Chapter 3: Slight Recollection

Michael

His newly functioning eyes stare persistently at the clock hanging on the facing wall, the slow moving hands mocking him to no end. The faint 'tick' is the only thing filling both his head and the room, the absence of words beginning to result in awkwardness between the two beings. After the reawakening, Michael had felt entirely rejuvenated. Clean and new again. Ready to learn everything that he'd missed. But now hours later, the ongoing questioning has worn him to near oblivion once more. Lying in the hospital bed, looking indifferently at the assigned therapist, he almost wishes he was still out cold.

"Alright," Says the counselor, looking over some papers in a virtually vacant manila folder. She flips her frizzy hair behind the shoulder of her neutral toned pantsuit, unappealingly snapping her chewing gum in the process. "What do we know again? You're from early to mid-thirties in age, dark hair, blue eyes, Caucasian…"

No shit. That's just about half the United States. Michael thinks irritably, silently wondering how the hell he can remember an entire country's population, yet not his own name.

"…there are some abnormalities listed here, though." She stabs the paper with a steady finger. "It says that you're missing two toes on your left foot. Do you remember anything about this?"

That's odd. He looks down and realizes for the first time that his pinky toe and the one adjacent are in fact absent. Michael does not know why this is, however, and just shrugs his shoulders. "No," He replies simply.

She doesn't look up as she continues to read the file. "Apparently, you also suffer from LLI—Low Latent Inhibition, a psychological condition in which you see the world as pieces, rather than mere objects. It's incredibly rare and could be hereditary."

That explains the strange vision problems he's been having. It's hard for him to focus because his eyes look at one thing, and end up seeing everything that makes it up instead. The internal springs and coils, so to speak. He picks up every detail, even if he isn't looking at them straight. It's kind of annoying actually, because unlike a normal functioning brain, he sees the whole shebang. Even if it's absolutely irrelevant.

"The doctors believe that electrical shock of some kind is what caused your body to go into the comatose state, and judging by the light scars that stretch up and down your arms, you were holding the thing that electrocuted you. Quite frankly, it's a miracle you're still alive. But what's unusual is that there seems to be scarring on her abdomen and back as well—they weren't fresh when you came, meaning they happened before the electrocution. I've seen similar scarring before, and it was on someone who had a tattoo lasered off. It's looks as if almost half your body was covered in tats at one point. That could maybe help us make an identification…" She continues to explain things he's already heard, and any remaining interest in the conversation is diminished. The therapist doesn't know anything he doesn't, and is rendered useless to him.

Her tedious words slowly fade to the background, becoming a distant hum as Michael leans back in the bed, an ache beginning in the pit of his stomach. The white of the sheets, the sickly sweet smell that has managed to take residence in every inch of this place—he hates it all. No spark of recognition has been lit, and he is sure it's because nothing about this hospital is familiar. He's in uncharted waters in a manner of speaking. And a mousy looking shrink with about as much charm as an empty tissue box won't change anything.

The therapist, who has continued to babble on for the past twenty or so minutes suddenly stops, her silence enough to break Michael out of his thoughts for a moment. She must have ultimately realized that his attention is nowhere near her or the words she nonchalantly spits out, because with a slightly aggravated sigh, she stands from the uncomfortable infirmary chair. "Okay, I'll come back tomorrow. I can see you're overwhelmed, so I'm just going to go."

With that, she leaves the room, and Michael is able to let out a grateful exhale. Her presence wasn't anything but a distraction.

He brings the pointer finger of each hand to rest against his temples, aggressively rubbing in circular motions. The act of concentration does not ease the mind at all, though, and he closes his eyes in defeat. Being trapped in a purgatory of smoke for four years—that had felt like hell. Nothing is worse than having every one of your senses cut off, or so he thought. Actually, there is worse fate, and that's having your entire life ripped away from you. Every emotion your body happens to come across is now intensified, because there isn't anything else for your mind to process.

