by Karen Hayes
I hate myself at this moment. I can't remember my own name but I seem to know all about some stinking politician!
I reach for the computer and, casting constant glances at the reading receptionist, swipe the nurse's card through a reading device.
It opens some complex program in a blue window. The menu on top is way too small to read. I locate my room number and open my patient's card.
I see the picture and cringe. The girl - who is me, I suppose - is staring past the camera, her eyes bleary. They must have drugged me. Wet strands of hair cling to my skull, looking almost black against the light-blue hospital gown. My eyebrows, however, are surprisingly fair. My face is pallid with a smattering of freckles on my nose and sharp cheekbones. I have blood on my cheek.
Jesus. What on earth has happened to me?
I take a grip and begin to read the few available lines of information. My name is apparently Sarah Korski. Age, eighteen. Female. Single. No children. Admission date...
I glance at a wall calendar. I was admitted two days ago. No visits. Address: a Brooklyn apartment. The card ends with what's supposed to be my parents' names and their phone number.
Not much to go on. Why am I here? There's no diagnosis marked anywhere. All the card says is, "admitted in a state of acute psychosis". I may have lost my memory but I don't feel like bashing my head on the wall or whatever people with acute psychosis are supposed to do. They can say what they want but I'm perfectly fine.
Other clinic staff keep walking in and out the room. Voices echo in the corridors. An orderly is rolling a wheelchair with an emaciated old man. The receptionist's phone is ringing non-stop. She answers it without looking up from her magazine.
I have to get going. The men in black could arrive any moment. Once they enter Room Five, all hell might break loose.
I heave a sigh, point the cursor at the top menu and click Print.
Something starts to hum and buzz. No idea where it is. There's nothing under the computer nor on the desk. Only paperwork.
I look behind me. Nothing there either, only the vending machine by the opposite wall.
I turn to the receptionist and say matter-of-factly, "Excuse me, I can't find the printer."
Without looking, she waves her hand at a tall cabinet next to the water cooler.
And that's where it is, the printer, sitting behind the glass cabinet door. I pick up the printed sheet of paper and am about to close the door when I see a small pair of shoes sitting on the lower shelf. They look my size.
I cast a quick glance at the receptionist, stoop low so that no one can see me from the corridor and hurry to change out of my hospital slippers into the shoes.
"Do you know which room Sarah Korski is in?" a male voice asks behind my back.
I freeze. I'm too scared to turn round. They're here, right next to me! They're so close! If they look my way... the only thing that protects me is my hospital uniform. It's so thin and flimsy but it's thicker than a bulletproof vest against their stares. To them, I'm only one of the staff. Provided they don't realize who I really am, with any luck...
"She's in the observation room," the receptionist replies. "No visitors allowed. Are you family?"
"Actually, I am."
Are you really? Liar! I may have forgotten lots of things but I can sense when someone's lying. He's a stranger whoever he is.
My hands seem to have a life of their own. My head is throbbing. My heart is fluttering in my throat. I pretend I'm looking for something on the lower shelf while in fact I hang on their every word.
Then a strange thing happens.
"Give me the number of Korski's room," the man says pointedly, his soft polite voice ringing with steel. His words bore into your skull, hard and heavy.
"Down the corridor, first right, room five," the receptionist replies.
"Thanks," the man says.
His footsteps begin to fade. Cautiously I look up. The other four men are already heading toward the guard still standing by the unit's locked doors.
I knew it! I knew they had come here for me! God I'm so lucky I got out of the room in time.
I sneak out of my hiding place and hurry down the corridor. I walk fast but not too fast: that would be suspicious. I'm about to collapse. My knees are weak with anxiety.
I turn left and use my card to open the emergency exit door. Behind it lies a stairwell connecting the twin buildings of the clinic. The door clicks shut behind me.
The place is deserted. The silence is deafening. I hurry down the stairs: landings, passages, a dark floor below lined with closed doors... Faster! They're probably entering my room already.
