Id

by P. Craig

  “Well, do you recognise the object?” the doctor asked, after the silence passed uncomfortably into its second minute.

  Although he couldn’t recall seeing one before, the man knew exactly what the object was—it was a car. Yet, for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he was unable to pass the word from his mind to his mouth in quite the way he wanted.

  “Perhaps we should try another one,” the doctor said, slipping the card to the bottom of the deck.

  The man watched as the surgeon picked up the next square from the top of the pack. As before, the older man’s beady eyes quickly glanced at the card before turning and revealing it.

  “What about this one, then?”

  The man ran his eyes over the card; he recognised the object—an orange—in an instant. Despite a grievance over what he was being asked to do—surely this is too facile a test for an adult?—he opened his mouth to respond but, like before, found that the word was strangely reticent to come forth. Concentrating hard, he focussed his mind on the word, hearing its sound within his head, and then held that thought tight, pushing it down towards his vocal chords where he tried to replicate it.

  “O... o... nuh...”

  The doctor shrugged and then shook his head, indicating the man should stop trying. “Thank you.” He slid the card to the bottom of the deck and picked up another card from the top. “Now,” he said, “let’s try this one, yes?”

  It was a banana this time. Again, however, the word seemed to lose its way somewhere between the man’s mind and the back of his throat. “B-b-b... ba... nuh...” he managed before giving up abruptly, horrified by his inability to get the word—such a simple, simple word—out of his mouth in a coherent state.

  “Very interesting,” the doctor mused. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the nurse, who scribbled something down on her clipboard. The surgeon smiled as he turned to face the man once more, his hands quickly retrieving the cards from the bed. “I think we shall come back to these later, perhaps.”

  The man had no desire to argue the point; his performance during the test had shaken him badly.

  “Now, one last thing before I leave you in the care of our excellent staff,” said the doctor, passing the cards to the nurse. “Perhaps if we try a simple Q and A, we may be able to better stimulate other areas of the brain that still have intact links to your ability to vocalise your thoughts. Shall we try this?”

  The man kept his mouth firmly shut and stared, with burning intent, directly into the surgeon’s beady eyes. He had no wish, none whatsoever, in putting himself through another tortuous ordeal, simple test though it was purported to be.

  “Well, I think it will be worth a try anyway,” said the doctor, correctly interpreting the man’s silence for what it was. “Now, tell me, what year were you born?”

  It was a question—one of three, in particular—that the man really didn’t want to hear being asked of him. What year was I born? Just what does that mean, exactly?

  By itself, the fact that he didn’t know the answer to such a simple question was cause for concern; the fact that it was likely the doctor knew the answer but was choosing instead to play a kind of game with him... well, that was even more disconcerting and, indeed, a good deal more frightening.

  The man didn’t like it one bit. There he was, sitting upright against a hard pillow on a hospital bed, listening to a man—an ogre—ask him questions about things of which he had not the slightest inkling, about a person of whom he had no knowledge, and yet he knew, deep down, that he was the stranger he was being asked about.

  Except it’s not me anymore, is it?

  The person that knew the answers to these questions, the person that could articulate them in clear, simple terms, existed only within the confines of the surgeon’s head. And maybe a file somewhere with my name on it... whatever that name is.

  The man folded his arms across his chest and glared at the doctor. What year was I born? Frankly, the man hadn’t the faintest idea; as far as he was concerned, he had only truly existed since waking up on the ward during the night.

  “Yes, perhaps that is rather a hard question to be starting with,” said the doctor, holding his hand up by way of what the man took to be an apology. “Maybe if I were to phrase it differently and ask, for example, how old are you? How old do you think you are?”

  The man’s concept of time, such as he understood it, was still on somewhat shaky ground; glancing up at the clock on the opposite wall, he figured his age was somewhere in the region of one complete revolution of the face.

  The doctor’s breathing seemed to be permanently heavy and laboured, but the man noticed he took an unusually deep breath before continuing once more.