This makes logic of Michael's over-reactive anger towards the therapist—she will remain nameless due to the fact he quite frankly doesn't care to learn it. Why fill his head with unrelated information, especially while he is doing his best to do the complete opposite? Sure, Dr. Holden had said that after such an extensive time of unconsciousness, memory loss of any kind is normal, but it still manages to frighten Michael. Between the good doctor's positive thinking and inspiring words, he had detected some suggestions that pointed in the direction of irregularity.

"The brain is a very delicate thing. Only three little pounds; and it's the whole reason we are who we are." He recalls him explaining earlier. "Being a neurologist, I've seen so many different cases—brain diseases, cancers, amnesia, tumors…the list goes on and on." With each problem, he had let go of a finger for emphasis. "But each case is dissimilar. People respond to things differently. So to answer your question; 'will I ever remember?' to the best of my abilities, I'm going to say this; be tolerant. You've just woken up, and a lot is stimulating the mind right now. You need to calm down, and the memories might just come flooding back."

He could tell that his case wasn't as usual as Dr. Holden was trying to make it seem. There were hints hidden here and there within the subtext; a nervous biting of the lips, a trembling in the fingers. Michael had been able to pick in all up without even realizing it, and he knows that his memory loss is too broad to be classified as normal. The sensible part of him, the part that could process numbers better than descriptive poetry, had then gone on to ask for the statistics point blank.

Reluctantly, he was filled in. There in a 95% chance of regaining any sort of memory of his past, but that percentage drops nearly five points with each passing day. The longer it goes on, the less chance there will ever be. And out of the hundreds of patients the doctor had helped with similar problems mirroring Michael's, twelve had been able to recuperate to their original state.

Only twelve.

Frustration flairs through him as the imaginary brick wall comes creeping back up, stopping him from entering his own thoughts any further. Christ. He internally growls, mentally fighting himself, trying to tear down a barrier that's not physically there. This is impossible. Waking up, being here in the hospital, the unlimited string of doctors, it's has all felt like a daze. Again, nothing about this atmosphere triggers any explanatory emotion or feeling. Before, in the nightmares of the coma, he was in so much pain. Pain that he'd do anything to get out of. His bewilderment kept him kicking, fighting his way out for years. But now…now that he's out, he's not sure what he wants anymore. This is life? This is what he was so eager to get back to?

Knock, knock.

His neck snaps in the direction of the sound, knowing that only a doctor would knock like that. Quick and polite. Sure enough, a physician with long dark hair and a white lab coat stands at the entryway, a medium sized box being held firmly against her waist. The woman gives him a weak smile before stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind her.

"Uh, hi," She says awkwardly, proceeding with caution towards the bed, causing Michael to furrow his brow in confusion. This isn't his doctor, nor has he ever seen her before. Though, it's not like he's ever seen anyone else here. "I'm Dr. Emily Marin. You don't know me, but when you were first admitted I was here as an intern to Dr. Holden."

As he looks closer at the waves that hang past her shoulders, Michael can make out a hint of red bouncing off the individual strands from the overhanging lights. For some reason, his chest tightens at the sight. He coughs twice at the discomfort, and then looks to the woman once more, struck by her appearance.

She keeps talking, clearly uncomfortable by his lack of words. "Well, um, here are the clothes you were wearing when you came four years ago. Dr. Holden thought it might help you remember." Dr. Marin sets the box onto the foot of his bed, nods as if reassuring herself of something, and then quickly demises herself from the room. The whole exchange goes down in about two minutes, and Michael finds himself slightly confused after she has left. All the other professionals he'd encountered in the past few hours had appeared very arrogant and omniscient, while she on the other hand…seemed awkward and embarrassed.

It was actually quite refreshing to meet an employee at this hospital who wasn't annoyingly egotistical and brimming with self-confidence.