Another landing. Another floor. Finally, the exit. I shoulder the heavy green steel door open and find myself outside. I'm free!
Shrinking my head into my shoulders, I walk past the hospital buildings. I scurry down the sloping driveway toward the gate, cross the road, turn right and scramble past a baseball pitch. A game is on. The ball hits the net just above my head, making me jump. I go past the pitch and hurry toward the highrises towering in the distance.
I can't bring myself to look back. I just might see the men in black following me.
Yellow leaves swirl in the air, floating onto a shriveled lawn behind someone's fence. The day is sunny but cool. A piercing wind blows right through my flimsy hospital scrubs. I have no money, no clothes, not even a MetroCard. The printout in my hand rustles in the wind. Marcus Garvey Bd. 421. Should I go there? It's not as if I have many options.
Then it dawns on me. I know everything around me. It's like hearing the sounds of a familiar old song carried on the wind. As if the sun has illuminated the gray brickstone Brooklyn at just the right angle.
For a brief moment, I can see him. He appears walking next to me - although of course I know he's not there.
Still, I can see him. A young guy, tall with broad shoulders and a delicate, chiseled face. Sunrays play with his crew cut. His dark eyes squint against the sun. I reach out to him, trying to touch him. With a smile he takes me in his arms and... and that's all.
I'm alone again.
Chris
For a brief moment, I still keep seeing the strange girl's silhouette in front of me. Sharp cheekbones, a pimpled chin, pale eyebrows and a smattering of freckles.
Then her face blurs and disappears, bringing reality into focus.
With a yelp, I step back. A lump of construction steel rattles onto the concrete from my slackened grip.
I'm standing by a brick wall next to some garbage cans. A man lies on the ground in front of me. You can see he's dead. As a doornail.
Dead as a doornail? Who was it that used to say that? I can't remember.
Then the world hits me like a ton of bricks: the bright light and all the sounds, the honking of cars, the muttering of voices, the slamming of doors and the shuffling of many feet.
My breathing seizes. I gasp soundlessly, clutching at my throat. It's late afternoon, I realize. I can see a busy street through the gap between two towers. It's bustling with traffic and passersby but this little place is deserted. Only us two. Me and the dead man.
Me? Who the hell am I, then? What am I doing here? Only a moment ago, I didn't exist. And now I've materialized right in this shady lane next to a garbage can. It's as if I've been dumped here by some unknown force; as if some giant hand had reached out from the sky and positioned the human figure - which happens to be me - on the ground. The soles of my shoes hit the tarmac - and here I am, large as life, even though I didn't exist only a moment ago.
Here? Which is where?
Bullshit. All wrong. I've always been here. It's just that for some reason I can't remember anything. Nada. Memory loss it's called. Amnesia in medical speak.
I look over myself. I'm wearing a faded pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a sports jacket. Can't for the life of me remember ever having bought any of it. Never seen it before. Ditto for the suede moccasins, the wristwatch or my wrist itself.
My aching temp
les throb. Gradually my breathing restores enough to allow me to take in the dead body and the lump of construction steel on the ground.
I pick it up. One of its ends is covered in blood. Did I kill the guy? WTF? Why would I do that? He must have attacked me. He probably hit me on the head with this lump of steel, that's why I hurt so much.
Of course. That's why I can't remember anything. I must have tried to defend myself, and then...
I feel like a landed fish after it's been pulled out of the water and slammed against a tree. Gulping incessantly, I look around me. One end of the lane is blocked by a steel fence with some wooden crates piled up against it. To the other side lies the street. No one has turned off into the lane... yet. If they do, I might have problems.
I turn the dead man onto his back. He's about forty, with cropped hair, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a matching coat over a pale blue dress shirt. His stomach is ripped open. Blood everywhere. He didn't have a chance.
