John Doe
by Negative
The hardwood floor presses into my back. Though at the moment, this is not what I'm worrying about. They say the last thoughts during a suicide attempt are fear. Not precious thoughts of our life, our happy memories. Self-preservation, panic, fear, the will to see tomorrow. There's a sharp pain as I try to roll over, shooting through my whole body. My chin feels sticky. I'm lying in a pool of something. A big puddle. Blood. I grip the dagger that's buried deep into my chest and tug at it. Electric pain shoots through me. Deciding to leave it put, I began dragging myself across the room. I knock a small table over. The phone bounces onto the carpet and the receiver rolls over. The soft dial tone is heard. Three simple digits and I can get help.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
I'm beginning to get dizzy. I'm losing blood, a lot of blood. Still clutching the phone in one hand, I begin to realize how futile this is becoming. They say your life flashes before you eyes when you die. Now seems like a good a time as any. Let's rewind back to when this all started.
Rewind to the moment I was "born." A sharp, cold wind made me wince. My side hurts... a lot. Unbearable pain. My eyes focusing a little, I realize I'm outside. The eerie dawn light crept towards me. A long road stretches out on either side of me. Pebbles and pieces of glass littered the curb. Lifting myself off the ground, I planted a foot on the road. Applying weight to the foot, I attempted to stand. A quick slip and I'm reunited with the ground. Whatever has happened to me, it's done some damage. I lay on the cold pavement, watching cars go by occasionally wondering if I'm going to simply be left to die.
It was minutes later when I heard the roar of sirens approaching, an ambulance, obviously. Lifted onto a stretcher and carried into the back of the vehicle, I realized what furniture must feel like, being moved to and fro. Still a little drowsy, I hear paramedics shouting to each other, competing with the obnoxious siren. At the time, I was numb. I felt like I was watching the scene from a movie theater. It just didn't seem too important. Closing my eyes and trying to relax, I decided to just wait and see where this joyride would send me. Cut.
Fast forward to me in my new hospital bed, my home, my prison. I'd only been awake for a few minutes. Already a nurse was sitting in a chair across from me. Only hours ago I was lying on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I assume it's been hours. There's no clock here, nor any visible windows.
"Are you feeling able to answer a few questions?" the lady asked politely.
"Sure...," I mumbled.
"Alright, great. Name please."
"Mr...," I stopped short. Nothing came to mind.
"Sir, what is your name?" the nurse repeated.
"I... don't know...," I sputtered. I began to search my mind, like racking your brain for the answer to some difficult question. I just became more and more frustrated. Hopeless comes to mind. I began to sweat. I could feel it, all over me, breathing heavily. My breaths became more and more shallow. I saw the nurse jump up and run into another room. I don't know? It's just a name, this should be common sense. What's going on?
Fast forward just a bit more. So here I am, in this same hospital bed. It's been only a few hours since my little panic attack. I was given a shot by a nurse and quickly went under. Not sure what to do, I pondered why I was on that deserted road in the first place. How did I..., a light turns on. A doctor stands in the doorway, carrying a clipboard.
"Hello, my name is Doctor Racelli. I just need to ask you a few questions. Think you can do that for me?"
I sat up slightly and nodded.
"Alright. Ms. Kauff tells me you had some difficulty answering some basic questions, so... I'm going to read off some questions, and I want you to answer them to the best of your ability."
"Alright," I nodded again.
"Do you know the date?" he asked.
"No."
"Okay. I want you to think then, do you have any idea the year, the month, even a season?"
I thought for a second and looked at him. "It feels like it's 2003, no, wait, 2004. Fall, from what I saw outside."
"Good, good."
These questions went on for a while, asking me if I had any idea where I was to getting me to identify a pencil and pen, and repeating simple sentences. They ended right about the time I started to get bored of them.
Glancing at his clipboard for a second, the doctor switched his eyes back to me. "Well, um, sir, it seems you may have a mild form of brain damage. Amnesia to be more specific. These things tend to clear up on their own, but sometimes the results are permanent."
"...permanent..."
"Yes, also, I'd like to run a few tests, check for signs of serious brain damage. Plus, I'd like to monitor that concussion. I hope you don't mind staying in the hospital for a few days."
"Where would I go?"
Mild. The question I chose to hold back is how can anything that erases my entire life be called mild?
Fast forward about a week. Here's me, sitting at my new desk, in my "new" crummy apartment, thinking. The staff at the hospital was nice enough to get me a job at a local Wal-Mart and a nice crappy apartment. I'm happy to be out of that bed, but I hate this place almost as much. As my mind darted back and forth, searching for any piece of myself, I became upset. Okay, I was bawling.
