Page 5 of Forgotten
The doctor makes a note of something, confidence replaced by worry. “Can you remember what year this is, Ford?”
“…enty-two.” It is more a question than an answer.
With a sigh, Ash deflates completely. He sits down on a chair by the bed and wraps an arm around his chest, blue eyes dark and unreadable.
“And do you remember what happened?”
No, of course I don’t remember, Twat. I shake my head. It’s a sudden, unexpected movement that makes me groan with pain. Ash’s gaze is back on me but he’s not actually seeing me. His expression is one I have seen thousands of times growing up, scared and young and helpless.
“Do you remember being in an accident?”
I don’t have an answer to that, either. Accident. It doesn’t ring any bells. So I simply close my eyes, trying to think of something. Young Ashley. Water. Anything.
The silence is uncomfortable until the doctor finally speaks again. “It was a rather serious one.”
And from there, I’m back floating in the labyrinth. Cars and lorries on the highway. Heavy traffic. Speed limit. As the doctor keeps talking, the fog clouding my brain lifts slightly. A crash: glass and metal pieces flying everywhere; blood spilling from my best friend, lips grey and cheeks hollow.
With firm hands and firmer words, the doctor catches me up whilst inspecting my body.
“Three instant deaths.”
Those words, I hear clearly. I’m not one of those fatalities—at least I think.
“You were in a medically induced coma. You suffered what we call a traumatic brain injury. There wasa bleed that we managed to fix surgically, but the swelling in your brain required a temporary shunt to relieve pressure and drain the excess fluid. We removed it once things stabilised, but we will perform some follow-ups to make sure the fluid levels are staying normal.”
I can feel Ash’s gaze on me as the doctor continues to speak. “The impact from the accident also caused something called a pneumothorax. There was a build-up of air in your chest, which caused one of your lungs to collapse so we worked to take the pressure off your lung.” This time, the doctor points at a hidden tube poking out from under the hospital blanket. “Drainage is minimal and the patient is breathing on his own, let’s plan removal in about twenty-four hours. Book a chest X-ray please.”
The last part is spoken to the nurse and she’s still not taking notes, but she tilts her head to the side in a quiet agreement.
My head is spinning as I follow the tube transporting fluid to a canister.
“The olecranon—the point of your elbow—was fractured and your leg muscles showed several strains alongside some minor contusions. We decided that heavily sedating you would be the safest option while your body heals.”
When the doctor is done, I exhale deeply through my nose. I don’t remember any of that. I don’t even remember the name of the doctor. There are flashes, butI’m sure they do not belong to me. They’re made of the same substance as the water dream.
“Mr. Bergman was in the car when a truck hit you.”
At that, I turn to my best friend. Mr. Bergman. There is no blood on Ash’s face, but I catch a cut about three centimetres long on his forehead. His long messy hair is covering half of it, but there is no other sign on his body that he was injured.
“…glad’s fine.” I push out with a small, painful smile.
I watch as Ash’s face falls, the air flowing heavily through his nostrils as he tries to control himself.
“Ashford, did I understand correctly you said this is 2022?” the doctor asks again.
In my head, it sounds correct.
“And what’s the last thing you remember?”
Inspecting the hospital room, I try buying some time to find the correct answer. I focus on the doctor in front of me; on the nurse and then; on the blank wall. For some reason, my instinct tells me to dodge Ash’s stare.
I take a deep breath but I keep my mouth shut. I was alone on my twenty-seventh birthday. I’m not supposed to be speaking with Ash. Other than this, I’ve got nothing. I don’t even feel like having a pint.
Ash stands up and without thinking twice he walks closer to my bed.
“Ford, we are in 2024.”
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