I feel queasy. Can you even inflict these kinds of injuries with a piece of construction steel? It looks as if he's been gutted with a monstrous jagged hook.
A car is honking loudly nearby. The sound fills the lane, assaulting my eardrums. It has nothing to do with me - but I still jump. I shift the piece of steel to my left hand and shove it down the garbage can, wiping it on the trash. Finally, I pass it under my armpit and wipe it thoroughly before hurling it over the fence. This is a murder weapon, after all. I don't want anyone to find my fingerprints on it.
It comes down with a clang, reverberating against metal.
What do I do now? My head is empty - completely free of thoughts. Should I just leave? Just sashay out into the street, hands in pockets, without a care in the world? Never mind there's a gutted guy still lying by the trash cans.
Or should I investigate?
When I turned the man on his back, his right arm dropped to one side, revealing something on his wrist between his watch and his coat sleeve. I crouch next to him and pull the sleeve up.
It's a tattoo. A doubled-up two-headed snake, its coils resembling a horizontal figure of eight - the symbol of infinity.
Frowning, I rub my forehead. Still, the symbol refuses to trigger any memories. Should I check his pockets, maybe?
I reach inside his coat just as an alarm resounds outside. A police car screeches to a halt in the lane. The siren dies away.
The car doors jerk open. I spring to my feet and make a dash for the fence.
A voice shouts a warning. I leap onto the crates which disintegrate, creaking, under my feet, and vault over the fence, collapsing in a heap on the other side. Pushing my body off the tarmac, I scramble to my feet and keep running, past a stack of empty gas cans against which the lump of steel had struck seconds ago.
More shouting is coming from behind me now, followed by the sound of footsteps. I keep running toward the opposite street. At least there're no cops there.
I slow down, unwilling to attract attention. Readjusting my clothes as I go, I turn a corner and very nearly walk into a young mother pushing a stroller.
Mumbling my apologies, I walk around her and continue down the street hunched up with my head down as if engrossed in thought.
Casting inconspicuous watchful glances around, I walk as fast as I can without actually running. I'm taller than most people which makes watching the street rather easy. Nothing alarming as yet: just some houses, shops and cafes. The bustling crowd couldn't have cared less about me.
The autumnal afternoon is rather chilly. A bus drives past. Mechanically I pull up my right sleeve to check my wrist watch. Half past six. The watch is expensive. Having said that, all of my clothes are.
I reach a corner, steal a look around to make sure I've shaken off the cops, then duck round the bend.
I check my coat pockets and discover a ten-dollar bill and some loose change in one and a Chevrolet car key in the other. Have I parked up nearby? There's no way to tell, is there?
My heartbeat has calmed down somewhat. I can think straight again. I try to make some sense of what's just happened. The way I vaulted over that fence, then ran off... you'd think I'd have twisted an ankle but no, it didn't even hurt. Am I a trained athlete or something?
My past feels like a pitch-black wall behind me, with me as a clumsily chalked outline of a human being with sticks for arms and legs and a lopsided circle for a head. An empty head, mind you. A man without a past, with neither goals nor motives. Nor a life story. My mind is blank. My only memory is the face of the freckled girl.
Her face, as if on cue, fills my mental view - only this time it seems to be bleeding, bleeding all over the world. I suppress a yelp as my temples begin to throb.
Something bad must have happened to her not so long ago. To her - or to me? To both of us, maybe? I feel queasy again, this time with the debilitating fear caused by... by what? Can't remember.
I stagger along with my fists clenched, trying not to brush against other people and staring in front of myself unblinkingly for fear of collapsing. Gradually my heart stabilizes again. I feel slightly better now.
Finally I reach the street from where the cops arrived. It's broad and busy. An office building complete with a subterranean parking lot towers opposite the lane where I found the dead body. Might my car be there, by any chance?
Mechanically I press the button on the car key. A weak beeping noise reaches me through the noise of the traffic. It can't be coming from the building, surely?
