the project was shelved. Somewhere in the slush pile of various studios, you might still find an old VHS copy of ASHES TO ASHES TO ASHES floating around.
Alas, greatness was not achieved more than 20 years ago… but it waited around for your eyes to check out this week. Enjoy!
-Kevin Carr
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Illustration by StockSnap (@stocksnap-894430) from Pixabay
Ashes to Ashes to Ashes by Kevin Carr
“There, there,” the ethereal voice wafted through Adam’s tortured mind. He tried to move his arms, but found that to be an impossible task. A terrible stiffness clamped his muscles, sending his limbs into cramps and spasms with the slightest movement. When the shudders came, the voice gasped.
“Don’t strain yourself, dear,” it said, soft and melodic – that of a lovely female. “Just relax. It’s been a long struggle, but I think you’ll make it.”
Adam tried to speak, but a cracked dryness in the throat prevented anything but a hollow hissssss to emerge. He felt soft fingers grip his chin and a thin straw was inserted between the lips. He sucked, flooding his tongue with warm water that stung open wounds in his mouth. He winced, and drew another sip.
“It’s okay,” she said, stroking his forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. “It’s okay, my son.”
Adam drew his eyelids back slightly, fighting the caked grains of the sandman. Light pierced into his brain, stabbing his nerves. Following a fit of blinking through tears, his eyes soon registered forms in the dim room around him. Over a period of seconds, the forms cleared as his eyes adjusted.
“Don’t strain yourself, honey,” she said, wiping his brow again.
Adam saw the woman before him. She sat on the side of the bed, wearing a nightgown and with long, flowing locks of auburn hair spilling over her shoulder. The kind eyes instantly warmed his soul. Behind her, in the corner of the small bedroom, Adam saw an intense looking man leaning against the wall. He stroked a stubble-shadowed face with one hand.
Confusion spun Adam’s brain. A great emptiness ate away inside. It bubbled and seethed, absorbing his entire being. As his eyes narrowed to thin cracks, Adam whispered, “Who are you?”
“Why honey,” she said, sounding a bit hurt. “We’re your parents.”
Adam looked to the woman and then to the man. Their features held no memory for him. He closed his eyes and began to weep as the great emptiness and misery devoured him.
“Who am I?” he whispered through sobs.
• • •
Adam slept most of the following two days, visited often by the woman who claimed to be his mother. Whenever he awoke from erratic slumber, she was there at his bedside. Although her beauty was stunning, and her expression was ever cheerful, he could not stir a thought from his past with her in it.
But what scared Adam the most was that he soon found that he could not stir any thought from his past. He felt hollow, an empty shell.
“I do not remember you,” he said one day after awaking from sleep to find her reading a book in a chair beside the bed.
She looked at him and cracked a smile to hide an upswell of tears. “They said this might happen,” she said. “At the hospital they said you might have a bout with amnesia. With the head injury you sustained in that crash, we were lucky that you are alive.”
Adam reached a hand to his forehead and felt his scalp. Heavy, rough ridges mapped his skull, the bumpy stitches and scars of a major operation.
How bad could it have been? he asked himself, returning his hand to his side.
“They said that your memories should return within a few days to a few weeks.”
Adam heard her fight through the word should. She did not say it, but her tone did indeed imply that his memories could in fact never return. The great void inside him may never be filled.
Adam realized that the amnesia was incomplete. There were several things that he could remember – everyday processes mostly. However, this was how many amnesia cases happened. The subject could remember daily routine: reading... writing... language... social habits...
But Adam was not worried about simple tasks. He wanted his emptiness to be filled. He fought his brain to force the images to the surface, but all his major memories seemed buried far lower than the proverbial six feet.
“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I do not remember you. I do not remember you at all.” He said no more, closing his eyes on the room.
• • •
The next time he awoke, Adam was greeted by the man who claimed to be his father. He had pulled the chair close to the bed and folded his hands in prayer. Adam started when he opened his eyes.
The man sat up.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not sure,” Adam managed. “I ache.”
The man put a hand on Adam’s forehead and stroked the ragged row of stitches. As this movement commenced, Adam took note of the dresser at the other end to the room. While it contained an assortment of toiletries and cosmetics, the wall above it was bare. A dark rectangle, unbleached by the sun, was the only blemish. Something had once hung on that wall, something that had only recently been removed. It took only a moment for Adam to realize that the object had been a mirror.
“You took a nasty jolt,” the man said. “We were afraid that you wouldn’t make it through.”
“Why am I here?” Adam asked, bearing his gaze on the figure beside him.
The man looked stunned. Then, he said softly, “This is your home, Adam.”
“No,” Adam said, struggling a bit to sit up. “I mean, why am I here and not in a hospital?”
“You were recovering well. Dr. Walton seemed to think that you would be better off finishing recovery here. You had stabilized and the only thing left to do was wait. With hospital costs what they are today, your mother and I felt it would be best if we had you here with us. Normally, the hospital does not do this, but since I am a medical doctor and your mother is a nurse, we were able to convince them that we are not blithering idiots in terms of out-patient care.”