Still somewhat muddled, he leans forward from beneath the covers, his fingers hungrily reaching for the box. It's a simple, and much like everything else in this facility, white container, made of thin cardboard and a nice little tag that spells 'John Doe' on the side. So, I guess I do have a name. Without second thought, he rips the lid off in haste, the strange doctor completely forgotten and his mind now only on one thing. Though he knows that nothing will probably come of this, he can't help but get excited. Pulling the package closer, he bows his head over the opening, his eyes finding the only things left of his past.

And to be honest, there isn't much.

His hand stretches into the box, finding a greenish gray canvas jacket. There is a collar that ends without any hood, and many different zippers leading to closed pockets. He holds it by the shoulders, as he would if an actual person were wearing it, and aggressively shakes it. Nothing happens, not that he was expecting anything to, and quickly moves onto the next article of clothing. A pair of dark blue jeans. Again Michael goes through the motions of holding them up, wringing them out, and then feeling mildly disappointed at the absence of progress. Slumping even farther onward, the mattress trembles due to the alteration of weight distribution, and the jacket slides to the floor.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the coat lay wrinkled on the ground, but once again finds himself not caring. Immediately, he goes back to the box, though any remaining interest he had quickly diminishes when he finds that all that is left is an old pair of sneakers. That's it. No wallet. No source of identification. No chance of getting any closer to finding his life. Without meaning to, a growl is released between his taught with anger lips, an abrupt hatred for Dr. Marin seeping into his body for the hope she'd inadvertently given him.

Furiously, he jumps off of the bed, wanting to be as far away from that godforsaken box as possible. The furniture rattles again, but he ignores it easily, instead his foot finding the fallen jacket. In one swift motion, he kicks it and waits for some kind of pleasure to come from the stroke. No such luck. But instead, something even better unexpectedly does.

The casing coasts across the room, the canvas making a sharp sound as it slaps against the tile, but he is no longer watching the situation to even see where it lands. No, his eyes are now trained on a single slip of paper that managed to soar out of one of the many pockets on the flight over. Instinctively, he walks the feet in seconds and bends down to pick up the folded piece of paper, curiosity outweighing the possibility that it is nothing of use, any hatred and anger soon forgotten. If this helps, he might just love Dr. Marin for her help.

Michael's fingers clasp the paper, its smooth surface uncharacteristically warm, unlike everything else here. As if it has a heartbeat of its own. Laying it out flat on the palm of his hand, he notices that it's folded into the shape of some sort of bird. A crane to be exact. Quickly, he rips the parchment open from its original form, soon realizing that this isn't just a scrap of meaningless origami. It's a letter, written in long hand and black ink.

11/4/05

Dear Michael,

I don't know why, but the thought of writing letters always scared me for some reason. I could write a five page medical essay no problem, even typing up a memo of some kind wasn't too bad. When it came time to bringing my personal life into things, that's when it got difficult. I'm talking placing pen to paper and turning all my deepest thoughts to tangible words and phrases. I was always so frightened that I'd mess up, or worse yet, have nothing to say. You never seemed to have that issue, though, and I think it's time for me to face my fears. So I've decided to finally try one of my own in return.

Keep in mind; it won't be nearly as beautiful as yours.

I've been thinking a lot about right and wrong lately. As you know, there's so much free time here in prison. Sometimes my mind just starts wandering to things I usually don't think about, and I've come up with a theory. Like love or beauty, general principals belong to that of the beholder. It's all a matter of perspective.

Think about the company. They were doing what they thought was right, even though to us it was really wrong. People don't purposely do wrong. We as the observer are the ones to choose sides, claiming one to be good, and the other to be bad. When you broke Lincoln out of prison, you thought you were doing what was right, and when I left that door open I was agreeing with you, although it looked as if everyone else on the planet thought otherwise. Then in Panama, you went to jail for a crime you didn't commit, all because you thought it was the right thing to do (I'm not even going to get into how wrong it was for you to take the blame for me. That would completely contradict this letter). Now, tonight, you're trying to break me out because you think that it's what's right. The police think it's wrong, that I am a guilty woman who killed an innocent one. I'm not saying that I'm by any means innocent; after all I did kill Kristina. I just couldn't bear the thought losing you. So I did what I thought was right.