  The surgeon’s eyes slowly locked on the man’s. “If I were to tell you that you are over thirty years of age, what would you say to that?”

  The man gazed at the doctor with such a blank, vacant stare it was almost as though he was looking straight through him and focussing on something a hundred miles away. Over thirty years of age, as a descriptive term, meant absolutely nothing to him whatsoever.

  “Not entirely unexpected,” the doctor muttered, looking over his shoulder at the nurse.

  As he sat watching the surgeon whisper quietly to one-third of the hydra, the man wondered why no one had yet told him more about himself. The doctor now knew—assuming he hadn’t known beforehand, which the man considered unlikely—that the man had no recollection of who he was, who he had been. The man still wasn’t sure, even now, as to why he was there in the hospital; although the doctor had seemed to suggest it was something to do with his brain, the man had no real understanding of what was wrong with him.

  Simple answers to simple questions were all the man wanted, but without the ability to speak coherently—at least he knew for certain that there was something wrong in that area—he realised it might yet be some time until he was able to phrase even the simplest of those questions.

  “I think I will leave you to rest for the remainder of the day,” the doctor said, patting the bed as he slowly rose to his feet. “Perhaps tomorrow, if you are feeling uncomfortable at undergoing these tests out in general population, as I like to call the ward, we might move you back to a private room. However, I had hoped, and continue to believe, that the presence of your fellow patients, and all the various familiar noises around the ward, will only serve to aid your recovery—in particular, the recovery of your mental faculties and memories. But perhaps we will be in a better position tomorrow morning to make a clearer judgement on that prognosis. Until then, my friend, I shall bid you a good day.”

  The man frowned as the surgeon smiled at him, trying to let him know, if perhaps not able to do so verbally, exactly how much of a good day he had already had. Effectively mute, barely able to lift his arms, suffering from a headache that seemed to have no intention of ceasing—the man was doubtful that the day was going to get any better either.

  “Any changes to his meds?”

  The man snapped out of his reverie and watched as the doctor, his liver-spotted hand gently rubbing the uppermost of his many chins, mulled over the nurse’s question

  “No, I don’t think so,” said the doctor. “We’ll see how he responds tomorrow. If there’s no clear improvement, then we’ll start coming down ten per cent each day until there is.”

  The man’s eyes darted to the nurse, whose mouth had contorted into a thin, forced smile. As the doctor walked away, she glanced in the man's direction and, for a terrifying split second, their eyes locked. Something in that look, however brief it had been exchanged, told the man that something wasn’t quite right and, perhaps more important, that she wasn’t to be trusted under any circumstances. He couldn’t say why, but he knew, he just knew, that she had it in her mind to make his life a living hell.

  The doctor was already halfway down the corridor by the time the man tore his eyes away from the side of the nurse’s head and looked round to tell him, if he could only find the w
ords, what he feared might soon happen.

  “No need to fret,” said the nurse, fixing him with another smile, another false one, as his head snapped to attention. “I’ll be back along shortly with your lunch. It’s soup today.”

  Her smile widened; the man cringed and let his head sink deeper into the pillow. Closing his eyes, he focussed his thoughts and tried to wish her away, hoping that the nothingness he could still feel at the edge of his consciousness might reach out into the real world and make her go away as easily as it had made everything about him—his old thoughts, his old memories—disappear.

  The darkness inside his mind was welcoming, comforting in a way, such was his familiarity with it now, but the more he sought its sanctuary, the more he fought to shut out the demons belonging to the outside world, the harder it became to stay there, isolated from the harsh, cold reality of his corporeal existence. Closing his eyes to the unfamiliar world no longer equated to closing his mind to it. Now, with his curiosity growing with every passing moment, the sounds and noises of his environment were too tempting to ignore; they called out to him, luring him to drop his guard and engage with reality—at least, what he now believed to be reality—once more.