It was then I did something strange. I'm not sure why, but I picked a sheet of paper out of the drawer and began writing. To be honest, I was just scribbling. I had no particular direction, nothing. I was just writing words as they entered my mind. My hand felt like it was doing everything itself. My tears ceased and I looked at the paper, blowing eraser debris off the sheet, I realized what I had crafted. My suicide letter. Here, on paper, was my escape, my goodbye, my last resort. One wonders, are people who commit suicide just trying to end it all or are they simply looking for attention? Are they trying to get a message out, since no one was listening before. Everyone is so obsessed with themselves, that it makes sense. Talking becomes less of a conversation than waiting for your turn to speak.
Leaving the suicide letter out, I walked over to the bed and dropped onto it. I was very tired all of the sudden. Glancing over, I noticed the clock. "2:00 AM" flashed in bright red digits. I rolled over in my new bed and shut my eyes.
Fast forward to two days later, I'm standing in the electronics, sorting DVDs onto the shelves. A woman suddenly taps me on the shoulder. I turn to face her. My new name-tag proudly bore the name "Jonathan." Jonathan being my nickname from the hospital. For those trying to catch up, it sounds better than John Doe.
"Hi, yes, I was wanting to buy my son a movie for his birthday. Do you think you could recommend me one?" the lady asked nicely.
I looked at her a little funny for a second and quickly answered, "Ah, sorry, I don't know of any good movies." I turned and went back to my sorting, when the tap came again.
"Oh come on, young man. You must know of at least one movie you've watched you liked."
"No, I really don't." Annoyed now, I went back to work again.
"Sir, would you please just help me?"
"Look, I told you, I don't know of any movies. Now please, leave me alone." I glared at her for a second and went back at it.
"Kids today... won't even show a woman one decent movie to help her birthday shop... All I wanted was just a little help. Kids, so damn lazy these days..." she whined.
More angry than annoyed, I looked at her again. "Look you old bitch, why don't you just fuck off? I told you I don't know of any good movies, now please, I'm trying to work here."
She looked surprised and waddled off.
"Jesus...," I muttered as she waddled.
Fast forward about 15 minutes and I'm fired.
Fast forward to later that night, I was at my desk again. Looking at the suicide letter from the night before, I felt tears welling up in my eyes and angrily trashed the paper. Minutes later I was working on a new suicide letter. It just seemed to flow out. I must have rewrote that letter at least twenty times that night. Wads of paper were building up on my desk, forming a mountain. I looked at my clock and noticed the time. "3:30 AM" was flashing. Sleepily, I drug myself into the bed and shut my eyes.
Fast forward a couple days. It's got to be about 7:00 PM. I've spent my last couple of days trying to get a job. Try getting a job when you aren't even sure how they expect you to fill out an application. For all I know, I was a doctor before this. Now I'm desperate for a job as good as my Wal-Mart position.
Someone slammed into my side and grabbed hold of me. I struggled to break free but I wasn't quite strong enough, I was quickly tossed into the brick wall of a nearby building. Falling to the ground, I felt dizziness. A rush of darkness, and then nothing.
Fast forward about ten minutes, I opened my eyes and saw darkness all around me. As my eyes came into focus, I realized it's just the dark sky, gray clouds gathered together. I realized that it was raining, water trickling down my face, getting in my mouth. I sat up, my head throbbing in pain. Grasping it, I attempted to steady myself and catch my breath. I suddenly remembered the incident and patted myself down. My wallet's missing. This just gets better and better.
My mind began to wander for a minute when I notice a number is suddenly burned into my memory. I felt around the ground until I come upon a rusted nail. Looking at the nearby wall, I begin scrawling away at the brick, writing. The scrawls began to come together, when I realized what I'd drawn.
"Six," I said this out loud, quickly, barely recognizing my own voice. Beep.
Another number hits me, so I continue scrawling at this wall. An eight came into focus. Beep. I kept sketching. Four appears, Beep. Another six, Beep. Another four appears on my wall, Beep. A three. Beep. Finally, my hand stops writing, bloody and raw from the friction of the brick tearing at my skin. Beep. Zero.
"6846430." Collapsing back against a wall, I realize what it is I'd been sketching out.
Fast forward about thirty minutes ahead. I'm leaning against the wall of a phone booth, palms thick with sweat. I tapped my first memory in on the numeric keypad and held the receiver up to my ear. My heart in my throat, I listened as the phone began ringing. I gripped the receiver tight as we went onto our third ring. Fourth, still no answer, I was beginning to lose hope. The phone began to ring again and "click!" Someone began to speak, I almost yelled "HELLO!" into the phone.