(Is it just me, or am I always saving you ass?)

What I'm trying to get at, is don't ever think that what you did was wrong. I believe you to be a great man, even though when people here your name they automatically think of the escape(s). You are the most selfless person I have ever met. You always do what you think is right, and it is just one of the many reasons I love you. Being here has been hell, but not for the reason you think. I've missed you so much, and it kills me when they ring that bell whenever I try to touch you. So much for any sort of honeymoon.

If all goes well tonight, we're reading this together right now. If it didn't…well I guess you're in prison again or I am. Either way, we aren't together and I needed you to know this.

I love you. I miss you. And I know we'll see each other soon.

Love,

Sara

P.S. I enclosed a picture of the baby. What do you think? Doesn't he look like a Scofield?

His entire body tenses, every finger stiffening against the paper as he rereads the astounding words. He has a name. Michael Scofield. He feels like a Michael, though the title isn't the least bit familiar. The rest of the note goes through his head on loop, each verse quickly memorized without any initial intention of doing so. No doctor could have given him this information, which somehow explains everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. There was no mention of his home, family, or even what he does for a living, so to anyone else, this would be useless. A meaningless love letter. But to him, it is the most valuable thing he'd received since waking up.

Still…these answers only seem to bring more questions. Most of what is said, well it makes no sense. Michael understands that a woman is writing to him; possibly a wife, judging by the manner of it all. And a pregnant one at that. He looks down at the black and white ultrasound photo, his chest uncontrollably tightening at the sight. It looks like a bunch of blurred lines and shapes, though two very distinct circles stick together in the middle to picture to form a kidney bean. Wow, he's going to be a father. No—scratch that—he is a father.

But aside from that, everything gets confusing. His probable, pregnant wife is in prison; a place he's apparently been in himself. And to top it all off, that night he was induced into the coma, he was trying to break her out of said place, something he has evidently done before.

Who the hell am I?

Next thing he knows, Michael's legs are carrying him to the small bathroom connected to the main, the message still clutched tightly in his hand. He walks briskly to sink, splashes cold water into his face, and then stands back up from the hunched over position he'd automatically taken. Gazing into the mirror, he takes account of the alien face shining back at him for the first time. His eyes sweep over the shoulder length dark hair, observing the streaks of silver distributed precisely throughout his head, a thick beard to match hanging inches past his face. Bright blue eyes peek out at him through all the hair, giving him an inquisitive expression.

"Michael Scofield." He tries out the words, his breath causing condensation to settle onto the reflecting glass. Nothing. No twinge of recollection, no firework that suddenly brings back everything he's forgotten. His own name seems foreign.

Not knowing who you are…it's a very lonely feeling. You're scared, and angry, and so isolated that company of any kind feels distant. It's not like being a child; you still know the fundamentals of life. You know why the sky is blue, and what two-plus-two equals, and all the things you learned before the coma. But the personal things, the things that made you, you, it's all gone.

That letter doesn't really change anything. Not in retrospect, anyway. Michael still feels lost, and now sad. The women who wrote that wonderful letter, this 'Sara', he knows he must have broken her heart. Something in the plan of breaking her out of jail must have gone wrong. He must have screwed up somehow, because otherwise, he's sure that she'd be here waiting for him. A part of him even wants her to be here.

"Sara," Unlike before, he does feel something when he says her name—an acquainted ache begins in his heart, and he can't help but smiling at the difference. Images of an earlier lab coat and long, auburn hair flash through his head, though the accompanying face slightly off. His Sara has higher cheekbones than Dr. Marin, he's sure of that. And beautiful brown eyes instead of the dull gray. But the similarity is striking enough to be of assistance, and he's grateful for that.

Nothing else is clear enough for him to see, but that face…that gorgeous face. Though he doesn't remember all of her, he knows that he loved her. That he still loves her.

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