I look around me and immediately get my answer. A sleek sports Chevrolet flashes its lights at me, parked up on my side of the road mere feet away from me.
I walk over to it, casting wary glances at the police cars waiting by the entrance to the lane.
Tucked under my car's wiper, a parking ticket is flapping in the wind. I crumple it in my hand, open the door and get in, very nearly bashing my head. I keep forgetting about my height.
I gingerly climb in. I really need to get out of here. Still, I need a couple of minutes to catch my breath. The cops are unlikely to check this particular car, anyway.
I look around me, then run my hand over the velvety cover of the steering wheel. Can't remember this car at all.
Warily I take a peek in the mirror. A bronzed clean-shaven face stares back at me. Hazel eyes... cropped black hair... That's right, my mother's father was from Corsica... it's his olive complexion, his aquiline nose and wide cheekbones.
The guy staring at me in the mirror is a total stranger. I've managed to remember my Corsican grandfather but that is about it.
I check the glove compartment and discover a fat wallet stuffed with bank notes. Must be at least a grand. Why didn't I take it with me when I got out of the car?
I rummage through the wallet. Two credit cards and a driver's license, issued to a Chris Brana.
My head explodes with agonizing pain. My eyes begin to water. What's going on, for crissakes? The wallet drops from my slackened fingers. Groaning, I press my hands to me temples.
Chris Brana. Yes, it's me. This is my name, my driver's license, my wallet, my car... my head... which is about to split open. Bouts of nauseating blood-red pain surge over me.
The pain doesn't last though. I reach down and fumble under the pedals, feeling for my wallet. I pick it up and give the license a closer look.
That's right. I'm Chris Brana, twenty-two. And this is-
This is New York.
Exactly.
My fingers shake as I check the wallet for any more clues. Nothing. I slide it into my pocket.
A third police car has just arrived and pulled up next to the other two. The longer I stay here, the bigger the chances are of them finding me.
I start the car. The engine purrs to life. I join the rush-hour traffic.
All these people must be going home from work. How about me? Do I work? Can't remember.
Where am I supposed to go to? The GPS satnav glows a dull green. When I touch the screen, it springs to life, revealing a complex grid
of streets and buildings.
I open its address book. It's virtually empty. There're only three saved locations. One is "Apartment", which is on the other side of town. The second one is closer to here, marked "Sarah, Club".
Oh great. The name says nothing to me.
The last address is the closest of the three. Two-Face, whatever that's supposed to mean.
Questions questions. The whole world around me seems to be one big question mark. Still, this address is only five blocks south from where I am. Not a very long drive, even considering the crawling traffic.
I stop at the lights. Two-Face... It has to be a nickname. I must have coined it. That's right. An unpleasant name... unpleasant person. Dangerous even. Still, his address is too close to completely ignore it.
Having made the decision, I take a right turn, heading toward the mark on my map. Let's see what this Two-Face guy has to offer.
Or Chris Brana, for that matter.
Chapter Two
Sarah
THAT GUY IN the business suit keeps staring at me. He's standing over there on the corner talking into his cell phone but I'm sure he's watching me. Hasn't he seen a nurse before? What's he doing in this part of Brooklyn all dressed up anyway? Following me, that's what he's doing. He's probably talking to that blond guy from the Jeep telling him he's found me.
I shrink my head into my shoulders and hurry past him. My teeth are chattering. I keep my hands in my pockets but it doesn't help much: my fingers are as cold as ice. This plastic uniform is too light. It's definitely not meant for this kind of weather.
I almost run past a pizzeria trying to keep my mind off food. I'm so hungry I could eat anything. A pizza - yes, please. Or a hamburger with some nice crunchy French fries.
At the very least, some chewing gum would be nice. I keep grinding my teeth so hard that I'm afraid I might draw blood in a moment. I try to stop but I still keep doing it. It's just a stupid habit I've picked up, chewing gum whenever I'm anxious.