Erik Nabokov…? Erik? …Nabokov? …Eric Nabokov?

Was that his name? It didn’t sound familiar. Wouldn’t he know his own name? The man had been replaying the name over and over in his head, like a cracking broken record.

Where had the memories gone? Had they disappeared and slipped between the cracks of his mind?

Finally, the bus came to a stop. Its brakes creaked loudly against the pavement. The man’s, whatever his name truly was, rose from his spot.

He climbed past the other people, scurrying off the bus before it started up again.

The American Museum of Natural History was unrecognizable to the man. He’d almost walked past it in a panic. Only noticing  it based on the steady flow of people walking in and out. It was like he’d never worked there.

The crackled memory of his conversation with the lady replayed in his mind. Her loud and scratchy voice still effervescently present. It only made his throbbing headache flare up again.

The man, still questioning if his name was Erik or not, played with the sleeve of his jacket. He’d stolen it off of the back of one of the chairs before leaving. The fabric of the black rain jacket was smooth and steady, much unlike the battering in his rib cage.

His feet, almost like they were an entity apart from the rest of him, dragged the man towards the front doors of the museum. Up the stone stairs and through the doors.

“I work here? Woah, am I an anthropologist?” In front of him, a small oak information desk sat a security guard and a few unimpressed looking clerks.

He turned slightly to the left, his eyesight taking in the large marble columns and extravagant exhibits. But his eyes landed on an enormously tall stone statue. A tall glass-eyed woman rode a horse who stood on its hind legs. Peeking out from beneath a stone carved dress the woman had hooves like those of a hairy goat's legs.

“Brotnia…”He mumbled, eyes wide an shining, “I recognize you! I remember something ! The god of war in the Mirasen pantheon!” He began to dance right in the spot before the god, arms pumping and all. “Oh thank god, I thought I’d lost it all!”

Relief settling over him at remembering something, anything had his arms waving and his feet tapping over and over. “Erik! Hey buddy!”

He froze. Eyes wide at the voice behind him.

He turned a second later, spinning on a leg after the voice had settled in. The security guard was speaking to him. Pressing a fingertip into his chest he replied obliviously, “Me?”

Her silver badge was engraved and emboldened with her name; Mariana. Her blue security uniform was slightly unpolished. Her blue shirt and pants were wrinkled, there was dirt on her black boots and small, thin pieces of her dark hair stuck out from behind her half well done bun.

“Yeah you.” She joked, though immediately she retracted after he turned, “Woah! Bro! What the hell happened to your eye! Did you get into a fight?”

Stepping inwards she analyzed his face like it was disfigured, “I-I don’t know.” Bringing a hand up to his eye, Erik winced. He hadn’t noticed it before, no throbbing or excessive pain. It must’ve happened before the…well before everything happened.

She shrugged it off, “We all have those nights.” Then chuckling to herself she continued, “You’re working today? Nina is going to have your head for being so late…again.”

Erik’s gaze shifted uncomfortably around the front lobby of the museum. He tried to extract memories of working here, memories of talking to Mariana or even memories of Nina. Nothing came to mind. “Uh…yeah. But I already talked to her. So I think we’re good.”

Mariana looked down at her watch, the screen was cracked and scratched up, “Oh sorry, I gotta go. Duty calls.” She saluted extravagantly.

Erik awkwardly returned the salute. He began to turn and walk further into the museum. Maybe that way he could find an office or something that reminded him of whatever he did there.

“Erik!” He stopped and turned, “The janitor’s hallway is the other way.” Mariana pointed towards the metal door towards the storage room.

He chuckled clumsily and turned the right way this time. “Oh right.” Not an anthropologist then I guess.

“Dude, you should really get that checked out.” He heard Mariana mutter as he moved towards the door. The silver circular handle was cold to the touch as he turned it and opened the door.

He shrugged nonchalantly, “Still cool that I work here.” And began to follow the other janitors down the hallway. A few passed him, no one greeted the man as he walked down the dim and dull janitor's hallway. He could hear faint conversation next to the squeaking of plastic carts around him.

Turning into an open double door, Erik watched another janitor clock in and turn to their locker. He followed suit.

Pressing the screen, Erik hoped that by doing something he’d probably done a million times before that something might come to mind.

Nothing did.

Meandering down the line of gunmetal grey and damaged lockers Erik stopped at one in particular. This one had a name on it that he recognized. E. Nabokov. The name the old, scraggly woman had called him.

There was a lock on it, a burgundy and red combination padlock. Erik sighed at the sight, he had no clue what the combination was and now he’d never know. What if it had a diary in it? Or maybe it was the reason why he’d lost all of his memories.

