Nothing belongs to me.
LXXXII: Silence
These sessions were a waste of time.
John wasn't going to talk. He never did.
Dr. Lockey didn't know why they insisted on these three, one hour, sessions a week, every week.
An hour of silence wasn't going to solve anything.
John, as the nurses came to call him, had arrived at the hospital almost a year ago. Poor chap remembered nothing of who he was, where he came from – nothing. He could barely even take care of himself, stumbling into the hospital, dirty, starving, and wearing nothing but long tattered black robes.
The young man had baffled the doctors. Not even the most experienced could seem to find the source of his amnesia or why it was so extensive, hindering him from accomplishing the simplest of tasks. There was no head injury or signs of any kind of trauma…or anything.
He was completely healthy, had it not been for his mental state.
And after all these months, he still couldn't remember a thing about his life before. There were little clues as to who he might be, well, except if you wanted to count the hideous tattoo on John's left forearm.
It featured a skull of some sort and a snake protruding obscenely from its mouth...? Dr. Lockey didn't like the looks of it. In his opinion, it was the mark of a street gang, if anything.
The hospital had sent numerous photos of the thing to various tattoo parlors and police stations in hopes they could identify it, but their attempts were in vain. No one claimed him.
Dr. Lockey sighed. He had learned long ago not to expect anything apart from John's "Hello." and "Goodbye."
You can only imagine the psychiatrist's surprise when John did speak.
"There's a girl."
"E-excuse me?"
John stared determinedly at the doctor. "A girl." he repeated. "I dream about her sometimes."
Dr. Lockey reached clumsily for his notepad, unable to shake off the shock that clutched at him. "And does this girl – is she only a figure in your dreams?"
"No," John murmured finally, with a faraway look. "She's certainly real."