Headfirst: Chapter One

            My eyes open, and for a moment I don’t know if I’m alive. Everything is white, extremely bright, and smells overwhelmingly clean. It is silent, too, save the quiet ringing in my ears. The air tastes like a mixture of metal and Lysol, and that’s when I decide this isn’t Heaven.

            I strain to lift my head off the pillow in order to get a better glance of my surroundings; but I tire too quickly to see anything past the foot of the bed.

            Plastic rails.

            Am I in a hospital?

            Without lifting my head again, I trail my gaze down my arm and notice the tubes sticking out of my left wrist. A thin band wraps around the same wrist as well, confirming my location: Saint Joseph’s Children’s Hospital.

            Why am I here, though?

            Other than the fatigue and weakness, I feel fine. The hospital gown covers any possible injury to my torso, and the blanket hides any imperfection of my legs. I bring a shaky hand to my head to finish my personal once-over and freeze at the touch of fabric.

            I don’t remember hitting my head…

            Furrowing my brow, I search my mind for the last thing that happened to me, only to come up blank.

            How odd.

            A finger slips beneath the fabric, but before I can tear at the bandaging a dark-skinned, curly-haired nurse rushes over and pulls my hand away.

            “No, no, sweetheart,” she says. “You have to leave that on. The stitches haven’t dissolved yet.”

            Stitches? So it was an awful hit, then.

            “What happened to me?” I ask.

            I refuse to remove my eyes from her as she turns to my left and plays with one of the tubes attached to my arm. At first, she doesn’t answer—a sigh is the only sound that reaches past her lips—but then she drops her hands and manages a small, forced smile.

            “If I knew, honey, I’d tell you,” she says. “You need your rest, now. Doctor Carmichael will be tomorrow morning. He’ll be delighted to know you’ve awakened.”

            “M-my condition, then,” I say. “I’d like to know my condition.”

            “Severe concussion, a few bruised ribs, but nothing fatal,” she says.

            “But I don’t remember,” I admit.

            With another sigh, she rests a hand on her hip and purses her lips. This is the last place she wants to be, it looks like. Her eyes are a boring grey, windows into her own mind, and her shoulders slouch as if she doesn’t care much about holding herself up anymore.

            “That’s completely normal when you smack your head, honey,” she says.

            My gaze absent-mindedly scans over her faded blonde hair, a homey feeling growing in my chest. It’s just blonde hair, I tell myself. What’s so homey about that? It’s not like I’m blonde.

            Wait, am I blonde?

            My mind ransacks itself for an answer, but nothing offers itself forward. A dull ache springs to life behind my eyes, and the fatigue from before worsens from thinking about it.

            “But I don’t remember anything,” I whisper as I realize it.

            And I don’t.

            I search my memory for my name, the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, the names of my family members—do I even have family members?—the names of close friends, the location of the hospital; but I find nothing. My mind is wiped clean, it seems, scrubbed so hard it’s sore. Every fiber of my identity has been taken, and I have no idea where to go to get it back.

            When I meet the nurse’s gaze, I repeat my previous statement as if confirming it. She studies me as if searching for a tell before her eyes darken with concern.

            “Can you tell me your name?” she asks.

            “I told you, I don’t remember,” I say. “I don’t know.”

            Nodding, she excuses herself and disappears down the hall. The wooden door slides shut behind her, and for a moment I think about chasing after her. I try to swing my legs over the side of the cot, only to find they won’t move, and attempt to sit up again. Stars dot before my eyes, and my head feels overwhelmingly light all of a sudden.

            Huffing a sigh, I plop back down and close my eyes before the room can begin to spin. It spins on anyway, more so from thought rather than movement.

            I can’t remember who I am. What if I’m some serial killer, or some pervert? What if I’ve hurt someone?

            “Son, are you feeling all right?”

            My eyes snap open, and I instinctively suck in a deep breath. An older man whose hair seems to be fleeing from the top of his head, short and brittle and white, stands at my bedside with a clipboard tucked under one shoulder and a penlight held in the opposite hand, shining into my eyes. I bring a hand up to shield my eyes from the light and tilt my face to one side.

            “You turned green for a moment,” he manages a chuckle.

            Slipping the light away, he retrieves the clipboard from his armpit and straightens himself.

            “My nurse tells me you don’t remember a thing,” he says.

            “I don’t,” I say. “Who are you?”

            “Doctor Carmichael,” he introduces. “I guess I can’t ask who you are.”

            “You don’t know?” I ask.

            “No, you didn’t have any ID on you when you were brought here,” he says.

            “I was brought here?”