This was not going well. This was not going well at all.

Leaning forwards and pressing his forehead to the cold metal, Erik began to play with the circular lock, pressing down on it and twisting the circular face of it. Then it broke, right in half with the ease of a child. Apparently the lock wasn’t too sturdy.

“Oh…nice!” Cracking it open Erik felt a hope rush inside of him. Only for a second before it quickly died.

There were four things inside of the locker. None of them were a diary or the reason for his miraculous lack of memories. The locker was nothing special, an extra pair of dirty socks thrown inside, his health card, his janitor’s uniform and a red baseball cap from the Smithsonian.

Nothing that explains why everything feels so foreign to me. Erik grabbed the thin health card and read over the name a million times, each time hoping it would sink in and feel real.

Erik Nabokov. Erik Nabokov. There was no middle name and the date of birth had been partially scratched off. Basically, it was useless.

A door creaked and slammed behind him. One of the double doors was still vibrating as Erik’s shivering bones turned at the ruckus. No one else in the room seemed to care as the lady with a massive clipboard stepped into the change room.

Nina, as was told to him by her nametag and her crackly voice. The same one he’d heard on the phone rifled through her large stack of papers as she read through a list. “Mark you’re on the Greeks, Terrence - Mesopotamia, Laura - China…” She kept down the list until Erik heard his name and his ears pricked, “Erik you’re on the Mirasens.”

He nodded and she stepped forward menacingly. He gulped, she was so close he could smell the lavender and lemon perfume emanating from her. “That’s your second strike Erik, don’t give me another reason.”

Erik gulped so hard it irritated his throat, “Yes ma’am.”

She smiled and it crinkled her eyes as she patted his shoulder twice, “Good. Then that’s the last conversation we’ll need to have about your tardiness, won’t it.”

“…Yes.”

She seemed pleased, but only for a second. The smile wore away and her eyebrows raised expectantly, “Then what are you doing still standing here? Go! Clean! Do your job!”

At least the cleaning gave him something else to focus on. The hours curled together as he wiped down exhibit glass and bathroom mirrors. It wasn’t bad, the cleaning was almost soothing after the confusion that was marring his emotions. He knew how to clean, that was one of the few things he knew how to do now.

The Mirasens, also known as the Mirasen pantheon, really loved statues. Statues, pottery and glazed weapons were displayed in tall glass cases. Each one of the eight main gods of the pantheon had their own giant twelve foot tall statue. Though not all were on horses like Brotnia; god of War.

Vaheera; leader of the pantheon and God of sun and light, had small triangular sun patterns carved into her stone armour. She had large eyes that almost caught glimpses of the fluorescent light above when Erik gazed on her. Her head was shaved, though it was more likely that she was entirely bald. One long tattooed line seemed to be tattooed down the middle of her stone statue. It went over the middle of her lip, over the bump of her nose, between her eyebrows and went down her spine.

They were intricate statues, each of the eight effigies carved with precision and detail. It was mesmerizing. Erik had almost wished that he could take in each miniscule detail with the time it deserved, but he had to clean.

Onwards he pushed his squeaky little cart. And just as he drove it forwards and around a tight corner, something caught his curiosity and attention. Like a fish after a hook pierced worm. It had been wings.

Long and dragging the aurulent and pewter feathers mixed in with ivory ones. Despite looking like they were out of a fantasy show, they looked so real at the same time. Like the fine hairs of each feather would part if he brushed his calloused fingers through them. What were they from?

“Hey!” He yelled, maybe they’d stop, maybe they wouldn’t. He hadn’t really been thinking it through when he yelled down the hallway.

Leaving behind his cart, his steps sped up, following the invisible trail.

The door was propped open. The man continued, the image of the feathered wing dragging him along like he was on a leash. In that moment the man discovered that he was not good at letting things go.

Two officers approached. “Erik Nabokov?”

He didn’t answer, still looking wildly past the two men, trying to catch another glimpse of whatever he had seen.

The officer with a light New Yorker accent coughed more forcefully, “Erik Nabokov?”

“Yeah? At least I think so?”

“Are you aware that you have an active missing persons report out for you?” His eyes squinted further at them, like he really couldn’t believe what was going on. First no memory, then miraculously disappearing wings and a missing persons report?

This day was not going well. Maybe he’d lost his mind.

Smacking his forehead painfully and overdramatically, Erik shook his head at his own stupidity, “Why didn’t I call you earlier!?!? Ugh!”