STANDARD DISCLAIMERS APPLY
MADE FOR PRACTICE, NOT PROFIT
PLAYING WITH HOUSE MONEY
'Cuz tonight 's the night the world begins again
He awakes to a sterile smell of chlorine cleaning agents and gauze-wrapping over itchy patches of skin on the front and back of his left-side abdomen, haunted by evaporating ghosts of a nightmare: head splitting migraine, gut wrenching nausea and earthquake-like, feverish chills.
Clearest blue orbs open to a row of mechanized beds in a green-tiled room. Recognizing a hospital's intensive care ward, he's not surprised being there in the least, even though the room looks off for reasons he can't pinpoint. There is also a nondescript sadness, contrasted by vague, resigned acceptance, as if something bad yet long expected has finally happened, and now he's free to cease fearing it.
He wants to alert someone of his waking up and is left wondering which of half a dozen languages he speaks would be understood. Through a line of small windows he spies a short-sleeved janitor passing down a corridor decorated in Christmas ornaments, a contrast which throws him off in regards to his location. He has no idea where he is, only that he should be elsewhere. He figures it's December, but can't for the life of him remember the year. At least the stuff around him looks familiar in an every-day fashion, not like it fell off a sci-fi flick, and finds comfort in the fact that he wasn't comatose for ten years.
After some searching, cautious not to aggravate a lingering unease with rapid head turns, he finds the call button and summons a nurse.
"Good day, sir." She greets politely.
He recognizes her voice but strangely enough not her face. "Do I… know you?"
"You were detoxing for the last three days, barely coherent."
So he's an addict. A nice first thing to learn about oneself. He sighs inwardly, feeling depression start, but it is quickly overcome by mild surprise, because he knows her explanation is perfect, without having the slightest idea why he would know that. In fact, he isn't aware of the depth or limits to his knowledge, at least not before trying to answer. The same goes for skills, though testing those will have to wait until he's out of bed. The knowledge of light physical activity benefiting post op recovery pops up in his mind unheeded, which is annoying if not unnerving. He figures obviously having experience with operations, though if it's from the active or passive end is unclear. The bandages seem to indicate being operated on, rather than doing the operating.
"Sir?" Her voice jerks him out of the unresponsively thoughtful state. "I'm going to get the attending." She informs, and is immediately gone.
The doctor comes by shortly, fitting his self image of a tall, lanky man with graying, short hair. Only beady brown eyes and clean shaven face distinguish them.
"Hello. I'm doctor Hines, your attending."
He nods, a gesture fence-sitting between greeting and confirming his understanding.
"Do you know where you are?"
The Christmas and short sleeves thing come to mind, adding up to something their dialects contradict. Still, he gives it a shot. "South of Equator?"
"Las Vegas."
A dumb frown appears in his features as the polyglot mind instantly translates the words to 'the meadows'.
"Nevada. USA." The doctor elaborates.
Somewhere in his foggy brain a synapse blinks after repeated prodding. "Right, of course."
"Can you give me a date? You were admitted five days ago."
Eyes unfocused, he stares of into the distance, trying to do a three-variable equation with only one number.
"A year?"
He shakes his head.
"How about your name."
"I-" For several embarrassing moments his mouth stays open in a stupid manner. "…don't know."
"Close your eyes and extend your hands chest level, right palm down, left palm up."
He does so with ease.
"Your reasoning skills and motor control seem to be unimpaired." Says Dr. State d' Obvious.
Total retrograde amnesia, the big Latin words flow forth, another language to add on his list. In the same inexplicable way he knows a mental reset happens when unnatural unconsciousness meets emotional abyss. So he's a depressed addict, how nice.
"The police will come over soon to talk about the shooting." Pen points at his bandaged side.
Not having anything useful to tell, he can't see why they would, but says nothing to prevent it, because he doesn't care finding out more dirt on his past life.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Staring out the window in suffocating lethargy he again nods faintly, a nonverbal 'okay, bye'.
Alone, he wastes some time pretending at catatonia, before suddenly deciding a tip to the bathroom might be in order. He cautiously sits up, legs swung to hand over edge, than slips to the floor, barefooted on chilly linoleum. Dragging the IV pole with him and using it as support, he enters the adjoining toilet, intending to relieve himself when all of a sudden -
'Hello.' He thinks upon spotting a huge scar on his right thigh, seeming to stem form the lack of half the largest muscle. Something which, oddly enough, didn't impede his motion. He figures having learned to compensate with other muscles, which marks the injury as very old, because he didn't give compensation the slightest conscious thought. Again he is miffed by the source of such extensive insight on the working of the human body.