            As if to double-check, he glances over his clipboard and nods slowly.

            “Yes, by a young woman in a hoodie and sunglasses,” he says. “She stole your jacket.”

            This guy isn’t serious, is he?

            Some mystery girl drags me here on her own and then steals the clothes of my back?

            “Um, come again?” I ask.

            “A young woman wearing a sweatshirt and sunglasses walked you into the ER, removed your leather jacket from your shoulders, and bolted before the nurses could get to you,” he says dryly.

            Hold on, buddy, I tell myself. You’re missing the most important part.

            “W-was she blonde?” I ask.

            He raises an eyebrow.

            “I don’t know, son,” he says, “and, forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think that’s the point.”

            “Then what is the point?” I ask.

            “Your memory, boy,” he sighs. “You suffered extensive trauma to the head, therefore amnesia is understandable, even if uncommon.”

            “What’s to be done about it then?” I ask.

            He shifts the clipboard under his arm again and clasps his hands together.

            “Nothing,” he says.

            “Nothing?” I ask. “I can’t remember my own name, and you’re saying there’s nothing to be done to get it back?”

            “Memory is a fragile thing, son. You can’t just go poking and prodding and hope that whatever you find is helpful,” he says. “All I can suggest is time. You don’t know who you are, as you’ve said, and it’s highly unlikely you know of any relatives, so you can’t try to retrace your steps, like I might have other patients do.”

            Time.

            Why do I get the feeling I don’t have much of that?

            Biting my tongue, I give a slight nod of my head and face the ceiling again.

            “While it is not guaranteed you will fully regain your memory, I have little doubt you won’t,” he tells me. You are a young man—an extraordinarily healthy one, I might add, minus the injuries sustained from your accident. I have faith you will pull through.”

            “You say this as if it’s some sort of disease,” I say.

            “Amnesia can be viewed as such,” he says. “It can also be viewed as a condition. I prefer looking at is as if it can be cured rather than imply it might not be so temporary.”

            With another nod, I glance at him and release a deep breath.

            “Until you at least show improvement, I ask that you remain here,” he adds. “You were comatose the past five days, and I would feel much more comfortable allowing you to leave once I’ve run a few more tests to make sure you are as well as you seem.”

            “As well as I seem?” I repeat. “I can’t sit up without sending the room spinning. How is that well?”

            “Trust me, boy. With the injuries you suffered, you are a very lucky young man. A little dizziness or lightheadedness is nothing compared to what someone else of your situation might undergo,” he says.

            His thin lips curl into an odd smirk, the left half of his face scrunching up as if to maintain it. Fake, I label. But then I notice something wicked gleaming in his eyes.

            Perhaps it isn’t fake, just twisted.

            Either way, it becomes painful to look at, so I avert my gaze to the ceiling once more.

            “Because you have no memory, we will also need something to call you,” he changes the subject. “That is, unless you would prefer to be referred to as John Doe.”

            “Has a nice ring to it,” I mutter.

            I don’t want to name myself. Somewhere inside my brain, even if it’s buried beneath loads of crap I might not want to remember, a name is already engraved for me. Instead of flinging around something so sacred, I would much rather wait and get it right the first time.

            He manages a chuckle.

            “Alright then,” he says. “John Doe it is.”

            The clipboard is in his hands again, and he scribbles something up near the top.

            “We did try a blood test, ran your DNA,” he says. “The results, I’m afraid, were strangely inconclusive, though. I know for a fact that you are not a forty-five year old man; and the other result was someone similar in age to you, but I know him personally.”

            “What does that mean, then?” I ask. “The fact that it was inconclusive, I mean.”

            “It could mean a few things,” he says. “You could—“

            His belt beeps, cutting him off. He pulls a beeper from inside his coat, reads whatever message had been sent, and slips it back. With a sigh, he tucks his clipboard back under his arm and gives a small nod in my direction.

            “Unfortunately, Mr. Doe, I am needed elsewhere,” he says. “A nurse will be in later to administer your medication and drop off your dinner. Until then, I suggest you catch up on some rest.”

            “Wait, before you go, could you… would it be possible for me to get my hands on a mirror?” I ask.

            He smiles again, and this time it is less wicked and more amused.

            “I’ll put in a word with the nurses,” he says.

            I thank him and watch him leave, the door clicking shut this time instead of simply sliding. At first, I think it odd; but then I shrug it off and take the man’s advice. My eyes don’t even need the order from my mind. They close on their own.

            I force them open, as if I expect my surroundings to have changed in the second they had been closed, but find everything the same. My heart sinks in my chest at that, and I pass out wondering why.