  His ears, his sole active sense to the outside world, told him that the nurse was walking away, her cloven hooves echoing loudly along the corridor, and finally, with a quiet sigh of relief, he felt safe enough to turn away from the darkness and open his eyes to the light.

  Resigned to what the doctor had called ‘a great deal of patience’, the man eased himself into a sitting position and began to study his surroundings. He looked up and down the ward, soaking in the sights and sounds, engaging with the reality that was now his, hoping that something, anything, could echo inside his mind and perhaps, if he was lucky, do what the light had failed to do—fill the void.

  ***

  The man had watched with curiosity as it approached.

  It had taken several moments, several long moments, to make its way unerringly along the ward, but now it was almost at his bedside.

  The man’s hand, which had been flexing and gaining strength with every passing hour, tried to reach out and touch it, but as it—the thing, the beast, the leader of the hydra—started to give him its full attention, he closed his eyes and quickly dropped his hand to his side, resting it limply next to his still, motionless body.

  It, fortunately, had not seen how close he was to regaining full mobility; if it had, then his advantage, such as he hoped it would prove to be, would be lost.

  “Well now, what have we here, then?”

  Feigning a yawn, the man slowly opened his eyes and squinted up to find the nurse, the beast, towering over him, a metal lid in one hand, with steam rising from a bowl in her other. Her ghoulish face wore a rigid smile.

  “I’ve been told this was your favourite, so I’ve managed to get you a larger serving than normal,” said the beast, revealing her sharp, narrow, diseased teeth as her lips drew back into a wider smile. “Don’t tell anyone, though. We’ll keep this as our little secret, shall we?”

  The man forced a thin smile to his lips, hoping to lull her into a false sense of security, a false sense of solidarity.

  “Now, if you sit up a little, I’ll put a drop of soup onto a spoon for you and then you can have a taste and let me know if it’s the right temperature for you, okay?”

  Eyes wide and unblinking, the man watched as she picked up a spoon with one of her gnarled talons and lowered it gently into the bowl, carefully gathering up the tiniest drop of soup. Closing her eyes, the nurse bobbed her head slightly and wafted the spoon underneath her nose, an exaggerated smile spreading painfully across her face as she savoured the aroma.

  “Oh, that smells divine, simply divine,” she said, opening her eyes and turning her fiery, red-eyed gaze in the man’s direction. “You’re going to love this, I’m quite sure.”

  Watching her warily, the man pushed down on the mattress and eased himself into a sitting position, propping his back hard up against the headboard.

  “Is that comfy for you?” the vile beast asked, her brow furrowing with apparent concern, false though he knew it to be. “I can get another pillow to put behind you, if you like? Those metal bars can’t be very comfortable.”

  Shaking his head, the man forced another thin smile to his face, hoping to encourage her to drop her guard even further.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” she said, looking down at her hand as the spoon began its journey from the bowl to his mouth. “Now, if you’ll open wide, I’ll...”

  The man kept his mouth firmly shut. To him, the soup looked grey and congealed; it was hardly as appealing as she, the ogre, had made out.

  “You’ll need to open your mouth a little wider, sir. It’ll get cold—yucky cold—if you leave it too long, you know.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed sharply on her mouth. He had detected something untoward in her voice—a raised inflection in her tone, a momentary panic—that had heightened his already aroused suspicions. She was fearful that he might not eat any soup, that much was obvious, but what he didn’t know, what he suddenly wanted to know, was the reason behind her fear.

  A simple bowl of soup surely doesn’t merit the level of anxiety she’s displaying... unless, of course, it’s not actually soup at all!

  Something bad had clearly happened to cause him to end up lying on a hospital bed. The doctor had intimated that it had something to do with his brain, but the lack of information, the lack of a real explanation, made the man wonder if perhaps the root cause was far more sinister than everyone had been leading him to believe. Perhaps the nurse, the beast, had been sent to finish him off and take him back to whatever foul domain she called home. Perhaps, he thought with a shudder, she had come to take away what was left of his soul.