The vanity mirror shows a man full week due for a shave, shower and haircut, so he looks for things to make himself presentable with. He finds a disposable razor and two soap bars, hotel style. In the process of shaving he finds another scar right by the jugular, at which point a partial memory of a shooting is triggered. A loud, ghost bang echoes in his ears, startled shock followed by inexplicable remorse. What the hell was that? He puts the blade away with a hesitant, shaky hand, proceeding to remove the undesired flashbacks with some icy water. Shocking himself out of it isn't nearly as effective as shocking himself in.
Just as he drags himself out of toilet, his type of woman walks in, but aside the preference for similar physique of tall, slim and dark-haired, he draws blank.
"Detective Holland." She presents herself. "Chief of Las Vegas forensics."
"Nice to meet you." He deflects to avoid bringing up the issue of his name.
"You were found on my watch. Bleeding form a gunshot wound in a back alley of a bad part of town."
He is at a loss in regards of what to do with that information, but if anything, it doesn't affect him at all, as if violence and vice are his daily fare. "Sorry to inconvenience you." He looks down.
She gives him a momentary dumb stare, struck by the sincerity of his needless apology. "I thought you might use some leads. Given your lack of memory."
"Oh." He senses regretfully that help without ulterior motives is not something he's come to expect of people. "Thank you."
"Would you like more details?"
He wonders. The thing he's figured out so far left him worse for knowing. "Do you know who shot me?"
"Three blood stains were found, belonging to people other than you."
"I must have left a puddle." He fills in.
"Coupled with only one bullet and cartilage, it indicates an unarmed fight. One you were winning despite being outnumbered." She sounds impressed.
He finds it mildly amusing for a moment, until the final action comes to mind. "Until someone pulled a gun." The unfairness of it comes expected to him, another nice fact to consider.
"Lack of money and other possessions on your person means the attackers were probably looking to rob a handicapped man who than put up unexpectedly strong resistance."
Mention of disability baffles him. "I don't have a handicap."
"That's odd. You were found clutching a cane."
Now that he finds weird, but it also drives his curiosity up a notch. "What else did I have?"
"Nothing but the clothes you wore. Worn, rumpled and smelling of alcohol and tobacco."
He nods, again unsurprised, as it perfectly matches the bohemian self image.
"The paramedics had to cut them open, but I've stopped by the charity to get you new ones. The nurse has stored them with the cane and sneakers."
"I've taken a photo of you and some fingerprints but they don't match anything in the records. You're neither a convict nor do you have a driving license. No one of your description has been reported missing and there have been no unaccounted complaints of unpaid debt or discharges form work since your discovery."
His heart sinks with every word uttered; he's such a nobody not even the leeches are looking for him. She says nothing, but the conclusion stares them both mockingly in the face. He's just a homeless drunk some punks tried to mug before he could waste the day's begging prize on booze. No wonder his subconscious decided it would be best to simply start over.
"I'll keep you informed." She says on the way out, but he waves it off dismissively, her valor naive in face of such clear waste of time.
Alone, he suddenly feels the exhaustion of standing too long too soon after coming around, and just barely manages to reach the bed, plopping down on a comfortable mattress. He falls asleep quickly, wondering if the bed is something he should enjoy while it's available.
"Wake up." A woman's voice calls out to him, softly, seductively.
He looks up to an angular face, pale in the street light and framed in black curls. Her sinuous form hovers a strategic inch from him, bare minimum of dark lace covering but not concealing.
"Hello Cuddles." He drawls as if in a drunken haze, shifting atop familiarly rough blanket and sheets, wrists pinned above his head by something not entirely uncomfortable.
She leans closer, her breath a hot gust traveling up the side of his neck, tantalizingly close, and a pleasant ache starts to fill his underbelly.
"Wake up." She snaps in a brutish, male whisper.
His eyes snap open to the featureless ceiling, lit faintly by night lights, a ring of cold steel pressed against his temple. He swallows hard, his heart in his throat, pounding frantically.
"Where's the money?" Growls a shadow to his side.
"What money?" Confusion joins panic.
The gun is cocked. "Don't mess with me."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"I'm gonna count to three."
"I swear. I have no idea."
"One…"
"I'm just a homeless junky."
"Two…"
With speed he didn't suspect possessing, he swings one hand into the aiming wrist, thus pushing the arm away, the other shoved in the man's chest with enough force to crack the sternum. Gun goes off, shattering the silence, bullet harmlessly shredding through pillow.
He stares with lack of comprehension as the attacker, a large white man dressed in the livery of hospital security, falls to his knees with a silent, breathless gasp, eyes wide with shocked panic.
Flat soled shoes rumble in, bringing a sea of staffers.
"Jake? What happened here?" Another guard asks as nurses crouch around the fallen man. "What's going on!?"