Adam pondered this reason and found nothing wrong with it. But still, he could not bring himself to entirely trust this man. Not a lick of memory stirred, and not even the close presence of a man who claimed to love him so much could even begin to fill the chasm inside Adam’s being. He felt as if he was lacking something, perhaps something stolen by the two specters that cared for him.
And the most terrifying thing was that Adam did not know if he could even get it back, whatever it may be.
“What happened?” Adam pried into his own condition.
“You and your motorcycle decided to roll over an embankment. Your bike was not as lucky as you were. It was fortunate that someone saw the incident and called the police in time. You were beat up pretty badly, but we got you fixed up good as new.”
Adam looked down at his arms to see smiling mouths of red, raw scars. Some had the hairy black stubble of binding stitches.
Not quite good as new, Adam thought.
Immediately, Adam whipped the cover off of his body to see similar tendrils webbing his legs and feet, snaking up his torso to his neck. He suddenly felt very thankful for the absence of a mirror, for to look on what must be a hideous countenance would be in store.
How could someone sustain such damage and survive? his mind shouted.
“It looks worse than it really is,” the man said. He reached forward and gently pulled the cover over his son’s body. “The fall took you through a nest of hawthorn trees, the ones with the thick spikes. Most of those scars are superficial, a result of the wounds caused by the spikes. I’m sorry it has to be this way, but we cannot be too picky. I mean, we could have lost you.”
Again, Adam strained his mind for a memory, but could not even find a scrap.
“You will soon be well enough to walk again,” the man said. “Then, we will help you get reacquainted with this house and your life.” He stroked Adam’s head and rose.
Adam watched the man cross the room to leave. A fear crawled in his hollow gut. He did not know this man, and he did not think that he ever would.
• • •
For the next several days, Adam became increasingly suspicious of his so-called parents. He grew to know them well; however, he could glean little information about himself from their stories. They seemed genuinely concerned for his well-being, but both had an aura of secrecy about themselves.
Adam’s wounds healed in an amazingly rate. The man dressed his sores and applied medication when necessary, which was becoming less and less frequent. But Adam was careful not to appear to recover too fast. They were beginning to trust him... seemingly to take comfort in his disability. So, when Adam could feel the muscles in his legs strengthening and the tendons gaining flexibility, he was careful not to let them know.
Every night, they left him alone in the room. He saw a lock on the bedroom door, but never had he seen them engage it. Although he felt paranoid over these thoughts, Adam feared that the latch would definitely be slipped if they knew of his mobility.
In secret, Adam practiced walking, strengthening his legs. Within a few days, he was taking laps around the room with the stride of a middle-aged man.
But when the man and the woman ever came to visit him, he feigned being lame. Several times, they tried to reteach him how to walk, but of course he always made certain he faltered.
As a result, they still had not locked the door.
At Adam’s best count, it was seventeen days from his regaining consciousness when he made the decision to venture from his one-room prison. He was determined to find the answer to the great emptiness he felt inside.
After hearing the man and the woman climb the creaking stairs to their bedroom on the floor above, Adam waited for an hour and a half, listening to perfect silence. Convinced that his captors were asleep, he threw the bulky comforter from his body.
With the days of practice and training, Adam was able to make his way across the room with relatively little noise. He was far from grace and beauty, but he reached the door without falling or stumbling.
As he gripped the doorknob, he felt a sliver of hope in his gut that revealing the rest of the house to himself would push the snowball of memories down the hill.
But when he did twist the silver handle and throw the door inward, he could not have been more disappointed.
He was greeted by a unfamiliar dark hallway. The walls were bare, painted a pale yellow, corner flakes crisping away with age. About five yards ahead to his right was a bathroom, and across from that was a coat closet. Adam felt no real desire to explore the common rooms, so he moved on into the main foyer.
The interior of the house was beautiful. Adam found himself in a center hall with an encompassing staircase sending banisters up either side to balconies circling the foyer. Above him burned the tiny lights of a massive chandelier.
Taking a deep breath, Adam felt himself drawn to the stairs...
Tension mounted as he climbed, fighting against the pain in his limbs and the potential for an alarm from a creaking board to wail under his feet. But he reached the top silently and in good time. He figured that he still had several hours to do a quick search before the woman and man would wake.
Putting an ear to each door, Adam soon was able to discern the location of his captors from the rhythmic sound of soft snoring. Avoiding their bedroom, Adam opened the door to a room on the far end of the balcony, the farthest from the sleeping captors.
Stepping into the room, Adam found himself transferred to an absolutely different place. Instead of the majestic regality of the foyer and bland, drab hallway, this room juxtaposed all he had previously seen.
He found himself in a sea of books.
Shelves lined the walls, sporting subjects from organic chemistry to Asian history. The volumes were from all ages from the looks of the bindings. Surely, it would take a million days to ever read such an array oneself!
In the corner of the room was a large metal table surrounded by large chemical vats, high powered lights, and medical equipment, it did not take Adam but a few moments to recognize the nature of the counter: an operating table…