Undo This Mistake - Part I
He tried to remember his parents. There was no point in assuming that he didn’t have parents. They couldn’t be more than 60 years old, if they were still alive. Or could they? Anything was possible. His memory problems weren’t normal. Events seemed to be slipping away more quickly every day, as if they were cars in winter skating uncontrollably down an icy decline. No way to stop the momentum now.
He opened his eyes. The same locked room imprinted another set of images of four short walls and a ceiling on his mind. He could remember yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. The universe before that third day eluded him. He could have been in this tiny room his entire life for all he now knew, like a fetus that dies in the womb, gaining every experience from a single, dark space. The only bit of knowledge that pulled him from that darkness was his name. John. He thought his last name was Bellows or Vellows or something similar to that. It didn’t matter. He was grateful to have the name “John” to hold on to. Having a name meant that he existed. He was not just some thought from another insane person’s head. He was really here.
Unfortunately, “here” was behind a locked door without a key, in a ward without an attendant, in a hospital without another single human anywhere within shouting distance. It was quite possible that other people were out there. They could be too busy to answer his calls for help, or too scared to do anything about them. They could be in other locked rooms, unwilling to shout back. They could be so far away that they could not hear him. They could all be dead.
Most likely, though, they were all gone. He had not been taken along when the building was evacuated. He assumed an evacuation because the power was out in his room at night and emergency lights were the only source of illumination visible through the dinner slot in the thick metal door. Hospitals don’t function for days without power. They move the patients to another place with power. He had been left behind because someone forgot to write his name on a log when he had been moved to the isolation ward, and someone else didn’t think to look in the room to see if he was inside. Luckily, the water was still running to his toilet and sink. He hadn’t eaten in three days.
John couldn’t see his father’s face. Did he have a long wispy beard? Without a mustache? That would be unusual. No, suddenly he knew that wasn’t right. He was picturing the top of his father’s bald head resting on the arm of a sofa, with a ring of long, thin hair hanging over the edge. The blank, bald head was not a face, but it illustrated his predicament. Eyes and noses and mouths had been erased by his illness. His violent, mind-quaking sickness. He had been in the room for three days without his medication. Soon reality would give way to madness. Too soon.
He opened his eyes. The same locked room imprinted another set of images of four short walls and a ceiling on his mind. He could remember yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. The universe before that third day eluded him. He could have been in this tiny room his entire life for all he now knew, like a fetus that dies in the womb, gaining every experience from a single, dark space. The only bit of knowledge that pulled him from that darkness was his name. John. He thought his last name was Bellows or Vellows or something similar to that. It didn’t matter. He was grateful to have the name “John” to hold on to. Having a name meant that he existed. He was not just some thought from another insane person’s head. He was really here.
Unfortunately, “here” was behind a locked door without a key, in a ward without an attendant, in a hospital without another single human anywhere within shouting distance. It was quite possible that other people were out there. They could be too busy to answer his calls for help, or too scared to do anything about them. They could be in other locked rooms, unwilling to shout back. They could be so far away that they could not hear him. They could all be dead.
Most likely, though, they were all gone. He had not been taken along when the building was evacuated. He assumed an evacuation because the power was out in his room at night and emergency lights were the only source of illumination visible through the dinner slot in the thick metal door. Hospitals don’t function for days without power. They move the patients to another place with power. He had been left behind because someone forgot to write his name on a log when he had been moved to the isolation ward, and someone else didn’t think to look in the room to see if he was inside. Luckily, the water was still running to his toilet and sink. He hadn’t eaten in three days.
John couldn’t see his father’s face. Did he have a long wispy beard? Without a mustache? That would be unusual. No, suddenly he knew that wasn’t right. He was picturing the top of his father’s bald head resting on the arm of a sofa, with a ring of long, thin hair hanging over the edge. The blank, bald head was not a face, but it illustrated his predicament. Eyes and noses and mouths had been erased by his illness. His violent, mind-quaking sickness. He had been in the room for three days without his medication. Soon reality would give way to madness. Too soon.
posted by Bill Nolen at 19:55
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