Eyes still locked on the oddly shaped fist, knuckle of middle finger sticking further out than the rest, he mindlessly replies. "His heart stopped." Then his gaze drifts to the attacker. "Get a d-fib." He has no idea where he's got the killing instincts from or the life saving knowledge for that matter. Returning focus on the fist, he can hear someone call for a crash cart, then wheels squealing and de-fib whining close to his bed in advance of a loud warning. Someone's hand on his injured side snaps him out of it.
"Your stitches." A petite blond nurse looks up at him.
A deep red stain advances over pristine white gauze. "Oh." He utters weakly, as if noticing something of little importance, and allows himself leaned back into the bed. Watching her fetch a suture kit, he sees the other guard amble closer.
"What happened?" A black guard, short and stout, asks again.
"I punched him." He replies, more confused than the interrogator.
"We heard a gunshot."
"Yea-" He winces through a pained hiss as the healing wound is sterilized. "He missed."
"Why would he want to-?"
"Money."
"Money?"
"My thoughts exactly." He squeezes through clenched teeth as the needle goes in and out. A glance is enough to spot the gaping IV lead, probably ripped out in the punch. "Could you…?" His hand goes for the IV pole, pointing more than reaching.
The nurse sets up another lead further up his arm, this time with a snap-off mechanism to prevent future tears.
"Thanks." He gives her a shy smile.
She returns with equal bashfulness.
The guard clears his throat. "I better be going."
"Tell detective Holland I need a sketch artist."
The guard frowns. "Jake is under arrest."
"Not for..." He huffs. "It's a long story. Please."
"I'll make sure he finds out."
"Holland's a woman."
"She." The guard corrects and leaves.
He lies idle as the nurse works on his stitches, wondering what the attack was all about. What money could anyone want form him? Even if he wasn't chronically broke, he was robbed. Whoever he was mistaken for must be very rich for someone to risk jail. Or death, he must admit, still baffled by the one-knuckle punch that came out of nowhere, like a fighter's conditioned reflex. Is he a martial artist? A soldier? At some point the nurse leaves, but lost in thought, he only notices her absence much later.
His mind, still jumpy form the threat, races.
He races, boiling in generic army fatigues stuffed with heavy equipment, that are glued to his skin by sweat. Dusty, dry air half conceals an arid expanse interrupted by an occasional withered bush. He races propelled by limbs that scream exhaustion, but driven by the sharp, barking voice behind him.
"Move your ass, bastard." The geriatric threatens at his heels. "Trying to make you a man 's a lost cause, you worthless son of a bitch. You should be lucky I haven't given up on it yet."
He can sense an incline to the ground they move over, feels his pace falter.
"Faster! No slacking or you'll run another mile."
Jaw clenched, he pushes on, but on impact of foot and ground his thigh explodes with agony and he stumbles headlong into the grit.
"Ah great, now I've gotta drag your useless ass." Hard eyes glare down on him from a severely wrinkled jarhead. "Sissies always get men killed."
Cowering behind an outcrop of rock he hasn't noticed before, he looks down on a fountain of dark red gushing from a hole in his leg. Lightheaded, he can't fight the field of vision shrinking to nothing.
"Yeah, give up. You always were a quitter." Scorn follows him to emptiness, and ushers in the pre dawn of a new day.
Bleary eyed, he gazes out into the hall, watching hospital's night staff scurry about their business. A sinking feeling overcomes him as a plausible hypothesis forms. He could be an ex soldier, discharged for a major screw-up. He could have caused deaths and drank himself to poverty out of guilt. It certainly would explain the scars, the punch and the gun flashback. The medical skills, well a field medic among fighters would certainly be seen as a woos, and be a definite liability in a fight. The old guy must have been his instructor or superior. As to which war, well the rocky, arid land would certainly help in pinpointing that. Not that it matters now.
Despaired by the idea, he wonders how difficult it would be to just slip out into the night, sell the cane at some antique shop for initial cash. Later? Who knows. Maybe get drunk all over again, even if it would be suicide so soon after d-toxing. And maybe it wouldn't be bad, to end a life of failure, a life no one cares about.
But a small voice reminds that this is just a guess, and nothing so drastic should be decided without proof. As painful as it seams to unravel this mystery, the lure of unknown is stronger. Curiosity might yet save the cat and redeem itself.
And there's also the fact that he has nothing of his own to take. In and oddly shameful way he would have to steal a gift. For the clothes were given away by people who cared, if not explicitly about him than implicitly about his sort. And they were given to him by Holland directly, who gave a damn for a reason beyond his comprehension. Who has also spent days to figure out who he is and way was he attacked.
He can't bring himself to betray her undeserved faith in him by quitting without first trying. A faith he finds so strange it discomforts and humbles him, yet one his gut feeling says can't be argued out of existence.
So he decides to stick around, and wonders if that's the first step in breaking the vicious cycle.
to be continued...
"Better Days" Goo Goo Dolls