Arthur

When you woke up, he was there. He was asleep in a chair, with a blanket over his shoulders and his head down. Dark brown strands of hair fell over his eyes, which were closed. As soon as you stirred in bed, he immediately woke up and looked in your direction.

This young man was handsome. Very handsome, but there was something about the way he rushed towards you, throwing the blanket off his shoulders, the way he hugged you so carefully, helping you sit up so he could lean on the pillow, that was wrong. Unnatural. Like it wasn't supposed to happen. Not to you.

"Where... Where am I? Who are you?"

Your voice sounded hoarse, and your head was full of fog. Childhood, youth... All these memories came to mind at once, and then there was total darkness. And this young man who looked after you so well was a stranger to you.

"I'm your husband. I was so worried about you. I'm Arthur. Don't you remember me?"

There was worry in his voice. The way he held you, the way his lips touched your forehead. It all felt strange, unfamiliar. Like it shouldn't be there.

"You don't remember, do you? We were in an accident. I picked you up from work and we were driving home when it happened. You took all the brunt. You were hurt real bad, honey."

He stroked your hair, whispered sweet nothings while you sat there, in some kind of stupor. It all seemed strange. His gaze caught on his right hand, on the ring finger was a gold wedding ring with a scattering of small diamonds. Noticing your gaze, he smiled faintly.

"You trusted me to choose the rings before our wedding."

His voice was warm, even too warm, or so it seemed to you. But maybe he really is your husband, who worries about you so much?

You were discharged from the hospital a few days later, having been convinced that there were no more serious injuries besides the loss of memories. Arthur practically lived in the hospital all these days, and when he was able to pick you up from the hospital, he took you home.

But as soon as you crossed the threshold of the house, you realized that something was wrong here and turned to him, standing in the doorway and closely watching you. "You don't remember, do you?"

His care is an art. He knows her favorite dishes, remembers what tea she prefers when she is sad, what film can comfort her. He creates for her an ideal world, devoid of dangers, devoid of questions. Every look, every word is information for him, which he analyzes to better suit the role. He is an actor whose stage is her life, and he plays his role with filigree precision, with fanatical dedication.

But beneath that flawless facade, there is a cold calculation. He does not fear the consequences because he has calculated them. He does not feel guilty because he has convinced himself that he is right. His fear is not of exposure, but of loss. Loss of control, loss of the world he has so carefully constructed. If she remembers, if she learns the truth, his carefully constructed illusion will collapse, and he will be left alone, with the emptiness he has created.

Arthur is a man who sought order in chaos, and found it in destruction. He is an example of how good intentions, distorted by a pathological desire for control, can turn into the most sophisticated crime. He is the perfect husband who was never a husband, the perfect savior who became the executioner of her past. And his whole life is now an endless game, where the stake is her oblivion, and he is the only player who knows the rules and is ready to go to the end.