Part Two
Between the start of healing and legal drugs the pain began to recede and that left room for the fear to move to the front. When the nurse asked him who he was he'd tried. He'd tried again when she asked how he'd gotten hurt and when she'd asked him if he could remember his birthday, who was sitting in the White House and whether or not he could tell her what year it was.
The panic, barely controlled, started when he saw the look on her face at his answers and knowing he'd gotten them wrong.
He didn't know his own name.
He didn't know how he'd gotten hurt or how he'd ended up in the hospital.
He didn't know the name of the facility.
He didn't know if he had anyone waiting for him, worrying.
He didn't know where he lived, if he lived alone, if he was married.
He didn't know how he'd gotten the calluses on his hands.
He didn't know his own age.
He didn't even know what his face looked like.
He didn't know where he lived or if he owned a dog.
He didn't know.
And not knowing was terrifying. It was like being in a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, the kind where you scream and no one notices.
The nurse, Nancy according to her ID tag, said he didn't have a wallet on him when he'd been brought in and his injuries were consistent with his being beaten as opposed to him being in, say, a car accident. She didn't really know, but it seemed likely that he'd been mugged, robbed and left. It happened, she said. She didn't have to say that he could have been beaten because of involvement in a crime of some kind—on either end, criminal or victim— gone bad or at the hands of a jealous husband.
"Don't try so hard to remember, you can't force it. Look around, talk, watch TV, listen to the radio and read newspapers and magazines; something may trigger a memory. And your family is probably looking for you, you might be on the news or reported to the police as a missing person. This is temporary, just try not to be frightened because that won't help."
The volunteer who wheeled the cart with books and magazines gave him that morning's paper; The Bludhaven Bugle. He was in Bludhaven and the patient's right sign on the wall of his double room told him that he was in Rabe Memorial. It wasn't much but it was a start.
There was a whiter stripe of skin on his left wrist so his watch was probably stolen.
He didn't have any tattoos, or none that he'd found.
He didn't seem to be having any drug withdrawal problems. That was good. Of course, he was high from the pain meds, so that didn't mean anything.
He turned on the wall mounted TV and watched the local news but didn't hear any mention of him being missing. There was no mention of a missing person in the paper, either, aside from a teenaged girl who'd probably run away with her boyfriend.
He went into the small bathroom, turned on the light and stared at the stranger in the mirror. He was average height, maybe five foot nine or ten. Dark, straightish shortish hair, blue eyes which were partially obscured by the bruising and black eyes. His jawline seemed strong but was swollen so it was hard to tell. His nose looked like it might have been broken and healed at some point. His build was pretty good and it looked like he might work out with some regularity. His skin was neither pale nor dark, though he was white/Caucasian with something vaguely ethnic about him, though it wasn't anything obvious. He looked like he was early twenties and he looked like he was pretty healthy, aside from having the shit beaten out of him. He seemed well nourished and all of that.
Then he let the hospital gown fall and—holy crap—what kind of life had he led? The scars, almost to many to take in and they scared him almost as much as waking up with no memory; slashes, bullet scars (and how did he know what they looked like?), burns and Christ knew what all. Jesus.
Shaken more than he had been five minutes ago, he replaced the gown and lay back down on the bed.
Nothing seemed familiar. He picked up the phone and dialed, hoping that subconscious memory would let him automatically find a relevant number. It didn't.
The headache, pushed into the background by meds came back and he had to fight to stop tears of frustration.
He ate lunch; there was nothing wrong with his appetite.
"That's a good sign, it means your body knows it needs nutrition and is healing itself. Would you like more?"
He nodded and the nurse brought him another tray of food which he ate and then slept.
Then he started to dream.
There were crowds, surreal lights and sounds below and around him, air flying past him as he jumped, feeling exhilaration and pure joy before he lost control and fell, spinning and tumbling into the water hundreds of feet below him. He felt the coldness close over his head and struggled to reach the surface, grasping for the helping hands reaching out to him but missing as they receded away into darkness and knew he was going to die.
Jerking awake, he tried a zen technique to get his breathing and heart rate under control (where the hell did that come from?), swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood shakily then removed his clothes from the small closet. Two minutes later he was walking into the elevator and pushing the button for the ground floor. Out on the sidewalk he blinked at the bright glare of a sunny day and, at random, turned left at the corner.
He walked twenty blocks before his injury and concussion caught up with him and forced him to sit on the park bench, grateful for the fact that it was shaded by a sickly city tree and hoping he wouldn't pass out.
"Are you all right?"
He looked up.
"You don't look so good, 'you okay?"
He didn't answer, not sure what to say and the stranger moved on after another try without response.
It had to have been something bad for him to be beaten this badly. He had to have done something bad for someone to do this to him.
His mind wasn't as clear as he wanted but he knew whatever had brought him to this meant that someone had wanted him either dead or injured enough to get the message they were sending and all he could come up with that made any sense was some kind of crime gone wrong; a robbery, a drug deal gone bad, money owed and not repaid—who knew?
The more he thought, the more he realized that he couldn't go to the police because he was probably wanted for some serious shit and he really didn't think he could handle jail right now.
And how did he know that he couldn't handle jail? There was only one answer that made any sense, because he'd been in one before and some part of his brain knew.
He was on his own.
TBC