  “Oh, come on now—that cold stare will have cooled it right down,” said the nurse, pretending to chuckle with amusement as she shook her head. “We’ll try again, shall we?”

  A reproving look followed and then she turned away, lowering the spoon back into the steaming bowl, where she mixed the liquid, whatever it truly was, back in with its foul brethren.

  “It’s a lovely day outside, you know,” the beast said casually, glancing in his direction as she stirred the bubbling concoction. “It’s been quite chilly the last few days—there was snow forecast for yesterday, in fact—but the sun’s managed to poke its head out through the clouds today and it’s really made the gardens lovely and warm. I can take you for a stroll around the grounds, if you like?”

  She had looked away before she had finished speaking. No doubt to hide the deceit in her eyes, the man supposed, or perhaps to better focus her foul thoughts on the poison she’s trying to force-feed me. Staring hard, the man was sure he could see venom oozing out from the corners of her eyes and trickling down into the fetid brew. Worse, he saw her lips moving silently, forming words and sentences riddled with evil incantations, curses and desires of his death.

  As the laden spoon started back towards him, fear gripped hold of the man, freezing him rigid. His heart battered desperately against his breastbone, doing everything it could to try to spur him into action, but in that awful moment, he couldn’t easily quell his anxiety.

  “Now, open wide...”

  The nurse never finished her sentence. Suddenly, the man exploded away from the headboard and violently slapped the spoon out of her hand, sending the utensil spinning over the next bed before it landed with an echoing clatter on the floor.

  The nurse’s eyes widened in shock and she started backwards, her hand reaching up to her mouth to stifle a scream of alarm. The man sensed all eyes in the ward turning in their direction, but all he was concerned about, all he really cared about, was getting away from the beast before she realised what he was about to do and tried to stop him.

  With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, the man sprang out of bed. Dropping his shoulder, he barged past the nurse and rushed barefoot over the tiled
floor, knocking trolleys and chairs aside as he lurched towards the door at the end of the ward. His balance was poor, even without being buffeted by the objects he kept crashing into, and in truth his co-ordination was little better; yet despite his shortcomings, he was soon flying through the open door and careering along the corridor running perpendicular to the ward, passing dumbstruck doctors and nurses alike.

  As he ran, arms and legs little more than a blur to his eyes, the man felt as though he was untouchable, like no one could ever stop him. He could see people’s stunned, open-mouthed faces as he flew past them, trailing a collection of wires and electrodes still plastered to his body, but no matter how much they tried to block his path, he was just too quick, too determined, and easily evaded their half-hearted efforts to stop him.

  But the man’s lack of co-ordination and balance soon became a problem. Hurtling round a corner into another wing of the hospital, his leading foot made contact with tiles that were wet from a recent cleaning and, suddenly, his whole world titled dramatically to the left. Falling out of control, the man’s body landed heavily on his arm, violently knocking the wind out of his lungs.

  He lay there stunned for a moment, gasping for breath, but the footfalls of his pursuers soon had him rolling onto his front. Grimacing, the man pushed himself up onto his hands and knees; then he was off again, crawling over the wet tiles, desperately continuing his bid for freedom.

  Over his laboured breathing, he heard the sounds of people in pursuit; their feet were pounding like heavy rain and thunder along the corridors, and their shouts, their cries of warning, were echoing like sonar back and forth between the walls.

  “There he is!” came a shout from somewhere—behind, ahead, the man wasn’t sure where.

  “Block the exit!” someone else shouted.

  Definitely from behind.

  Even on all fours, the man’s balance was all over the place on the smooth tiling; his left foot, in particular, seemed to have difficulty finding adequate purchase. But as the voices and shouts grew louder and louder, the man suddenly found his breath, and his muscles, weak and tired though they were, began to galvanise and re-energise, readying for action.