"Hey, this is Amy, if you need to speak to me or my husband, just leave a message after the beep and we'll try to get back to you."
This was not something I was prepared for, but it was now or never.
"Hey! It's me, uh..," Getting nervous, I coughed and kept talking as if I had said it perfectly, "I've been in a hospital the last few days. Look, I've lost my memory. I need help." I continued to explain my situation, leaving an address and a number just in case. A little disappointed, but excited that I had remembered something, no matter how small, I continued back to my apartment and sat at my desk.
It was probably about 1:00 AM, I was in the middle of revising my suicide letter again. Actually, I was finishing it, when the shrill yell of the phone broke my concentration. I grabbed the phone and quickly answered, "Hello?"
"Yes...this is Amy. Keith, is that you?"
"I'm not really sure...," I answered, a bit nervously.
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. Well look, I think I can help show you who you are. Is it all right if I come over around eight o'clock tomorrow night?"
"Yes!" I almost yelled into the receiver.
So that was that. It seemed to me like I was going to finally understand who I was. Excited, I signed my Jonathan Doe to my latest suicide letter and pinned it to the wall. I crawled into my bed and shut my eyes again. Tomorrow should prove to be interesting.
Fast forward to the next night, I sat at my desk, fidgeting violently, my impatience quite obvious. In my fridge sat a new bottle of wine. For some reason tonight seemed like a good night to celebrate.
A knock at my door interrupted the silence and I nearly leaped across the room to answer the door. I opened it quickly and found myself face to face with a lovely, young woman. She couldn't have been over twenty-five years old.
"Well, aren't you going to invite me inside?"
"Uh...sure, come on in."
Her face seemed very familiar, like someone you'd gone to high school with and meet some years later. Their name escapes you, but you remember them. Sitting down at a table, I poured us both a drink.
"Well, can you help me?"
"Help you what?" she asked me. I'd almost say she was teasing me.
"Please, I've been living with no idea who I am, who my family is, please help me."
She hesitated and looked, "Alright, fine. Take it," the woman began pillaging through her giant purse, sorting through the mess of things, until her hand came out with a wallet. She tossed it across the table and I caught it in one hand. Opening it slowly, I came face to face with a driver's license. My picture was burned onto the plastic card.
"So that's my name," I smiled and walked over to my desk. Sorting through the credit cards, I dropped it into a drawer and closed it. "I'm actually wondering why I didn't have this on me when the ambulance found me along the side of that old road."
"I forgot to leave it on you that nigh-...," she stopped suddenly.
My mind traveled, back, back to that night. My dear wife, my ever-loving wife, the old ball and chain, she told me we were going to make love that night. Make love in the bushes as we'd done as teenagers, filled with passion. She lied. When we arrived, I found myself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. She managed to misfire and only clip me in the side, but she wasn't finished. She brought the gun down on me, bashing me in the head. I collapsed to the ground, only to be beaten on more and more. Finally, my wife fled the scene, leaving her husband's bloody remains to rot. I was not dead however, and I managed to get by only with slight brain damage, amnesia.
I suddenly felt something, something sharp, buried into the right side of my chest. My mind came back from the flashback, back to where we are now. Amy's hand gripped something, the source of my pain. Eyes wandering down, I realized what she's done. My wife was going to kill me, again. Her hand came off the knife and she let me collapse backwards onto the floor. Only one question came to mind.
"Amy...why...?"
"Don't make this any harder than it already is. Our marriage has been falling apart for months now, you were just too stubborn to admit it. The insurance money is just a bonus," she explained.
"Until death do us part," she leered as she slammed the door shut, locked, behind her. The hardwood floor presses into my back. Though at the moment, this is not what I'm worrying about. They say the last thoughts during a suicide attempt are fear. Not precious thoughts of our life, our happy memories. Self-preservation, panic, fear, the will to see tomorrow. I believe this is where you came in. Crawling towards the phone, I knock the table it's sitting on over and the phone bounces onto the floor. It's getting harder to breathe. I mash in the numbers as fast I can. "9-1-1." The phone begins to ring. I clutch the phone close to me, turning speaker phone on. Blood continues to flow from the dagger buried deep inside me. The ringing stops, and a voice comes onto the speaker.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
The woman asks what seems to be the problem, I begin yelling for help, "I'm dying," I say, screaming my address. "Come quick!" I say.
