Where are you?

I own nothing – Kripe owns them.

Today he is leaving hospital; it should be a moment of triumph, of joy, but he feels empty and frightened; lost and alone.

There is a huge gap where his memory should be; a black hole; a gaping abyss. He sits on the edge of his bed, brow furrowed, searching through the fog for something, anything that will tell him who he is and what he is doing here.

They found him on the edge of the road. He had been a victim, they thought, of a hit and run. There was a swelling on his brain, an excess of fluid. They had shaved his head, put in a shunt, saved his life. They seemed pleased; explaining that they had prevented brain damage and that he should be happy. He stared at them, perplexed, if a great fucking hole in his memory wasn't damage he didn't know what was.

They didn't even know how old he was; the doctors guessing between 30 to 35. The nurses liked to flirt with him and, when he looked in the mirror, he could understand why. It would be false modesty to pretend that the face before him wasn't pleasing. He could see high cheekbones, full lips and bright green eyes. Freckles smattered across a perfect nose and his hair was dark blond and spiked. He flirted back with the nurses, enjoying it somehow; it felt right, like something he might always do.

The worse thing was that no one came for him. In the six months in which he'd been in hospital no one had been near him, asked about him. When they first found him they had put up posters 'Do you know this man?' and circulated them around all the local shops and in the local newspaper. His face had appeared on TV and on the back of milk cartons but nothing. Didn't he have a family? Didn't he have anyone who actually cared?

They had even searched the police and FBI databases but nothing. He didn't even have a criminal past; hell he didn't even have a past at all. He was unknown, unwanted, alone.

His therapist was kind. She helped him to cope with the black hole that used to be his brain. He could walk, talk, and function and, for that he should be grateful. She asked him to choose a name; something that would give him an identity. He thought for a while and chose the name John. He didn't know why, he knew it wasn't his name but it seemed familiar, right. He couldn't think of a surname so ended up being called John Smith. A common name for an uncommon situation.

His therapist got him a job at the local garage; it appeared that he was good with his hands, good with cars and a keen worker. He was a perfectionist and didn't mind working late or at weekends. He managed to rent himself a nice little apartment and spent his spare time there. He cooked himself meals for one in the microwave and watched the tiny colour TV that he'd brought himself. His life was routine and simple, but it didn't feel right somehow. He felt uneasy; unsettled as if a normal life was something rare and intangible.

He suffered from nightmares; strange, disjointed. He could hear a voice shouting at him, cold and angry "What does this mean I'm gonna go dark side" and pleading with him "Promise me if I ever turn into anything I'm not…" the voice was faceless and the statements it made meaningless and John wondered if he had heard it on the TV or maybe at the movies.

And then there was his love for classic cars. He would buy magazines, borrow books from the library and work on any of the muscle cars that came into the garage. He particularly loved the Chevy Impalas and would read as much as he could about them, gleaning information, wishing that he had one of his own.

At the weekends he would sometimes go out and eat. Only at diners but it gave him some company and made a change from his micro-waved dinners. He often flirted with the waitresses and brought one or two of them home. If he felt guilty in the morning he would try and forget it, put it from his mind, figuring that it would be bad to start a relationship – cos lets face it – who wanted a man without a memory, with no past and no real certain future.

There was a liquor store on the way back from diner and he decided to buy himself a six pack. It was late and the store was about to close. He exchanged a few words with the guy behind the counter and, six pack under his arm, left the store as the lights went out.

There was a man, half lying in the alcove, his large frame taking up all the space. John shuffled by, eyeing the man suspiciously. The scent of alcohol and weed emanated from the man's body and he swayed, unsteadily, his eyes, under shaggy hair, blurry and half mast. John put out his hands to steady the man and felt large fingers clasp around his arms. The man was huge, at least four or five inches taller than him and his body, despite its current state, was firm and muscled. Wavering eyes fixed on John's face and the man's breath, stale with drink, gusted into his nostrils "You got anything man?" the voice was slurred, soft "You know – help me out here"

"Nothing" John wanted to pull away "Leave me alone"

"Oh shit" the man was swaying now, his mouth moving, his eyes half closed "I'm seeing things – fuck – seeing things – you're dead – you're fucking dead" and with that he keeled over, his full weight catching John and taking him down.

John phoned 911. He felt that someone must have done that for him and this guy needed help. He sat on the floor, the guy's head in his lap and stared into his ravaged face, wondering what might bring a young man like this to his knees. He felt strange; his head reeling. The man had spoken directly to him; he had appeared to recognise him and that voice, where the hell had he heard that voice before.

He rode along in the ambulance. The guy had no identification and John knew how that felt, he'd been there. He waited in ER whilst the nurses wheeled the guy away on a gurney. He felt tired, worn and he wished that he had cracked open at least one of the tins in his six pack. Some of the nurses recognised him, they knew him when he had been in hospital and they seemed pleased to see him. They let him stay, gave him coffee and a bagel and made sure that he had a chair to sit on and a magazine to read.

The doctor was young and tired looking. He gestured to John "Are you family?"

"No – I brought him in"

"Well he's doing as well as expected – he had enough alcohol and cannabis in his system to floor a horse" he smiled, wearily "But we're pumping his stomach and then we can give him some antibiotics and some glucose – do you want to see him?"

"Sure – just to check that he's ok" John nodded; lets face it, he didn't have anything else to do"

The young man was half asleep when John entered. He was hooked up to drips and IV's and he looked pale and wan. John was shocked how boyish and vulnerable he looked. Soft hazel eyes peered out from dark lashes and a large hand moved restlessly on the sheets "I need more drugs" the voice was hoarse, harsh and hauntingly familiar "I'm seeing things – still"

The eyes closed and the man's breathing evened out. John stood staring for a minute, heart pounding as he remembered where he had heard that voice before…

He had heard it in his dreams.

TBC