Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Sunday 5:38 pm
When I blink my eyes open, the first thing I notice are the unfamiliar tattoos on my hands. A series of runes in dark ink, one at the base of each finger.
Where did these come from?
I also discover a clear plastic tube jutting out of my wrist. An IV?
"Regaining consciousness," says a commanding voice. The words mix with an intermittent machine beep.
I catch a snipped of a phrase, whispered in amazement. "...back from the dead..."
Grabbing a lungful of air through my nose, I sense the faintly sweet chemical perfume of hand sanitizer. I feel around and my hand bumps a rigid plastic guard rail on the side of the bed. A hospital bed.
Why am I in the hospital?
Fear sets in. The beeping sound quickens with my spiking heart rate.
"Can you hear me?" The words seem directed at me, but I'm distracted by a crawling sensation on my face and scalp. I reach up and grab at an array of electrodes pads stuck to my skin, each connected to a thin silicone-covered wire.
"Whoa, let's leave those in place, please," another voice says, and I feel a firm grip on my wrist.
I instinctively resist, trying to snake my hand free. But a light slices into my eyes, bright enough that I freeze.
"Do you know what day it is?" asks a female voice.
"It's Sunday, five-thirty-eight p.m."
The sound of my voice is odd, unfamiliar. Deep.
The flashlight clicks off and the hand releases my arm. "How did you know that?"
"Know what?"
"The exact time."
"Was I incorrect?" I ask, although somehow I know I wasn't.
There's another pause.
"Can you tell me your name?"
I open my mouth but find no name on my tongue. Blinking, I reach into my memory. It's like grabbing at empty space. Groping in the dark.
A wave of panic prickles down my body. I resent the beeping heart rate monitor for betraying my mounting terror in real time to this room of strangers.
"That's okay," she says through a surgical mask. "Give it time." She speaks in a warm, reassuring voice. You can trust me, the voice says. But can I really?
"I'm Dr. Wynn. Do you remember how you got here?"
I concentrate, trying to remember...something...anything...
It's not that my memories are clouded by fatigue or faded by time. They're simply not...there. My mind is blank, as if my whole life began when I opened my eyes just now. Which means these medical personnel know more about my past than I do. I'm pierced by a sudden shaft of vulnerability, a wounded animal bracing for more sharp arrows from an unseen hunter.
I bolt upright in bed. "Who did this to me?"
"Did what?"
"How did I get you here?" I demand.
"We found you crumpled on the sidewalk out front," she says, sliding down her face mask. "It's a miracle you're conscious. We couldn't detect any brain-"
I turn my head sideways and throw up. A burning sensation rolls over my skin like I'm wrapped in a blanket of thumbtacks. My body convulses on top of the thin, crinkly hospital bed mattress. A few pairs of latex-gloved hands press down to steady me.
After the seizure subsides, a nurse with hair the color of a worn penny wipes my face with a washcloth. She begins to remove my sweaty clothes.
It's the strangest thing. I know about clothing. In general. I know this velvet vest fastens around the waist. I recognize the cravat as a scarf that ties loosely around the neck. But I have no memory of these garments in particular. No recollection of purchasing them, seeing them in a wardrobe or putting them on. So I have general knowledge. But no specific memories.
What's going on?
I sweep my surroundings as if an explanation might reveal itself. I observe adults in matching mint-green scrubs scurrying about on a waxy faux-wood floor, checking monitors and pressing buttons. Sterile white wall at the foot of my bed decorated with a single framed photo of a yellow sunflower. All standard-issue hospital room. The only non-standard element is...me. Well, me and my oddly antiquated wardrobe.
The nurse tugs at my fitted trousers, which bunch around my left ankle.
She turns to Dr. Wynn. "You see this?" she says with a quiet air of confidentiality.
"Any recollection of how that happened?" Dr. Wynn asks me, adjusting her wide frame glasses.
I look down at my leg. I'm just as shocked by what's there-or, rather, what's not there-as they are. "No idea."
Discovering I have one leg is definitely suboptimal, but lands far down my list of top priority problems. Below figuring out my name, what I'm doing in the hospital, and why I can't remember anything about my life.
Still, the prosthetic leg itself is interesting-fashioned from a single piece of wood, a narrow tree trunk sliced to size and carved hollow, so all that remains is a lightweight honeycomb shell. Attached below my left knee, it's as much a work of art as it is a medical device.
As the nurse peels off my white shirt, transparent from sweat, she gasps.
"Look," she says.
Dr. Wynn leans in to examine my chest and then back.
"What?" I ask.
"Take a photo and show him," Dr. Wynn tells the nurse.
I am startled to hear a clicking shutter sound and then another. The nurse holds a small screen before me. I know it's a phone, but if she had handed it to me, I don't think I would know how to operate it.
I instantly lock on the face in the photo. I don't know what I expected to look like, but it wasn't this-luminous but sun-deprived pale skin. Cheekbones knifing out beneath the eyes. Eyes themselves caught in surprise, whites visibly encircling dark pupils. An inscrutably small tattoo below an ear.
So this is me, apparently. Fine, I guess. I could get used to this face. Not that I have a choice. The one part that may take some adjustment is the white hair-as white as these hospital room walls, though the harsh overhead light reflects a grayish tint. It's pushed high and back, brushing the top of my neck.
"Do the tattoos look familiar?" she asks.
I squint. "They're kind of small."
She maneuvers her fingers on the device. My torso suddenly fills the screen. A mosaic of tattooed symbols, glyphs, and diagrams covers my skin. Their varying sizes interlock like the work of an expert stone mason. Most prominent, inked over the center swath of my chest, is a neat vertical stack of dollar-bill shaped rectangles. Perched beside this block is a small rendering of what looks like Da Vinci's outstretched man.
She swipes her finger at the screen and the image changes to my back, which is covered in more meaningless ink, including a large a shield-shaped shaped object.
"Do they mean anything to you?" Dr. Wynn asks.
"Sorry," I say, shaking my head.
I hear a new beep, an urgent warning.
Then a voice a million miles away.
"We're losing him."
My last thought is: Am I about to forget everything again?