"Stay calm," she says. Stay calm. Telling someone to stay calm who has a knife buried in their chest is pointless. I look up and notice something pinned to my wall. No. No! My final suicide letter is pinned to the wall. In a small town like this, that would guarantee this gets written off as a suicide. Picking myself up off the ground as slowly as I can, I reach out, higher, higher, almost there. My fingers touch the edge of the sheet and I rip it off of the wall. Losing my balance, I grip the paper, crumpling it. I begin to fall towards the floor, face first. The floor presses hard into the knife, jamming it the rest of the way into my chest. I roll to the left a bit, and wind up on my back, looking at the ceiling. My eyes begin to lose focus. My fists unclench, I let go. Sensing the end, I close my eyes.
No, I can't go to sleep now. I can't. Lifting myself off the hardwood floor, I look around the room. I slide open my drawer in the desk and find the object I needed. My wallet. Not the wallet I bought after I got my first paycheck, no, my first wallet, the one with my license inside. I rip the license from it's shell and look at it. There it was. An address.
Where am I now? Fast forward only minutes and I'm running. Running through the night, the street pounding under my footsteps. The address burned into my memory, my destination seems obvious. I begin to grow weary of running when the sharp stinging pain reminds me how out of shape I was hit me. Grasping my side, I look around. Headlights came towards me and then turn, the car pulls into the small lot in front of the tobacco shop. I run up to the man as he got out of his car, keys still in his hand.
"Give me the keys, now." The man stared at me, dumbfounded. I suppose meeting a carjacker late at night who has a knife buried in his chest will do that. Realizing this may take some effort, I grasp the knife and rip it out, blood flowed from my wound, but by now, adrenaline was taking control. This was it. "Give me the fucking keys!" I yell at the man, shaking the bloody blade in his face. Frightened, he dropped them and ran. Knocking over garbage cans as he ran, I watched, almost amused at the sight of it. I climb into the vehicle and began to start it. The engine purred. "Only a matter of time now."
Parking the car, I climb out, falling to the ground. I'm growing dizzy. The lack of blood is getting to me. I walk the remainder of the distance, knife still in hand. The glow of lights came upon me, my house. I walk to the door and feel around the top of the frame for my spare key. My fingers run across something cold and metallic. Excited, I take the key in hand and unlock the door. Sliding the door open gently, I sneak inside. I hear something, no, someone's voice, coming from inside the house. Oh no, I recognize that sound. My wife is moaning. Shouting things that lovers do, my wife continues to shriek like an animal.
Growing angrier by the second, I search for something, anything. My fingers came upon a doorknob and I remember what we keep inside. Swinging it open, I begin to rummage through the closest. There, propped against the wall, was the item I desired. The shotgun, the same gun my wife had used to kill me, or tried to kill me with that night. Taking hold of the machine, I load some shells into it.
I begin to follow my wife's moans, her yells, until I found a door, left slightly ajar. Kicking the door in, I run inside, shotgun pointed straight ahead, ready to fire. There they were, writhing underneath the sheets, my wife and her mystery lover. "Get out of the fucking bed!" Slowly, they crawled out, naked and embarrassed, they stood close together, shivering. Suddenly, I realized who this man was. Deep within the shores of my mind, the memories came back, my brother. "Chad..."
"I'm so sorry, Keith, we never meant for it to be like this..," My brother, the scum, pleading with me. Pushing the gun into his face, I pull the trigger. The blast goes off, bloody pulp sprays onto the wallpaper, Chad's brains. My wife's eyes come to me as she pushes away the body of her dead lover.
"No!" She cries, blubbering like a baby. She falls to the ground and wraps her arms around my legs. "No!! Please honey, anything but this!" Angry, I kick her away, knocking her back against the wall. She's crying now. My wife, the heartless bitch, she tried to kill me twice. Both times, she's shown no remorse.
Pressing the barrel of the shotgun into my wife's face, I look her directly in the eyes. Only now does this beast feel any emotion at all, when I've got her right in the palm of my hand. She deserves this. I cock the gun, "Until death do us part, Amy." I pull the trigger, a loud blast rang out, sending my wife to the grave. A thick red spray covered the walls, her messy innards mixing with my now-dead brother's.
Looking around the room, I realize what a horrible mess this all has become. I walk into the kitchen, still grasping the shotgun, and plop down on one of the kitchen chairs. My hand slips into a pocket, fingering a sheet of crumpled paper. I pull out the yellow paper, dried blood encrusted on the bottom and skim over it. My suicide letter. How perfect it seems. I sit the paper on the table, spreading it out so anyone who discovers this scene could see just how it feels to be me. I grasp the shotgun tight, cock it, and turn it around. Wrapping my lips around the barrel, my other hand felt for the trigger. My finger on the trigger, I close my eyes. I squeeze the trigger.